The Last Lie Read online

  “That’s such a relief.” I felt the tension start to melt away. “Thank you, Dr. Lassiter.”

  “He’s a very lucky man. You can see him now, but keep it short,” he said, looking at Michael. There would be time tomorrow for a detailed police interview.

  Seth lay in the hospital bed, head raised, his face the color of smoke stained walls. His right shoulder was padded to the size of a cantaloupe and his arm was immobilized. A young nurse in bright blue scrubs was adjusting his IV bag. I stifled a gasp at the sight of him. His eyes fluttered open when we entered and he gave me a weak smile as I took the seat beside him. Then his eyes shot his eyes at Michael as I introduced him.

  “Sorry about the dress, kid.” He squeezed my hand.

  “Gives me an excuse to shop.” I smiled, trying not to show my fear. Seeing him vulnerable and broken was a stark reminder of how lucky he was to be alive. Mere inches would have meant a different outcome. I couldn’t say it, but the panic I’d felt the night Erik had been shot was coming back at me in waves, gripping my chest. But Seth didn’t need to hear that. I pushed the emotion down as best I could and held his hand, hoping the simple act would infuse us both with strength.

  The nurse reminded us that her patient needed rest, then left the room.

  “What’s going on Seth? Who was that man?” I asked, my voice soft but unable to hold back. Questions had tumbled through my mind over the last several hours and I couldn’t make sense of it.

  Before Seth could answer, Michael inserted himself, switching into cop mode. He stepped in closer to the bed as two uniformed officers entered the room. They nodded a greeting at Michael, then took positions at the end of the bed.

  “Mr. Bowman, I’d love to hear the answer to those questions,” Michael said.

  The set of his jaw and the way his eyes moved to the low neckline of my dress, told me he was formulating a few questions of his own about what I’d been doing with Seth this evening that had nothing to do with police work.

  “His name is Luke Cavanaugh,” Seth said, his voice shaky. “Three months ago his daughter died. She’s all he had in life and its devastated him. The guy’s not rational right now.”

  “How did she die?” Michael asked.

  “A heart condition. Undiagnosed. One of those freak things. But Cavanaugh’s been out of his mind ever since. He’s blaming everyone and everything, including my energy drink. He just can’t accept that she’s gone.”

  The officers jumped in questioning Seth on the details of the attack. As I listened to the exchange, my thoughts ran back over Luke Cavanaugh’s words, his accusations, and the anger in his voice.

  “Seth, he came after you personally. Is there something more to it?” I asked. Maybe it was the lawyer in me, but I couldn’t help but wonder why Cavanaugh wouldn’t have sent a mountain of litigation in VTF’s direction instead of personal vengeance. Perhaps he had?

  Michael looked at me quizzically, gauging the undercurrent in my question but whatever was going through his mind he kept it to himself.

  Seth shifted in his bed, grimacing with the effort before responding. The pain and the medications were taking their toll.

  “The man’s grieving.” Seth looked at me as he spoke and I saw the weight of that anguish in his sunken eyes. “Can we do this another time? I’m tired.”

  “Just a few more questions,” Michael said, then continued the barrage, ignoring Seth’s weakening condition.

  Michael and I were both pushing Seth too hard, our career instincts taking over. It was important to get these get questions in while the incident was fresh, but Seth was fading fast.

  “Please, don’t charge him,” Seth spat out. “He went crazy, anyone would. The man worked for me. He’s a good guy who just can’t see past his pain.”

  “It’s not that simple, Mr. Bowman,” Michael said, giving me a look that told me Cavanaugh was unlikely to walk away unscathed.

  “Alright, you’re done for the evening ladies and gentlemen. Move along.” The doctor was in the doorway. “My patient needs his rest,” he said. The officers filed out. I told Michael I’d meet him outside.

  When the men were gone, I sat on the edge of the hospital bed and looked at Seth. This wasn’t a man I’d known to be generous when attacked. Typically his ego shot back mortar fire when threatened yet he was asking for lenience for Cavanaugh.

  “What is this Seth? Cavanaugh blames you. I saw the fury in his eyes.” He cleared his throat, wincing as he did so.

  “Not tonight.”

  “Okay, I’ll let you get your rest. But there’s something you’re not saying.”

  A nurse entered the room, scowling at me as she checked the blood pressure monitor. I gave Seth a kiss on the cheek and promised I would check on him in the morning.

  Michael was speaking with the officers when I stepped into the corridor. As I approached, he asked the men to meet him in the lobby and we were alone.

  “You scared me again tonight. When I saw all that blood I…”

  “I know, I was having flashbacks too.” Flashbacks to the night Erik was killed and the night Michael and his partner Karl Janek, had saved my life.

  Earlier this year I’d sleuthed out a conspiracy by a group of high-powered men trying to build the first casino in the city of Chicago, not knowing my estranged husband was part of the crew. My discovery sent six men to jail, including an alderman and Chicago’s Deputy Mayor, netting me an award-winning story, and ownership of Link-Media when Erik was accidentally killed as his partner tried to silence me.

  Michael lifted his hand and lightly caressed my shoulder. “I’d like nothing more than to spend the night holding you tight but the guys are waiting,” he said, his eyes locked on mine.

  I nodded and looked down, conflicted about what I needed tonight. The newness of our relationship and the emotional turmoil of my life over the past six months meant I still wasn’t sure what I felt. I’d been keeping Michael at bay, asking for his patience, and so far he’d been willing to give me the space I needed.

  “Was there something you didn’t say in there? When you asked Bowman why Cavanaugh would come after him, I thought I saw something in your face. Was I mistaken?”

  “I’m not sure. I think I’m just overwhelmed. Can we talk tomorrow?”

  I needed time. I needed sleep. And I needed the clarity of morning before I said anything more. But the look in Cavanaugh’s eyes was etched in my mind.

  3

  Production meeting in five.” Art Borkowski said as he popped his head into my office on his way toward the conference room.

  I grabbed my Pellegrino and headed down the hall after him. Borkowski had been serving as the managing editor of Link-Media since Erik’s death. Despite our rocky start as co-workers a year ago, we’d mended fences after he provided a crucial piece of information on my highway shooting story. In the four months since his appointment, I’d been impressed with his sound judgment and relentless focus on unbiased reporting. Placing Borkowski in the lead on day-to-day decisions, despite my ownership, had given the organization a sense of stability and me time to adjust. Unable to wrap my head around management of the digital news organization in light of the tragedy, I’d passed operations on to Borkowski, kept my pulse on the top line numbers, and my daily journalistic duties. I’d hoped that having a pro steering the ship would calm, not only the staff and our board of directors, but would also give me time to figure out a longer-term strategy. It was an unconventional arrangement and occasionally fraught with confusion, but we were managing.

  I took a seat, and my mind drifted back to the day where at this very table, I was sent down the path to the highway shooting story. The story that would lead to the death of my former husband, my first journalism award, and the circumstances that landed ownership of this company in my lap. I took a drink and pushed the thought aside. The staff needed me to project stability and confidence whether I felt it or not. “Fake it till you make it” was my new motto. My world had been turned upsid
e down in more ways than one. Putting one foot in front of the other and pressing on was the best thing I could do for all of us.

  A text popped up on my phone. Cai. “Are you ok? Just heard about last night. Call me!” I sent back a short response that I was fine and would fill her in later. Was I? Images of last night and the night Erik was killed were suddenly jumbled in my head, and more accurately, the flashbacks of panic and fear. The stories I’d told myself about having moved past the trauma of Erik’s death, were obviously just flat-out lies. Somehow we always told ourselves the biggest lies.

  “You looked hot last night.” Brynn Campbell slid into the chair on my right and tossed a newspaper in front of me. “Minus the blood I mean.” She smiled. Peony pink glossed her lips, flattering her dark skin. Lipstick? Hmm, that was new. I’d only known her to be a Chapstick girl.

  Brynn was my former intern and research assistant. She’d recently been promoted to associate reporter but still filled in as researcher whenever I needed her. Thus far, the highlight of her published work had been a margarita contest on North Avenue Beach. I knew she detested the lifestyle beat, but she was attacking it as if there were a Pulitzer at the other end.

  I picked up the paper but couldn’t resist a grimace. Somebody from the Sun-Times had gotten lucky. Thought he was there to shoot posed shots for the society column and instead he’d landed the front page with me sprawled on the floor, holding a bleeding Seth in my arms.

  “Yep, Kellner just can’t keep herself out of the middle of other peoples shit. You got the dirt on the lunatic with the gun? An exclusive we can use to boost eyeballs?” Borkowski grabbed the paper out of my hands and looked at me over the top of his tortoiseshell glasses.

  “His name is Luke Cavanaugh,” I said, as Cavanaugh’s anger floated back into my mind. “He lost his 19-year-old daughter a few months back and grief has done a number on him.”

  “So, he busts into a swanky shindig to shoot up the place? How many marbles has the guy lost?”

  I cringed. There was marshmallow deep, deep, down inside Borkowski but sometimes it was hard to look past his prickly shell. He stood, arms crossed, shirt sleeves rolled, looking at me like he was a school principal not believing my story.

  “He’s having a hard time accepting that she had an undiagnosed heart condition.” I knew firsthand how that level of grief could upend reality. I’d known when my mother was killed in an auto accident and again when Erik was shot. Images of his broken, bleeding body flashed through my head. Heartache, sorrow, and anger, all swooped in and consumed me at moments I couldn’t control or predict. The world simply shifted into a place you no longer recognized after a trauma.

  “Odd place to lose your shit. I know Bowman’s your guy, but those ads for that stupid, over-priced drink of his are irritating me. I’d love to see them go away. Whatever happened to using a good old cup of java to goose your engine? Why does everybody need an eight-dollar bottle of liquid herbs to make them feel good? Probably tastes like shit,” Borkowski mused.

  The group snickered awkwardly. Bottles of the stuff had been showing up around our own office. The staff was largely in their twenties and thirties and based on Monday morning kibitzing, playing as hard as they worked. A bottle of liquid energy had its appeal as did the trendiness of the hot new product that everyone was talking about.

  “Martinez, you’re on the follow-up,” Borkowski said to one of my fellow reporters. “Short and sweet. Go with the grief angle and give me good background on Bowman.”

  I opened my mouth to object but didn’t get out the words before Borkowski was on me.

  “Kellner, don’t give me that look. You’re tight with the vic. And, I don’t want your love life center stage. It’s been done already.”

  Brynn stifled a laugh while I resisted the urge to kick her under the table. And to clear the record that Seth and I weren’t romantically involved, but that would be protesting too much.

  “What’s on your plate?” Borkowski asked.

  “There are a couple firms in the tech incubator getting some traction,” I said. “I’ve got a meeting with Janelle Platt to discuss their performance.”

  “Everyone loves a Chicago success story. I hope at least one of them has a product that doesn’t require fifteen acronyms and a PhD to understand. And don’t pass up the opportunity to ask her how the hell she thinks she’ll ever get elected mayor with her husband in jail.”

  “Ex-husband,” I corrected. Janelle Platt’s former husband Owen was serving a ten-year sentence for public corruption charges stemming from the reporting I’d done which uncovered a casino scheme. My investigation had brought down Owen Platt, who at the time, was Chicago’s deputy mayor. Janelle and I had formed a unique bond that only two women who had been jointly betrayed could have. But I too wondered if the city would attach Owen’s dirt to his spit-fire ex-wife.

  Borkowski continued through the group and we kicked around concepts until he was satisfied that there was an adequate amount of new material in the pipeline.

  “That’s a wrap people. Pick up the pace. I need new content.” His tone had taken on a level of urgency. With viewership falling, his plea was no longer a request. “Kellner, hold up.”

  As the crew filed out, Borkowski leaned his forearms on the table. “Have you been able to sweet talk Ramelli?” I shook my head. “What the hell is the hold up? We’re going to miss our slot in the schedule if I don’t have approval on the spend by early next week.”

  “I know. The board is dragging their feet on this.”

  “Well, figure out how to get skates on those feet because if we lose our time slot, we’re looking at a six-month delay, minimum. And a hit to our revenue in the next fiscal year. You own 51%, can’t you just write the damn check?”

  “No, the number is too big. We need board approval. Look, I understand the urgency. I’ll find a way to make it happen.”

  “Good, ‘cause I’m starting to wonder if they want this thing to fail,” Borkowski said without a hint of irony.

  Unfortunately, so was I. Returning to my office, I picked up my phone determined not to let Wade Ramelli brush me off again.

  “Wade, we need to talk,” I said, when he picked up. “By that I mean sit down face-to-face and hash this out. Whatever hesitation the board has about my ability to run this company needs to be separated from our current needs. This software upgrade is essential.”

  “Then Erik should have made it a priority in his budget.”

  I had no answer. It was tough to defend a dead guy.

  “I can’t speak to what Erik did or didn’t do,” I said, tapping a pencil against my desk, frustrated that our conversations always came back to what Erik should have done. I let out a breath and redirected. “What I know is that we need to be forward-thinking and not react to the market after the competition moves to the next level of technology. The industry is moving past us. Borkowski and I have laid out the circumstances as they exist today, the ROI, and our revenue projections if we don’t stay ahead of this. We presented this to the board six weeks ago. It’s time to act.”

  “Andrea, I appreciate your passion but we’re just not convinced that the circumstances are as dire as you’ve made them out to be. Or as urgent.”

  I paused, considering my next move. May as well cut to the chase. “We both know that this isn’t really about the investment. It’s about strategy. The company needs a plan of attack and Borkowski and I are trying to provide that. Nothing is going to work if management and the board can’t come to a shared perspective on the future of the company. Haven’t we been through enough? A year. I need the board to commit to giving me a year to prove that I can make this work. You owe me that.” I paused, listening to the uncomfortable silence at the other end of the phone. “You owe Erik that.”

  I had pulled out my guilt card. As Erik’s mentor, and a board member since he’d founded the company, I had to hold on to hope that emotion could sway him. And if I could sway him, then the rest of the board wou
ld fall into place.

  “That was a cheap shot. You know I can’t make any promises. This isn’t as simple as my obligation to Erik. We have obligations to our investors as well. Readership is trending down, ad revenue is not holding up to last year. A software upgrade is not the fix. I’m not sure we have the time to let you be indulgent,” he said, his voice riddled with condescension. “We’ll speak soon, but that’s all I’m willing to commit to.”

  I ended the call, flopping back in my chair in frustration, angry with his tone and the implications about my abilities. Borkowski’s comment about the board wanting us to fail rushed back. I didn’t know what irritated me more, the sexism or the mistrust.

  4

  Why hadn’t Seth waited for me to pick him up from the hospital? Another dumb, cocky decision no doubt. After the staff meeting I’d called Northwestern to check on Seth, only to be told he’d been released. So, I left the office, picked up a grocery bag of prepared meals from the deli, and jumped in a cab headed over to his Lake Shore Drive condo. The only question was would I find him passed out on the floor?

  When I arrived, the uniformed doorman put in a call, then sent me up. I rapped on the red lacquered door and waited confused once again by male bravado that let a shooting victim feel it was smart to leave the hospital alone. Footsteps sounded moments later. The door swung open and Seth stood on the other side, his arm in a sling. He held a towel in his free hand. Wet splotches dotted his light gray T-shirt. His muscular legs were hidden by a pair of sweatpants. He motioned me in, mopping his close-cropped hair as he shuffled barefoot down the hall.

  The hallway opened into a glass-box living room. Sunlight streamed in, bouncing off the hard, slick surfaces. Marble, glass, chrome. Seth wasn’t a throw pillow and dried flower kind of guy. He’d hired a name brand designer a year ago, and she’d transformed what had been a lovely apartment into a showstopper. The glistening water of Lake Michigan and a dead-on view of the Navy Pier Ferris wheel framed the extraordinary views from the 28th floor.