Chapter 6

Brogan unfolded the Northern Virginia Herald’s Sunday edition across the table, moving his coffee to one side. There, on the right-hand column below the fold, was his first front-page byline in more than a decade, a more than respectable accomplishment with the Sunday circulation of the Herald cresting 150,000. Sipping his coffee, he read the headline.

Owner’s Son Arrested in Convenience Store Robberies

His call yesterday morning to the detective working the robbery case had been more fruitful than anticipated, as the detective already had Veer Patel on his radar. Brogan’s information had been enough to turn the case in a new direction, resulting in an early afternoon search of the son’s apartment and the recovery of the masks used in the two robberies and one attempted robbery. With the arrest of Veer Patel, his follow-up story had barely mentioned Melender Harman.

Now that the robbery story had been wrapped up, the editor assigned him an investigative story about the disappearance of Jesse Thompson. First thing tomorrow morning, Brogan planned to call Quentin Thompson’s office and schedule a meeting. His phone buzzed and interrupted his thoughts, probably another spammer call. He’d received two such calls already this morning, but in his line of work, a camouflaged number could lead to a good news tip.

“Gilmore.”

“Mr. Gilmore? It’s Melender Harman.”

Brogan nearly dropped his coffee. “Ms. Harman. This is a surprise.” When he’d given her his card at the Kwikie Mart, he hadn’t expected her to call.

“I enjoyed your story on the robbery in the Herald this morning. I’m glad the police solved the case, although I suspect they had more than a little help from a certain reporter.”

Brogan smiled at her backhanded compliment. “Thank you.”

“I never really liked Mr. Patel’s son but didn’t think he would do that to his father.”

“He might have seen it as the only way out of his gambling trouble.”

“I guess you’re right.” She paused. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I called, especially after I refused to cooperate Friday night.”

The lady certainly didn’t mince words. Granted, she had phoned him, but if he appeared too eager, he would likely scare her off. “I admit to being intrigued.”

Melender made a noise between a chuckle and a harrumph. “Now that I have your full attention, I would like to ask you something.”

He straightened in his chair. “Okay.”

“What’s more important to you—your byline or the truth?”

The question hit him like a sucker punch to the gut. For a moment, he couldn’t find his voice, couldn’t respond to the query he had been struggling with ever since his banishment from the news world. When he’d started at the Herald, his goal had been to redeem his byline. But his desire for reporting the truth had been re-awakened as he covered small-town politics, personalities, and events over the past year. While he admitted to a thrill in seeing his byline on the front page, he had more pride in his role in uncovering the person behind the robberies.

“Mr. Gilmore?”

“I’m here.” He cleared his throat. “In the past, I was solely focused on my byline as an investigative reporter, which led to unethical tactics. I’m not proud to admit that I wanted recognition at any price.”

Melender stayed quiet for a moment. “Thank you for your honesty.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” he added. “There’s a part of me that still longs for the spotlight, but nowadays, I want to write stories for more unselfish reasons.”

“Would you be willing to meet with me in person? I have a proposition I’d like to discuss with you.”

Brogan tightened his grip on his phone, his reporter’s antenna quivering as he caught the scent of a story. “Sure. I’m free anytime today.”

“Good. Let’s meet at one o’clock. The Old Town Fairfax Plaza. I’ll be near the fountains. Please don’t be late.”

* * *

Melender liftedher single braid off the back of her neck in an attempt to cool down. Even in the shade, the summer heat was sweltering. Children splashed each other in the ground fountain, reminding her of what she’d lost while incarcerated. She might have had a husband and children of her own by now. Drawing a deep breath to both calm her nerves and banish the sadness that accompanied that last thought, she coughed as the humid air choked her.

“Are you okay?” Brogan Gilmore slid into the seat across from her and removed his sunglasses.

Nodding as she drank from her water bottle, Melender used the time to regain her composure. She set the bottle on the table and studied the reporter, who had been looking at her. What did he see besides a thirty-five-year-old woman of average height and weight? Nothing much to recommend to someone of the opposite sex other than perhaps her long, silvery-blonde hair. Not that she was interested in Gilmore that way. She shook her head to dislodge the unwelcome thought that she was here not to get a reporter’s help but because she liked the way the man across from her filled out a pair of faded jean shorts and plain blue t-shirt.

“Hot today, isn’t it?” Mr. Gilmore eyed her as he unscrewed the cap on his Nationals branded reusable water bottle.

“Yes, it’s a scorcher.” She fanned her face with her hand, more to chase away the beginnings of a blush than to cool down. “I’ve lived in Virginia all my life, but I’m still not used to how temperamental the weather can be.”

“August is always miserable. That’s why Congress goes on summer recess and everyone with any sense leaves town.”

“Yet here we both are, sweating in the August heat.” She took another swig of water.

“Here we are.” He leaned back in his chair. “What can I do for you, Ms. Harman?”

“Call me Melender.” Better to put him at ease with less formality between them, given what she wanted to ask.

“Melender.” He drew it out slowly, as if savoring the taste of her name on his tongue like a juicy ripe peach. “And please call me Brogan.”

“Sure.” She straightened in her chair. “I believe you know the basic facts of why I went to prison.”

“I know you went to live with your aunt and uncle at sixteen.” Without referencing a notebook, Brogan recited that fact from memory. “A year later, just shy of your eighteenth birthday, you were convicted of killing your one-year-old cousin, Jesse Thompson. But although the body was never found, you were sentenced to seventeen years. You served all your time, even though you were eligible for parole after ten years.”

Melender blinked back tears. She’d spent nearly half her life behind bars for a crime she hadn’t committed.

“So why am I here?” Brogan shifted his sunglasses on the tabletop. “A jury convicted you. You served your time. Justice has been served.”

“Not if the wrong person went to prison. Not if whoever took Jesse is still out there. Free.”

“I’d read that you never wavered from proclaiming your innocence.”

“I am innocent.”

He snorted. “That’s what they all say, isn’t it?”

“They?” His dismissive tone spiked her blood pressure along with her voice. “You mean convicted felons.”

“You did the time.” He shrugged.

“Yes, I did. Every single minute of it.” Her voice shook, and she paused to gather the shreds of her composure like a child trying to repair a sandcastle after a wave crashed over it.

“I don’t expect you to believe that I am not guilty of this crime. But there are things that don’t make any sense, avenues the police didn’t pursue because they thought they had their perpetrator.”

His expression unreadable, Brogan leaned in. “What avenues?”

“The ransom money for one thing. It was never recovered. There was never any evidence linking me to the financial aspect of the case at all.”

Disbelief flashed across his face, tightening the faint lines on his forehead and around his mouth.

“Read the court transcript, and you’ll see that the prosecutor did not even try to pin the ransom on me.”

He sat back. “Okay, I will.”

“There’s the lack of a body.”

“That’s what your aunt attacked you about, wanting to know where you buried her son.”

“I didn’t bury anybody!” She lowered her voice, frustration nibbling along her spine. She had to convince Brogan to help her. She couldn’t find the killer on her own, especially not with Quentin watching her every move. And she had no doubt he would hire someone to keep a close eye on her. Should she warn Brogan to be careful? Maybe not yet. She couldn’t afford to have him thinking she was paranoid. “The prosecutor’s case was all circumstantial evidence that could be interpreted differently if you start at another point.”

“That point being you’re innocent of killing Jesse?”

“That’s right.” A wave of tiredness enveloped her, and she slumped against the back of her chair. “Look, I’m not asking you to believe in my innocence. All I’m asking is that you read the court transcript. If you think I deserved what I got, then no harm, no foul. However, if you see the trial as a miscarriage of justice, then please help me find out what really happened to Jesse.”

The silence built between them as squeals from children splashing in the fountain a few feet away filled the air.

“I Googled you too.” She let the statement pull up a chair and sit down. “You were a very good investigative journalist, despite your unethical ways of getting to the truth.”

His cavalier expression wavered as he dropped his gaze.

“Sometimes, the path to redemption takes some strange turns,” she said softly.

Brogan jerked his head up, meeting her gaze straight on. “You think this investigation could be that path for me.”

“Maybe it’s redemption for both of us.” She firmed her lips. “It depends on you.”

“The truth should matter more than one person, one byline, one story. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt that way.”

“Now you do?” Melender noted the lines of fatigue around the corners of his eyes. This may well be a man with as many demons as she had.

“I want to seek the truth, no matter the personal or professional consequences.” Brogan paused. “But I can’t promise what I find will be what you want to hear.”

“I’m not asking you to find what will please me. I want you to help me find the truth.” She reached down and put a tote bag on the table. “Here’s a copy of the court transcript. Call me when you’ve read it.”

Brogan stood and picked up the bag. “Okay.”

As he walked away, Melender drained the rest of her water bottle. She might have made a huge mistake trusting a journalist like Brogan Gilmore, but maybe, just maybe, she could use his need to prove his integrity to her advantage.