If It Bleeds by Linda L. Richards Page A

Erica’s questions. I’d probably still be in the gallery, and Marsh would have had the chance to drive away.
    The junkie pack was closing in on my right. I moved toward the Audi, parked with its taillights facing me. The driver’s window was up. Marsh faced away from me. I thought he was maybe talking on the phone. But I couldn’t see what he was up to and I couldn’t see his face.
    I waited, hoping he’d sense me standing next to his car. But he didn’t move. And the junkies were closing in. I couldn’t just stand there. I raised my hand and tapped on the window. Once, twice, three times. Hard. No response.
    By now the whole thing was getting to me. Sure, talk on the phone. Sketch. Whatever. But move. Marsh wasn’t doing any of that. I could see the freckles on the back of his neck under short dark-red hair. Even in the dim light, I could see the soft fine hairs on his neck. But there was no movement.
    And the junkies were getting closer.
    I tried the car door. I’d expected it to be locked, but it opened at my touch. Music slid out of the car. The smell of something dark slid out as well. And then, without the support of the door, Marsh began to slide too. I stopped him, pushing him back against the seat. And then I saw.
    A short-handled tool was sticking out of the base of his throat. There wasn’t a lot of blood. Maybe there hadn’t been a great struggle. But somehow I just knew.
    I’d never seen a dead person before, but when you see it, you know just what it is.

TWO
    I had been covering a gallery opening. That’s what my life looks like. When someone in Vancouver puts together some kind of party and they want the press there, they put my name at the top of the list.
    It might be to raise money for people left homeless by fire. Or when some politician writes a book. Or a developer has a big new project. Whatever.
    A few publicists have told me that when I turn up at one of their events, it’s a good sign. “Sure, the snacks were swell,” they might say. “And the music was great. But did Nicole Charles come?” And if I did, everyone is glad. I never get used to that.
    Every day, Bryce the mail guy delivers a thick stack of invites to my desk on the fifth floor of the Vancouver Post building. I spend an hour or so each day looking through them. Sometimes the mail includes gifts or food, which I don’t want and cannot keep.
    My email has just as many invitations, though no food or gifts. I notice when I get an email invite followed by a snail-mail invitation followed by still another email. It means they’ve got the money to be paying for more promotion. Not just the email, which everyone knows is cheap to do.
    Lots of invites means the food at the party in question will be good. If you have a big pile of invitations, why not pick the one that’s going to have the best food? Most of my fellow journalists would find a lot of things wrong with that, so I don’t tell them. I have to pick somehow, don’t I? I have to choose. That seems as good a way as any.
    There are times when I have no choice. In those cases, one of my editors or a big shot from the business end will hand me an invitation. “It would be lovely to see you and your camera there, Nicole. I know it will be a good party.” They say it like it really is an invitation. But since they’re bosses, they have power over me. I generally put the invitations they hand me near the top of the pile. Then I make sure I go to that party. I go early enough in the evening that everyone isn’t drunk. That way I can get photos of all the beautiful people while they’re still looking beautiful.
    The day of the night Steve Marsh died, Erica West, sales manager, stopped by my desk. She said she was on her way home. Since her office is on the seventh floor and mine is on the fifth, I found it odd.
    â€œDarling Nicole,” she said brightly as she popped her head