looked like a mangy buffalo when I walked through the door last week. Not particularly a good idea to shave when you're information-gathering in the Middle East. At least I never found it to be. Any response to your story?"
Momentarily embarrassed, she quickly recovered her composure. "Yes, it's why I'm here. I received an anonymous call from a man who said he tried to stop the other one. And I did recognize you, Mr. Grant. Just not right away." The smile gave him away, as did those eyes, even if not at a glance. She had only met him one time, after all. But she had to admit, he cleaned up spectacularly. "You're a war correspondent. Yes, I remembered your last book was up for an award. Are you home for good now?"
"For the time being, anyway. I'm freelance now, pretty much. I like being a free agent. Suits my temperament. Appreciate your mentioning the book. I'm trying my hand at fiction now. It's a hell of a lot harder. For me, anyway. Being freelance, gives me that time to follow a dream of writing a novel."
"Sounds like a great job."
"Pays the bills. Like I said, lets me work on my novel. I hope you're not pinning all your hopes on that phone call. It could be legit, but that kind of story also can bring a lot of weirdoes out of the woodwork. They'll confess to just about anything to see themselves on TV or read their names in the paper."
"Yes, you said," she replied stiffly, irritated at his assumption that she wouldn't know a crank call from a real lead.
Before he could annoy her further, the policeman called out from behind his desk, "Ms. Waters, Sergeant Nelson will see you now."
Naomi was glad for the interruption. Eric Grant must think she was very gullible and not too bright. "I'm sure, Mr. Grant. He was one of them. Excuse me. I have to go. Nice to see you again. Good luck with your novel."
"Thanks. Great to see you, too." He stepped aside to let her pass. "I really hope you're right about the call. Maybe we could have coffee after and talk about—"
But Naomi had already brushed by him and was now striding down the narrow corridor with its pale green walls to her meeting with Sergeant Nelson.
Conversation drifted from inside the second door on her left. The door had a brass plaque that bore the name Sergeant Graham Nelson. The door opened and an attractive black female officer stepped out. Her hair was cut close to her perfectly-shaped head, enhanced by gold-hoop earrings. She gave Naomi a nod and told her in a rich, contralto voice that she could go right on in.
"Naomi Waters," the big man said, rising from behind his desk and extending a hand to her. She shook it, conscious of the firm, practised handshake. His muscular build was softening in middle age, a paunch just starting to spill over his belt, but he was still a formidable man, an impression not lessened by the granny-type glasses.
He gestured to the leather chair in front of his desk and offered her coffee. "Thanks, coffee would be great."
The coffeemaker with all the fixings stood on a table off in a corner of the room. "Cream? Sugar?"
"Black's fine, thanks."
He returned with two steaming Styrofoam cups and handed her one, settling back behind his desk. "Tastes bad but it's hot."
He grimaced over his own, but drank it anyway. She didn't think it was so bad. As he said, it was hot and she needed a jolt of caffeine. She was still feeling some residual anxiety she couldn't explain from her encounter with Eric Grant.
He pushed the glasses higher up on his large, heavily veined nose, and gestured to the newspaper on his desk, folded with her story turned outward. "I read the article. Helluva story. Young fella from the paper was in asking for a quote. I wasn't much help, I'm afraid. I was in traffic back then. Though I recall the case."
He glanced down at the folded newspaper and gave her a half-smile that held sympathy. "Like they say, truth is stranger than fiction. I'm sorry for the loss of your mother, Miss Waters. I read she recently
Momentarily embarrassed, she quickly recovered her composure. "Yes, it's why I'm here. I received an anonymous call from a man who said he tried to stop the other one. And I did recognize you, Mr. Grant. Just not right away." The smile gave him away, as did those eyes, even if not at a glance. She had only met him one time, after all. But she had to admit, he cleaned up spectacularly. "You're a war correspondent. Yes, I remembered your last book was up for an award. Are you home for good now?"
"For the time being, anyway. I'm freelance now, pretty much. I like being a free agent. Suits my temperament. Appreciate your mentioning the book. I'm trying my hand at fiction now. It's a hell of a lot harder. For me, anyway. Being freelance, gives me that time to follow a dream of writing a novel."
"Sounds like a great job."
"Pays the bills. Like I said, lets me work on my novel. I hope you're not pinning all your hopes on that phone call. It could be legit, but that kind of story also can bring a lot of weirdoes out of the woodwork. They'll confess to just about anything to see themselves on TV or read their names in the paper."
"Yes, you said," she replied stiffly, irritated at his assumption that she wouldn't know a crank call from a real lead.
Before he could annoy her further, the policeman called out from behind his desk, "Ms. Waters, Sergeant Nelson will see you now."
Naomi was glad for the interruption. Eric Grant must think she was very gullible and not too bright. "I'm sure, Mr. Grant. He was one of them. Excuse me. I have to go. Nice to see you again. Good luck with your novel."
"Thanks. Great to see you, too." He stepped aside to let her pass. "I really hope you're right about the call. Maybe we could have coffee after and talk about—"
But Naomi had already brushed by him and was now striding down the narrow corridor with its pale green walls to her meeting with Sergeant Nelson.
Conversation drifted from inside the second door on her left. The door had a brass plaque that bore the name Sergeant Graham Nelson. The door opened and an attractive black female officer stepped out. Her hair was cut close to her perfectly-shaped head, enhanced by gold-hoop earrings. She gave Naomi a nod and told her in a rich, contralto voice that she could go right on in.
"Naomi Waters," the big man said, rising from behind his desk and extending a hand to her. She shook it, conscious of the firm, practised handshake. His muscular build was softening in middle age, a paunch just starting to spill over his belt, but he was still a formidable man, an impression not lessened by the granny-type glasses.
He gestured to the leather chair in front of his desk and offered her coffee. "Thanks, coffee would be great."
The coffeemaker with all the fixings stood on a table off in a corner of the room. "Cream? Sugar?"
"Black's fine, thanks."
He returned with two steaming Styrofoam cups and handed her one, settling back behind his desk. "Tastes bad but it's hot."
He grimaced over his own, but drank it anyway. She didn't think it was so bad. As he said, it was hot and she needed a jolt of caffeine. She was still feeling some residual anxiety she couldn't explain from her encounter with Eric Grant.
He pushed the glasses higher up on his large, heavily veined nose, and gestured to the newspaper on his desk, folded with her story turned outward. "I read the article. Helluva story. Young fella from the paper was in asking for a quote. I wasn't much help, I'm afraid. I was in traffic back then. Though I recall the case."
He glanced down at the folded newspaper and gave her a half-smile that held sympathy. "Like they say, truth is stranger than fiction. I'm sorry for the loss of your mother, Miss Waters. I read she recently
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