Shot Through Velvet (20 page)

“With all that talk of a deadly Velvet Avenger, you never know,” Vic said.

“Oh. You saw my story.” Lacey had slipped in some quotes from the bar talk about the Avenger at the last minute. She never really expected anyone to read what she wrote. She was the exact opposite of reporters who think the world checks in with them every morning.

“You had to put in that crackpot theory?” Vic lifted an eyebrow.

“Hey, it was just to illustrate that people are frightened and want a solution, any solution, and they’re willing to believe in anything. I pointed out that this ‘crackpot theory’ is a measure of their desperation and wishful thinking.” At least, that was what she’d thought when she wrote the story. “Besides, if I didn’t include that angle, I’d be accused by some crackpot of hiding the facts.”

“I liked it,” Turtledove said. When he smiled, he looked both predatory and sexy.
It’s no wonder women swoon over him,
Lacey thought. “Why didn’t I read about the Velvet Avenger on DeadFed?” he asked.

“Damon has the flu, according to Brooke. No doubt his fingers will be flying over the keyboard as soon as he stops puking.”
Besides, he wasn’t there to hear about the Avenger,
she thought.
The Velvet Avenger is all mine. For the moment.

“We don’t need to aggravate a situation that could end with the workers taking over the factory and refusing to leave,” Vic said. “It happened in Chicago.”

“That was a union shop,” Lacey said. “They were organized.”

“Those workers believed they were sold out,” Turtledove said. “Not much different from your textile workers in Black Martin. They already have one blue corpse down there. Nobody wants another one.”

“Tom Nicholson is down there with a skeleton crew,” Vic said. “He’s vulnerable. Things could get ugly quick. The invisible security is being installed, and Forrest will be the visible security.”

“I can be scary when I have to be,” Turtledove said modestly.

“This might be scary too.” Lacey reached into her purse. She pulled out a plastic bag with Claudia’s blue velvet ribbon and the envelope it came in. Lacey placed it on the table while the men watched. She waited a beat. She had their attention. “Claudia Darnell, my publisher, got this in the mail today. No note. Just the ribbon.” Vic looked grim. Turtledove inspected it closely through the plastic bag. “It’s the same color as the velvet and Rod Gibbs. Midnight Blue.”

“Fashion clue?” Vic scratched his head. He looked side-long at Lacey.

“It could be a warning. A prank. It was sent from Black Martin, just before my story appeared. You can see the postmark.”

Vic held the baggie up to the light. “The ribbon won’t have prints. The envelope will have too many. And this isn’t the kind you lick, it’s an adhesive strip. So no DNA. Lots of drama, not much data. But I bet it scared Claudia.”

“Did the ribbon come from the factory?” Turtledove asked.

“I don’t think so,” Lacey said. “They don’t make ribbon. Or didn’t.”

“So anybody could have sent it?” Vic asked.

Lacey spread her hands. “Everyone who worked at Dominion Velvet knows about Claudia’s partnership in the company and about Rod Gibbs, and they know what their Midnight Blue dye looks like.”

“If the killer sent it, he might plan on traveling,” Turtledove said. “He might not be in Black Martin.”

“He?” Lacey said. She thought the killer probably was a man, but she couldn’t discount the possibility of a woman. The dye and the ribbon seemed to add a feminine touch.

“He or she,” Vic added. “I don’t like it, Lacey.” He put his hand over hers. “You finished your Dominion Velvet story. You’re not working on a follow-up, are you?”

“You’re kidding, right?” She kissed him on the cheek. “Obviously there’s a follow-up. The funeral is on Friday. You don’t expect me to miss that.”

Vic folded his arms and grimaced. “Heavens, no. Don’t expect I could stop you if I wanted to.”

Turtledove clapped him on the arm. “Don’t try, man. Don’t even try.”

Chapter 18

The Eye
’s news staff gathered after lunch in the paper’s largest meeting room. It was barely adequate for the task. The room seemed to vibrate with voices and apprehension.

Full staff meetings were rare, as someone at the newspaper always had to tend to the business of news. Tables had been moved from the room and chairs were set up in rows. Many reporters generally liked to sit up front so they could catch every detail, but this meeting was different. Most seemed to be hanging to the rear for a quick exit. Lacey tried to snag a seat in the back, followed by Trujillo, but all the rear seats were taken.

Wiedemeyer had saved seats close to the front and he was waving so frantically they couldn’t ignore him.

“Smithsonian, Trujillo. Over here!”

Lacey had to step over Mac to take a seat next to Wiedemeyer. Tony stepped over her. Claudia waited on the dais and shared a word with Walt Pojack. Lacey groaned. If Pojack was speaking, the news definitely wouldn’t be good.

Most of the staff liked Claudia Darnell, or at least they liked the idea of a crusading publisher who was unafraid of the Washington establishment. Claudia’s platinum blond hair caught the light and contrasted with her dark suit. Her turquoise eyes sparkled and drew people to her, especially men of all ages. The man to her left, however, had the opposite effect. No one even wanted to shake Walt Pojack’s hand, for fear it would leave a slimy film behind, like a slug.

Claudia took the podium and the microphone.

“It’s no secret that the news business all over this country is in trouble.
The Eye
is no exception. While newspapers everywhere are trying to create a new business model to transform our industry, we here are taking immediate steps to make sure
this
newspaper survives.
The Eye
offers the sane news alternative in this town. We have no ax to grind but the truth and the people’s right to know. But we have to change some things about the way we do business. We have to be leaner and meaner. We’ll all have to make some sacrifices for the good of the newspaper. I’ll stop there—I have a pressing meeting—but Walter Pojack is going to fill you in on some possibilities under consideration. Please give him your undivided attention. And thank you for coming.” She exited the stage and left the room.

There was a ripple of unease through the crowd and a low hum of disapproval. No applause, which struck Lacey as ominous. Claudia always got applause. But the eyes of
The Eye
were on Walt Pojack. And what they saw did not please them.

Pojack was in his late fifties, with a round face and dull, puffy eyes. He combed over his thinning gray hair, sported a manufactured tan, and attempted to cover up a paunch with expensive suits. He had multiple divorces behind him, but still fancied himself quite the babe magnet. When Pojack smiled, his lips thinned into a humorless slit across his face. He reminded Lacey of a salamander. She’d seen some ugly salamanders recently at the Washington Zoo, where they were trying to breed them.
Maybe they’ve succeeded.

No one in the newsroom could explain how Pojack jumped from being a political reporter to managing editor to his position on the board of directors. Wiedemeyer’s theory was simply that scum always rises to the top. Trujillo said Pojack must have blackmailed Claudia Darnell. Whatever the truth, he moved onward and upward, leaving a dozen bad decisions in his wake, and somehow managed to claw his way onto the board, where he was firmly entrenched.
The Eye
was stuck with Walt Pojack.

He took the microphone with a flourish. He laughed, he lurched, he made lame jokes. “There are plenty of hot seats up here, folks. Get them while they’re fresh. Why, anyone would think you don’t like me.”

No one laughed. The first two rows remained empty, even as reporters and editors lined the back wall and sat down in the aisles. All were armed with phones and notebooks and pens, and many with laptops.

Pojack launched into his remarks on cutting costs and creating revenue for the company. Newsprint cost was up. Circulation was down. New media was hot, old media cold. The print edition would have to shrink; the Web edition would grow. The board was considering selling online subscriptions. The staff would be trimmed, hopefully from attrition, and a hiring freeze was in effect. There were no buyouts planned, but open positions would not be filled. If that didn’t staunch the bleeding, certain positions would be cut, he said. Every position would be examined, he promised.

Lacey wondered whether she would be able to weather the storm.

“So this is what they came up with from those ‘Quality Content’ meetings?” Wiedemeyer piped up. “Gutless bastards. The staff is what makes this paper great. Not the suits.” Heads swiveled to stare. Felicity tried to hush him up.

But that wasn’t the worst. Pojack cleared his voice and tapped the microphone. “Now, I know many of you are pretty fond of
The Eye Street Observer
’s offices and our high-dollar location on Eye Street. But the board has been exploring our options. The District of Columbia is a very expensive place to do business. Fair warning: Get ready to move. Soon.”

Dead silence. Pojack savored the moment, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. For once, he had their undivided attention. Lacey felt a stabbing feeling in her gut.

“
The Eye Street Observer
is moving—to Crystal City,” Pojack said smugly. There was an audible gasp. Crystal City? That concrete maze in Arlington, Virginia, across the Potomac? An unfortunate blot on the landscape near Reagan National Airport. No one moved their offices from the District to Crystal City unless they were at the end of their rope. Even the federal government was moving out of Crystal City.

“It’s worse than I thought,” Lacey muttered. Trujillo jabbed her in the side.

“Is he kidding?” Trujillo said. She pushed him away. “That’s across the river!”

Mac was stone-faced and grim, but management hung together. He said nothing.

Felicity put her hand on Wiedemeyer’s arm. A liberal sprinkling of the word
bastard
poured forth under his breath. The staff broke out in hoots and jeers at Walt Pojack. Someone booed, then another one. It became a roar.

Pojack seemed only mildly ruffled. “Crystal City is convenient. It’s right across the river. It’s got a great view of the District. It’s on the Metro, and with its numerous underground tunnels, you never have to go outside in bad weather,” he said.
Like moles
, Lacey thought.
Moles who never leave their tunnels
.
Yech
. “Lots of convenient eateries,” Pojack was saying, as if that was a selling point.

“Eateries? Like McDonald’s? Is he out of his mind?” Felicity moaned. “
The Eye Street Observer
belongs on Eye Street.”

There they had the District, Farragut Square, restaurants, shops, and sunshine (sometimes). K Street was a block away, the White House only two, and the Capitol and Congress were a short cab ride or a couple of Metro stops away. It might not be midtown Manhattan, but the newspaper’s location on Eye Street plugged them directly into the pulsing beat of the Nation’s Capital.

“Just remember, those who hate the idea of working in Crystal City do not have to continue their employment at this newspaper,” Pojack added. “Remember what I said about attrition? Attrition is good, people.”

Lacey wondered if that was his game, to make everyone so miserable they would quit. “Tony, what do you think of this fiasco?”

Trujillo said, “Let’s put it this way. If Pojack dropped dead tomorrow, I’d have a cocktail party.”

“Kickbacks. There has to be a kickback involved,” Wiedemeyer proclaimed. “Pojack would sell his grandmother to the devil if he thought it would help feather his own damn nest. How much has he sold out
The Eye
for? That is the question, the slimy, gutless rat bastard.”

“Why can’t this guy show up on your beat, Wiedemeyer?” Trujillo poked Wiedemeyer’s chest. “The death and dismemberment beat. What do you have on him?”

Wiedemeyer spoke in a low voice that forced Lacey, Tony, and Felicity to lean in close to hear.

“Pojack used to be a flack for a certain Crystal City commercial real estate developer with big political connections, right? That developer has kept his crappy, not to mention ugly, buildings filled with federal workers, suffering from mold and malaise. Until now. With federal agencies fleeing Crystal City like rats from the proverbial sinking ship, said developer is left with big empty ugly buildings to refill, just to keep the whole damned eyesore alive. So who does our developer cozy up to? Someone with the morals of a tree toad, and the brains of a sponge—Walter Pojack.”

“Okay, I like it so far,” Tony said. “There’s more?”

“Trujillo, is the White House white? Does the District overtax us? There’s always more.” Wiedemeyer’s eyes glittered with the light of the righteous as he polished his theory. “This deal’s got to go through or Pojack’s dead meat at
The Eye.
So how does he ensure his comfy retirement and do a favor for the developer, the one he used to work for with the shabby Mussolini Modern office ghettos with their sick-building syndromes?”

“He trades
The Eye
for something?” Trujillo guessed. “For a big cheap ugly building and a kickback?”

“Ten points for Tony,” Wiedemeyer said. “For our crooked bastard of a developer, greasing some sleazy weasel like Pojack a cool million or so under the table in exchange for unloading a Crystal City white elephant? Chump change. And if you’ve observed, our Mr. Pojack is suddenly driving a brand-new silver Cadillac Escalade Hybrid SUV, at a cost of a cool ninety grand. It’s in the parking garage right now. Do real newspapermen drive such gangster-bait vehicles, ladies and gentlemen of the press? They do not. The hybrid part is just to pretend the bastard is going earth-friendly green. And the Cadillac Escalade part is because—well, pardon me, ladies—but you gentlemen all know this: If you’re a prick without a dick, you
buy
one. My sources tell me the bastard’s also been taking banking trips to the Cayman Islands.”