Deadline

“Quit sulking,” Spencer told Tess as he drove along the interstate, heading for the Mississippi prison where her father had spent the last twenty-five years of his life.

“I’m not sulking. I just don’t understand why you insisted on coming with me. I don’t need a chaperon or a bodyguard. I have been inside a prison before, you know.”

“I’m sure you have. But I’m not here as a chaperon or a bodyguard. I’m here to help you get some answers.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, Spencer, I’m an investigative reporter. I know how to get answers.”

“I know you do,” Spencer told her, and bit back a grin. She’d pitched a fit when he’d shown up that morning, insisting on accompanying her to the prison where her father had been incarcerated. “But getting those answers may not be as easy as you think.”

“Would you stop treating me like I’m some kind of…cream puff? I know how to conduct an interview and find out what I need.”

“Oh, don’t go getting your panties in a wad, Tess. There’s no chance I’d mistake you for a cream puff. But you’re not dealing with a bunch of politically correct socialites down here. You’re dealing with die-hard, Confederate-flag-waving Southerners who will see you as a Yankee not to be trusted.”

“And you think you can do better?” she challenged.

“Sure,” he said confidently. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a homegrown boy. I’m one of them and I can be trusted. Unlike a Yankee like you!”

FLASHPOINT

BEHIND THE MASK

THE WAGER

Deadline

Metsy Hingle

In memory of my beloved aunt Doris Hingle, whose love lives on in the hearts of all who knew her.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

While writing this book, I relied on both the technical and emotional support of many people to bring it to fruition. Without them, I would have been lost. My heartfelt thanks go out to the following people for their help in bringing life to Deadline:

Valerie Gray, my editor and friend at MIRA Books, whose insight and help truly make me a better writer.

Dianne Moggy, Editorial Director of MIRA Books, for her trust in me and support.

Karen Solem, my agent, for her unending support.

The amazing MIRA staff, who continue to astound me with their support.

Sandra Brown, my dear friend, for her friendship, love and for allowing me to bounce my story ideas off her.

Hailey North, my dear friend and fellow writer, for her friendship, support and e-mails.

Bill Capo, TV investigative reporter for Channel 4 News in New Orleans, for his friendship and support, and for answering my questions about the inner workings of the newsroom.

Marilyn Shoemaker, my fan and researcher, for digging out all those tiny details that helped me create the town of Grady, Mississippi.

Bill Greenleaf, press communications specialist with the Mississippi Department of Corrections, for answering all my questions about the inner workings of the state prison systems.

A special thank-you goes to my children and family, whose love and support enable me to spin my tales of love, hope and happily-ever-after.

And, as always, to my husband, Jim, who is my love, my family and all things to me.

Dear Reader,

Thank you so much for picking up a copy of Deadline. I hope you find it to be a real page-turner, and that it keeps you on the edge of your seat.

If this is the first time you’ve read any of my work, I do hope you enjoy it. For those of you who are familiar with my books, you won’t be surprised to find that Deadline is set in the South. This time I’ve moved the setting from my hometown of New Orleans to my neighboring state of Mississippi in the fictional town of Grady.

As always, one of the greatest joys for me as a writer is hearing from readers, and I’d love to hear from you. Your comments, opinions and feedback on my books mean a great deal to me. So please keep those letters, cards and e-mails coming.

In fact, as a special thank-you I’ve created two gifts for you—a commemorative bookmark for Deadline and a recipe card for the mint julep that’s mentioned in the story. While supplies last, I’d be happy to send both the bookmark and the recipe to each reader who writes and requests them. Simply either write or e-mail me and say that you’d like one of my commemorative Deadline bookmarks and the mint julep recipe used in Deadline.

Until next time, happy reading!

Metsy Hingle

P.O. Box 3224

Covington, LA

U.S.A. 70433

www.metsyhingle.com

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Prologue

“It wasn’t a suicide.”

Skimming over her notes for Channel Seven TV’s noon news report, Tess Abbott barely registered the caller’s comment. Instead, she shifted the telephone to her other ear and underlined the alarming statistics that she’d uncovered in her investigation on plastic surgery being performed on teenage girls.

“Did you hear what I said? It wasn’t a suicide,” the woman repeated, her Southern drawl even more pronounced. “He was murdered.”

Suddenly Tess jerked her gaze away from her notes and gave her full attention to the caller. “Who was murdered?”

“Jody Burns.”

Every muscle, every nerve in Tess’s body went still at the mention of her father’s name. Two months ago when the news broke about her father’s suicide in prison, the media had been all over the story—especially the tabloid bottom-feeders. They’d come out of the woodwork, dogging her at the news station, pestering her grandfather at the Capitol. They’d even staked out her apartment on the outskirts of Washington, D.C., in an effort to get some reaction from her. As an investigative TV reporter, she had understood the media’s frenzy over the story. After all, the death of the man who had killed the only child of the powerful senator from Mississippi twenty-five years earlier was news in itself. Coupled with her grandfather’s outspoken views on stronger penalties for criminals, the suicide of Jody Burns was all the more newsworthy. While the reporter in her had understood the hunger for a juicy story, the child in her who had lost both her parents that long-ago night had resented the intrusions. She resented it even more now, she realized, her jaw tightening, because she’d thought all the hoopla over Jody Burns’s suicide was finally behind her. “Listen, I don’t know who you’re working for and the truth is, I really don’t care. But I’ll tell you the same thing I tell everyone else. No comment.”

“But—”

“And unless you want me to file harassment charges against you and whatever outfit you’re working for,” Tess barged ahead, “don’t call me again. Ever.”

“Wait! Please, don’t hang up! I’m not a reporter. I swear it!”

There was just enough desperation in the woman’s voice to pique Tess’s interest. She hesitated a second, then said, “All right. Then who are you and why are you calling me?”

“I am…was a friend of your father’s,” the woman corrected. “And I’m calling you because Jody didn’t kill himself like they said. They murdered him and made it look like a suicide to keep him quiet.”

Tess squeezed her eyes shut a moment, fighting back the images that flashed through her mind—images of herself awakening from a bad dream, of entering the den and seeing the father she adored kneeling over her mother’s body, covered in her blood. Shaking off the memory, she said, “How Jody Burns died is of no concern to me.”

“But he was your father.”

“He ceased being my father the night he killed my mother,” Tess informed her, making her voice as cool as her heart for the man she’d once called “daddy.”

“But he didn’t kill her.”

Tess started to tell the woman that she was wasting her time, that Jody Burns was no innocent. After all, she should know, Tess reasoned, since she was the one who’d found him still holding the bookend in his hand that he’d used to smash in her mother’s skull. But before she could get the words out, a knock sounded at her office door.

“Hey, Tess,” Jerry Wilson said, sticking his head inside the door. “You’re up in fifteen.”

“I’ll be right there.” When the door closed behind him, she said, “I have to go.”

“But what about your father? Don’t you want justice for him?”

“Some would say he got the justice he deserved—even if it came twenty-five years late,” Tess countered, recalling her grandfather’s words when they had first learned of Burns’s death.

“Then they would be wrong,” the woman insisted. “Jody Burns didn’t belong in that prison. He was not the one who killed your mother.”

“A jury thought otherwise.”

“The jury was wrong. And your father was going to prove it, too. That’s why he was killed and it was made to look like a suicide.”

Jerry tapped at the door again. “Tess.”

“Coming,” she said.

Regretting that she’d allowed the conversation to even get started, and aware that she needed to get to the set, Tess said, “Listen, I have to go.”

“That’s it? Aren’t you going to do anything?”

“No.”

“I would have thought you would want justice.”

“I’m all for justice. But there’s nothing I can do.” Softening, she said, “Listen, if you really believe what you’ve told me, then you should contact the police.”

“The police! They’re the last ones I can go to. Oh, God, this was a mistake. I never should have called you.”

“Wait!” Tess had been an investigative reporter long enough to recognize panic in the woman’s voice. “What do you mean you can’t go to the police?”

“Because I can’t risk it. If he was to find out that I knew…No, I can’t take that chance.”

Oh, what she wouldn’t have given to see the woman’s face, Tess thought, to be able to look into her eyes, read her. “Listen, if you’re in some kind of trouble—”

“I’m not. At least not yet. But if he finds out that I know and that I called you, God knows what’ll happen to me.”

Tess could practically taste the woman’s fear. “If who finds out? Tell me who it is that you’re afraid of.”

“I can’t. I’ve already said too much.”

“Then tell me who you are, how to reach you,” Tess said. “I’ll help you.”

“The only way you can help me is if you finish what your father started. Don’t let him get away with murder again.”

“Again?” Tess repeated.

“God, don’t you understand? The person who had Jody killed is the same one who killed your mother. And unless you do something, he’ll get away with it this time, too.”

But before Tess could demand more information, the connection was severed and a dial tone buzzed in her ear.

Chapter One

“Good afternoon. This is David Rabinowitz with the noon report for Channel Seven News. At the top of our news is this morning’s emergency landing of an American Airlines 747 at Reagan International Airport following reports that a bomb was on board.”

Veronica “Ronnie” Hill sat back in her chair in the control room at Channel Seven News and studied the studio monitors. As the show’s producer for the past ten years, she watched the broadcast with a critical eye. The new anchor was a good choice, she decided, satisfied with his delivery. While his boy-next-door good looks would certainly appeal to the female viewers, the fact that he’d reported sports for a rival network would draw in the male viewers. All in all, they were counting on seeing a jump in the ratings with the new guy on board.

“To give us an update on the situation, we’ll go live to Reagan International Airport where Tess Abbott is standing by,” David said.

Ronnie frowned when it took an extra two seconds for the monitors to do a split screen. Then the screens split in two with a view of David seated at the studio news desk on the left, and a view of Tess standing outside the airport complex on the right. But it was Tess on whom Ronnie focused. She made a dramatic image, Ronnie thought, with her booted feet planted firmly on the ground. An early-October wind whipped her mocha suede skirt against her legs and her dark hair swirled about her face and shoulders. Behind her, crash trucks zoomed by, followed by a swarm of military vehicles and more cars with flashing lights. To her left a jumbo jet bearing the American Airlines logo sat idle and detached from the jetty. Hordes of personnel flocked around the plane.

“Tess, this is David in the Channel Seven studio. Can you give us an update of what’s going on out there at the airport?”

“Well, David, as was reported earlier, an American Airlines flight that was en route to La Guardia Airport in New York made an emergency landing here at Reagan International around nine-fifteen this morning after a passenger on the plane informed a member of the airline’s flight crew that there was a bomb aboard the aircraft,” Tess began her report.

“All right, go to a full screen of Tess,” Ronnie whispered.

As though the cameraman could hear her, the monitor switched to a full-screen view and zoomed in on Tess. Holding the microphone in front of her, she ignored the noise and activity behind her and looked directly into the camera. “My sources tell me that it appears that the bomb threat was a hoax. No bomb or any explosives were found on board the plane. I’m also told that the passenger has since confessed to being despondent, having recently broken up with his girlfriend. He now says he claimed to have a bomb on board in order to get his estranged girlfriend’s attention.”

“That’s some attention getter,” David remarked.

“Unfortunately, it’s probably going to get him the wrong kind of attention,” Tess replied. She pushed the hair that blew across her face out of her eyes. Without missing a beat, she continued. “Because the federal authorities now have him in custody and will be charging him.”

“Do we know who the guy is?” David asked.

“The authorities haven’t released his name yet,” Tess said, her voice strong and sure above the scream of the wind and the noise around her. “But according to an unnamed source, the person in custody is a thirty-two-year-old male who boarded the flight in Virginia.”

“What’s it like there inside the airport, Tess?” David asked.

“I’d call it controlled chaos, David. As a safety precaution, two of the terminals were vacated before the American flight landed, and all incoming and departing flights were suspended.”

“There must be a lot of unhappy travelers, not to mention some crazed ticket-counter agents,” David commented.

“Well, as I said, it’s chaos, but it’s controlled. In addition to the displaced passengers from the American flight that was deplaned, we have a lot of passengers whose scheduled flights have been suspended. So there are a lot of people waiting inside the terminal,” Tess explained with a nod of her head to the airport complex. “And they’re unsure if, or when, they’ll be able to continue with their travels.”

“Are tempers running high?” David asked.

“Surprisingly, no. Most of the people that I spoke with were concerned, but very understanding. I think the feeling is that they would rather be safe than sorry.”

“Any idea how long before flights will be under way again?”

“The last report I received said that all flights were still suspended, but…just a moment, David.”

While Tess pressed her free hand against her headset and listened, Ronnie studied the young woman she’d worked with for the past three years. Despite her initial misgivings when Tess had been hired, the girl had proven herself to be more than just another pretty face. She was bright, hardworking and easy to get along with—something that Ronnie couldn’t say about all of the reporters under her direction, or even the news anchors for that matter. No, Tess Abbott was a good one, she mused. While very little impressed her in this business, Tess had. Somehow the girl had managed to keep her cool and do a good job even during the circus atmosphere following her father’s suicide and her grandfather’s appearances on Capitol Hill. Never once had she brought anything personal into the newsroom. In short, Tess was a real pro. That’s why seeing the shadows under Tess’s eyes now, and remembering her distracted demeanor all week at work worried her. Something was wrong.

“David, I’ve just been told that the airport has been cleared for incoming flights again,” Tess reported. “And all other flights will resume within the hour. It’s suggested that anyone who is either meeting an incoming flight, or scheduled to fly out this afternoon, check with the airlines first for updated arrival and departure times.”

“Thanks, Tess.”

She nodded. “Reporting live from Reagan International Airport in Washington, D.C., for Channel Seven News, this is Tess Abbott.”

The screen switched from Tess back to David in the studio. “In other news today, the president addresses the nation tonight. Among the key topics will be the nation’s economy.”

Tuning out the rest of the news report, Ronnie drummed her fingers on her desk and considered the best way to approach Tess. She liked the girl, considered her a friend. And because she did, she needed to get Tess to open up and tell her what was wrong so they could fix it. Never very good at mind games, Ronnie picked up the phone and dialed Tess’s cell phone.

“Tess Abbott,” she answered on the third ring.

“Tess, it’s Ronnie.”

“Hi, Ronnie. Hang on a sec, will you?” she said. “Eddie, I’m going to head over to the theater to do the interview with that playwright. I’ll just meet you there.”

“Do I have time to grab some lunch?” the cameraman asked.

“As long as it’s a quick one,” Tess replied. “Okay, sorry about that, Ronnie. What’s up?”

“Tell Eddie to take a long lunch and see if you can push your interview back a couple of hours,” Ronnie instructed.

“Why?” Tess asked, her voice wary.

“Because you and I are having lunch. I’ll meet you at Vincent’s in thirty minutes.”

“What’s going on, Ronnie?” Tess demanded suspiciously.

“That’s what I intend to find out.”

And before Tess could argue, Ronnie hung up the phone. After making a quick stop in her office for her car keys and purse and to advise her assistant where she’d be, Ronnie headed out of the station, intent on getting some answers.

“All right, Ronnie,” Tess said once the two of them had been seated at a table and placed their orders. “What are we doing here?”

Ronnie reached for the basket of crackers on the table. “Well, since all I had for breakfast was coffee and a bagel, I’m hoping we’re about to have lunch because I’m starved.”

Tess eyed her skeptically. “You and I both know that you don’t ‘do’ lunch without a reason, Veronica Hill. And if you think that by feeding me you’ll be able to convince me to pull another weekend shift as news anchor, I’ll save you the trouble. The answer is no.”

“My, my, you are a suspicious one,” Ronnie said as she began to butter a cracker. She glanced up, looked across the table at her from behind the tortoiseshell-framed glasses. “As it so happens, the weekend news shifts are covered.”

“All right. I’ll bite. What are we doing here then?”

“I’m your producer. Can’t I ask you to lunch once in a while?”

“You can, but you don’t. Not without a reason,” Tess told her.

Ronnie sighed. “Sometimes I think you know me a little too well.”

“It works both ways. That’s why we make a good team. So why don’t you tell me just what it is you want.”

“I want to know what’s bothering you.”

“Nothing’s bothering me,” she replied. Yet even as she made the statement, Tess knew it wasn’t true. She’d been bothered a lot lately. First by the anonymous phone call claiming Jody Burns’s death hadn’t been a suicide. And now by the response from the Mississippi prison system after she’d made some inquiries about his death. According to the medical examiner and the review board’s reports, Jody Burns had been greatly depressed the week prior to his death—which in itself seemed odd since he was up for parole. But, following an investigation, his death had been ruled a suicide due to strangulation by hanging in his cell.

The waitress arrived and served Tess her minestrone soup and Ronnie her green salad. Once she was gone, Ronnie said, “Then explain to me why you look like you haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in a week?”

“Gee, thanks, Ronnie. I think you look nice, too.”

“Oh, don’t get all pissy on me,” Ronnie told her as she dragged the strip of lettuce through the side of creamy Italian dressing. She paused, glanced up and met Tess’s gaze. “On your worst day, you look better than most of us do after a week at a health spa. Now quit pretending you’re insulted and tell me what’s wrong.”

“I told you, nothing is wrong.”

The waitress who’d taken their orders stopped at the table again and topped off their ice water. She eyed Tess curiously from beneath lashes thick with blue mascara. “Excuse me, but aren’t you that news lady? The one from Channel Seven who does those investigative reports?”

“No, that’s her sister,” Ronnie offered before Tess could respond.

“Oh,” the waitress replied, her expression falling. “I guess that explains the resemblance.”

Tess bit the inside of her cheek at the fib. She didn’t kid herself. Unlike some of the reporters on the show, she never for a moment believed herself to be a celebrity simply because she appeared on television to report on a story. And although it didn’t happen with great frequency, she was occasionally recognized.

“People confuse them all the time,” Ronnie told the girl. “But Tammy here is actually Tess Abbott’s older sister.”

“Well, now that you mention it, I can see that you look older than the lady on the news. But your sister’s good. I liked her report on the plastic surgery stuff.”

“Thank you. I’ll tell her,” Tess managed to say.

“You do that. Your orders should be up in a minute. Can I get you anything else?” she asked over the din of voices.

“No, thanks. I’m fine,” Tess said.

“Me, too,” Ronnie echoed.

“That wasn’t very nice,” Tess admonished once the waitress had moved on to the next table.

Ronnie shrugged. “If you’d told her the truth, we’d have had half the people in this place craning their necks and stopping by the table to chat with you.”

“I’d think that would make you happy. You’re the one always looking for ways to pump up the station’s ratings. The truth is, I’m surprised you didn’t get her to swear she’d tell everyone to tune in to the show tonight.”

“I considered it,” Ronnie advised her. “But if I had, we wouldn’t have been able to finish our little chat. Now, are you going to tell me why you’ve got circles under your eyes that look like they belong to a raccoon? Or am I going to have to torture you to get the truth?”