Page 12 of Justice Delayed

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 theHeraldthis 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 theHerald, 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.”

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