Page 7 of Justice Delayed

Quentin bit back the word he wanted to call the other man. “I’ve already shown you my support. It’s time you showed me yours.” He let the implication hang in the air.

Montgomery grunted. “Listen, I can have the police pay her a visit based on a citizen complaint, but that’s about all I can do. These people have rights too, and I can’t have my name linked to anything that smacks of harassment, not with this being an election year.”

That would have to do for now. Melender wasn’t stupid, and perhaps a friendly reminder that she would always be on the police’s radar would be a good thing. He punched off the call without saying goodbye.

As the car pulled into their driveway, Quentin tapped his fingers on his knee. Melender wouldn’t be as easy to influence as she had been at eighteen. If she remembered the map and a certain conversation with a senator, things could get even trickier. He would have to be very careful, or everything he’d accomplished could cave in like an old mining shaft.

ChapterFour

Brogan returned to theHeraldoffice to drop Seth, who shrugged off Brogan’s apology for not getting any photographs at the Kwikie Mart. Once they’d parted ways, Brogan made a beeline to his computer and Googled Jesse Thompson. As a result, he’d been sucked into reading about the case for hours. But instead of feeling tired after staying up all night, all his senses were on high alert. Finally, after years in journalism exile, he had the story that would propel him back into the national news arena.

He would have to be extra careful, triple checking his facts and sources, documenting every step with notes and recordings. No way would this story have even a whiff of scandal clinging to it.

Brogan picked up his coffee cup only to find it empty. After rising, he stretched on his way to the break room for a fresh cup.

“Gilmore!” Fallon paused in the break room doorway. “You’re here early.” The editor peered closely at him. “Did you go home last night?”

“Nope.” Brogan grinned.

The older man raised his eyebrows, but Brogan wasn’t fooled by his nonchalant appearance. Fallon might run a small newspaper, but he was a first-rate journalist and could catch the scent of a good story quicker than any bloodhound. “Give me five minutes, then come to my office to tell me what’s got you all excited.”

Brogan hurried to his desk to organize his notes. Exactly five minutes later, he knocked on the editor’s door and entered when Fallon barked, “Come in!”

Juggling the printouts and notebook, Brogan shut the door behind him with his foot and took a seat without waiting for Fallon to offer it. “Sir, I don’t want anyone else to overhear our conversation.”

Fallon straightened in his chair. “This must be some hot tip.”

“You won’t be disappointed.”

Fallon only stared.

Brogan returned the gaze with equal candor, resisting the urge to tap his fingers on the arm of the chair, a nervous habit since childhood. “I’ve always been honest about what happened in New York, and I appreciate your giving me another chance. I hope over these past months, I’ve proven to you that I’ve changed, that I care more about getting the story right than about making a name for myself.”

Fallon sipped his coffee. “I’m glad to hear you say so because you’re a good writer, and maybe one day, you’ll be a great writer—if you can keep that ego of yours at bay. As the Good Book says, ‘Pride goes before a fall,’ and your fall was spectacular.”

Brogan winced at the truth behind the older man’s words. He had been prideful, ambitious, and willing to cut corners to make his star rise farther and faster.

“Gilmore, if you had approached me for a job ten years ago, I’d have turned you down flat, because even after you destroyed your career, you still acted proud that you had fooled some of the most respected newspaper men and women in the country with your writing.”

Fallon’s words fell like hail, hitting him hard. Brogan broke eye contact with the editor, fixing his gaze on the man’s paper-covered desk.

“But when you came to me last year asking for a chance—a chance no other newspaper or news organization in the country would have given you—I saw a man who was ready for a fresh start.”

Brogan looked up. The compassion in the editor’s eyes made him swallow hard before speaking. “I’ve appreciated your confidence in me and hope I’ve worked hard to be worthy of that chance.”

“That you have.” Fallon smiled. “You’ve written every story I’ve asked, not once complaining to anyone in the newsroom when I left off your byline, chopped it into bits, asked for a rewrite, or assigned the same story to another reporter just to compare it to yours.”

Fallon had done all of that and more in the nearly twelve months Brogan had worked for theHerald. But Fallon had also taught Brogan how to write a tighter story, how to play up the personal angle, and how to question reluctant sources. He’d been humbled at how much he’d learned as a journalist under Fallon’s direction.

“So what’s this big story that had you up all night?”

Brogan opened his notebook. “It turns out that the Mel Harman who thwarted the Kwikie Mart robbery is Melender Harman.”

Fallon frowned. “Melender Harman. Unusual name.”

“Yes, sir.” Brogan waited a beat to see if Fallon made the connection to Jesse Thompson, but the other man waved at him to continue. “Seventeen years ago, Melender Harman was convicted of murdering her fifteen-month-old cousin Jesse Thompson.”

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