Page 32 of Dead Air
chapter
twelve
The Marriott dominatedthe riverfront skyline. Glass and steel reflected afternoon sunlight. Inside, marble floors and potted palms created artificial luxury. The lobby bar occupied a corner with views of cargo ships passing on the river.
Blackwell sat alone at a table near the windows. White blouse. Tailored black pants. Tablet propped against a water glass. Her gaze locked onto Lawson immediately, acknowledging her with a slight nod toward the empty chair.
Lawson paused in the doorway, studying her adversary. Blackwell's posture radiated controlled confidence—spine straight, shoulders squared, hands positioned precisely on the table. Everything calculated for maximum psychological impact. Even her choice of seating put the sun at her back, forcing anyone approaching to squint into the glare.
"Detective." No smile. No greeting beyond acknowledgment. "You listened to Episode Three."
"You know about Monica and me." Lawson remained standing, refusing to cede the tactical advantage of height. "How?"
"Sit down." Blackwell closed her tablet with deliberate precision. "This conversation requires privacy."
"Answer my question first."
Blackwell's expression didn't change, but something shifted in her eyes. A flicker of … respect? Professional recognition? "I observed behavioral patterns. Micro-expressions during my interview attempts. Body language when Monica's name was mentioned. The way you positioned yourself protectively whenever her reputation was questioned."
Lawson claimed the chair, spine rigid. The leather squeaked beneath her weight. Around them, hotel guests conducted quiet business meetings and tourist families planned evening activities. Normal people living normal lives, unaware that two women were dissecting the anatomy of a five-year-old murder over afternoon drinks.
"You're very good at reading people," Lawson said.
"It's my job. Same as yours, Detective. We both study human behavior to uncover truth." Blackwell pulled her recorder out of her bag. "The difference is methodology."
"Your methodology includes stealing sealed evidence."
"My methodology includes following leads wherever they take me." Blackwell's fingers drummed a silent rhythm against the table surface. "Including uncomfortable places that official investigations avoid."
Lawson recognized the challenge—respond defensively and prove Blackwell's point about official obstruction or maintain professional distance and appear callously indifferent to justice.
"What do you want from me?" Lawson asked instead.
"Your version of Monica Landry's murder. Your truth." Blackwell leaned forward slightly, invasion disguised as intimacy. "Not the sanitized department statement. Not the careful legal language. What you saw. What you felt. What you've discovered during five years of private investigation."
"Private investigation?"
"Please." Blackwell's smile carried sharp edges. "Your unofficial pursuit of Monica's case is hardly a secret. Department sources describe your … persistent interest in cold case files. Your tendency to work overtime on cases everyone else considers closed."
Heat spread across Lawson's neck. The surveillance extended beyond her recent activities into years of behavior patterns. "You've been watching me."
"I've been thorough." Blackwell activated the recorder. "Standard investigative practice. Background research on key figures ensures comprehensive understanding of their motivations and credibility."
"Credibility?"
"Your drinking problem, Detective. Your disciplinary citations. Your history of insubordination when cases don't proceed according to your expectations." Each point delivered with surgical precision. "These factors affect how audiences perceive your testimony."
Lawson's hands clenched beneath the table. "You're building a case against me."
"I'm examining all possibilities. Including the one where Monica's partner might have reasons to conceal the truth about that night." Blackwell's tone remained conversational despite the devastating implications. "Not necessarily malicious reasons. Guilt, perhaps. Shame about impairment during a critical moment. Fear of professional consequences."
The psychological pressure built with each exchange. Blackwell systematically dismantling Lawson's credibility while maintaining the facade of objective journalism. Professional assassination disguised as fact-finding.
"Listen for yourself." Blackwell pressed play on a second device.
A male voice emerged from the speaker. Deep with the slight drawl common to Savannah natives. Ray Hutchinson's distinctive cadence filled the space between them.
"Monica understood the Rafferty operation better than anyone. I provided background from Narcotics. She connected financial patterns." The voice paused. "Working together created a bond. Late nights. Shared purpose. It became more than professional."
