She felt on the verge of tears again. She stopped at the door of Starbucks and gathered herself.
They were all there. Norm, aka Ten-A-Fly, was in full rap-wannabe gear. Doug had on his tennis whites. Owen had the baby. Phil was in the suit and tie. Even now. Even at this hour. They were all huddled over a round table, leaning in and whispering. Their body language, Wendy could see, was all wrong.
When Phil spotted her, his face fell. His eyes closed. She didn’t care. She made her way to the table and glared down at him. He seemed to deflate in front of her eyes.
“I just talked to Christa Stockwell,” she said.
The rest of the guys just watched in silence. Wendy met Norm’s eye. He shook his head, asking her to stop. She didn’t.
“They’re going after me now too,” Wendy said to him.
“We know,” Norm said. “We’ve been following the cyber-rumors online. We’ve managed to get rid of a lot of the viral sites but not all of them.”
“So it’s my battle too now.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” Phil still had his head down. “I warned you. I begged you to stay out of it.”
“And I didn’t listen. My bad. Now tell me what’s going on.”
“No.”
“No?”
Phil rose to his feet. He started for the door. Wendy blocked his path.
“Get out of my way,” he said.
“No.”
“You talked to Christa Stockwell?”
“Yes.”
“What did she tell you?”
Wendy hesitated. Hadn’t she promised Christa not to say anything? Phil used the moment to scoot around Wendy. He headed for the door. Wendy started for him, but Norm stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. She turned angrily toward him.
“What are you going to do, Wendy? Tackle him on the street?”
“You don’t have a clue what I learned.”
“He got expelled from Princeton,” Norm said. “He never graduated. We know. He told us.”
“Did he tell you what he did?”
“Do you think it matters?”
That stopped her. She thought about what Christa said, about forgiving them, about them just being kids on a scavenger hunt.
“Did he tell you who is after them?” she asked.
“No. But he asked us to stay out of it. We’re his friends, Wendy. Our loyalty is to him, not you. And I think he’s suffered enough, don’t you?”
“I don’t know, Norm. I don’t know who is after him and his old roommates—and now me. And more than that, I don’t even know whether Dan Mercer killed Haley McWaid. Maybe her killer is still out there. Do you get what I’m saying?”
“I do.”
“And?”
“And our friend asked us to stay out of it. It’s not our fight anymore.”
“Fine.”
Fuming, she started for the door.
“Wendy?”
She turned back to him. He looked so ridiculous in that getup, the damn black cap over a red bandana, the white belt, the wrist-watch with a face the size of a satellite dish. Ten-A-Fly. For crying out loud. “What, Norm?”
“We do have that photograph.”
“What photograph?”
“The still of the girl in the video. The hooker who accused Farley Parks of soliciting her. Owen was able to freeze the screen and enhance it around the shadow. It wasn’t easy, but he got a pretty clear picture. We have it, if you want it.”
She waited. Owen handed the eight-by-ten to Norm. Norm brought it to her. She looked down at the girl in the photograph.
Norm said, “She looks young, don’t you think?”
Wendy’s world, already wobbly, teetered off its axis.
Yes, the girl in the photograph did look young. Very young.
She also looked exactly like the artist sketch of Chynna, the girl Dan claimed that he was supposed to meet at the sting house.
SO NOW SHE KNEW. The photograph was the kicker. Someone had set them up.
But still no why or who.
When Wendy got home, there was only one news van still parked outside. She couldn’t believe what station it belonged to. The damn nerve—it was from her own network. NTC. Sam, her cameraman, stood outside with—deep breaths—the balloon-headed Michele Feisler.
Michele was fixing her hair. The NTC microphone was jammed into the crook of her arm. Wendy was tempted to veer her car to the right and take her out, watch that big melon head splatter onto the curb. Instead she hit the automatic garage door and headed inside. The electric door slid closed behind her and she stepped out.
“Wendy?”
It was Michele. She knocked on the garage door.
“Get off my property, Michele.”
“There’s no camera or microphone. It’s just me.”
“My friend inside has a gun that he’s dying to use.”
“Just listen to me a second, okay?”
“No.”
“You need to hear this. It’s about Vic.”
That made her pause. “What about Vic?”
“Open the door, Wendy.”
“What about Vic?”
“He’s selling you out.”
Her stomach dropped. “What do you mean?”
“Open the door, Wendy. No cameras, no microphones, all off the record. I promise.”
Damn. She debated what to do, but really, what was the harm? She wanted to know what Michele had to say. If it meant letting Blockhead into her house, so be it. She stepped over Charlie’s bike—conveniently abandoned, as always, to block her access—and turned the knob. Unlocked. Charlie always forgot to lock it.
“Wendy?”
“Come around back.”
She entered the kitchen. Pops was gone. He’d left a note that he’d picked up Charlie. Good. She opened the back door for Michele.
“Thanks for letting me in.”
“So what’s this about Vic?”
“The brass want blood. They came down hard on him.”
“So?”
“So Vic is being pressured big-time to say you hit on him—to imply that you’re somewhat obsessed with him.”
Wendy didn’t move.
“The station released this statement.”
Michele handed her a piece of a paper.
We at NTC have no comment on the matter of Wendy Tynes though we would like to make it very clear that our news manager Victor Garrett did nothing illegal or unethical and has refused any and all advances made in his direction by any person in his employ. Stalking is a serious problem in this country today, and there are many innocent victims made to suffer.