from the police scanner earlier this afternoon. I understand you may have run into a little problem today up in the woods?”
I said nothing.
“They said that someone accosted you with a rifle up there where that hunter was shot earlier in the week. Is that correct?”
I still said nothing. The cameraman was taking pictures of the house and the barn.
“I’m working on a piece regarding local extremist organizations and I thought you might care to comment.”
She really did have pretty eyes. Her gaze finally dropped from mine. She seemed a little flustered. Maybe she thought I’d gone brain dead.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Grayson. I don’t give interviews.”
“Really?” She looked back at me. “Why not?”
“Well … I just don’t.”
She looked me over again, especially at my mouth. “You’re a private investigator, aren’t you?”
I smiled and shook my head, though not in response to her question.
“You look like you’ve had a run-in with somebody.”
I just stared at her. At least it was a pleasant experience.
“Listen, Mr. Pavlicek. I’m only trying to do my job here.”
“Listen, Ms. Grayson. These people just buried a husband and a father,” I said.
“Okay. Yes, I know. I’m sorry. But I spoke with a Ms. Estavez at your office back in Charlottesville and she told me you were out here for the funeral.”
“You’re quick on the draw. I’ll give you that.”
She said nothing—finally seemed embarrassed. A good trait, I thought, for a reporter. Provided it was genuine.
She reached inside her coat pocket, pulled out a card, and held it out to me. “Well, maybe we could talk tomorrow. You can reach me at that number. Anytime, day or night.”
I took the card from her. “Don’t hold your breath,” I said.
She gestured to the cameraman to stop shooting film. “Please pass on my apologies to Mr. Carew’s family. I’m very sorry if we’ve upset you in any way,” she said.
She spun around and walked briskly back down the steps and across the lawn to the truck, the cameraman trailing behind her. The door slid open, they disappeared inside, the door closed again, and the van pulled away from the shoulder and drove off.
6
I followed Tony Warnock’s blue Lincoln Navigator to his law office in Dunbar, midway between Nitro and downtown Charleston. The office was a nicely converted storefront with a couple of oversized concrete urns supporting impeccably groomed potted evergreens out front. The names of several other attorneys also graced the doorway, along with a different Charleston address. Though it was late in the day, an eager-eyed receptionist dressed in a conservative gray suit greeted us upon entering.
I had wanted to interview Warnock with Jake and Nicole there the same way we’d talked to Betty Carew, but the lawyer had insisted he wanted to talk to me and me alone and that he could take care of paying me my retainer at the same time.
“Any urgent messages while I was out?” he asked the receptionist.
She shook her head. “Just Mrs. Drunger about the divorce settlement again. And don’t forget, you’re due in court tomorrow morning at nine.”
“Got it. Frank, this is Penny Holt, my do-everything person around here. Penny, this is Frank Pavlicek. He’s a private investigator who’ll be doing some work for us. No calls for the next half hour. I’ve got some things to discuss with Mr. Pavlicek.”
Work for us ? I was beginning to get the impression Warnock was out to make me a bought man. At least Ms. Holt didn’t remark on the bruise splotching my face. Probably too professional for that.
“Will you be needing the special-account checkbook, Mr. Warnock?” she asked.
“Yes, please.”
He led me down the carpeted hall and into his office. It was a large room off the back, with the only windows being French doors opening to a small patio. An antique rolltop desk sat squarely against one wall. Next to it was one of those modular workstations with a
I said nothing.
“They said that someone accosted you with a rifle up there where that hunter was shot earlier in the week. Is that correct?”
I still said nothing. The cameraman was taking pictures of the house and the barn.
“I’m working on a piece regarding local extremist organizations and I thought you might care to comment.”
She really did have pretty eyes. Her gaze finally dropped from mine. She seemed a little flustered. Maybe she thought I’d gone brain dead.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Grayson. I don’t give interviews.”
“Really?” She looked back at me. “Why not?”
“Well … I just don’t.”
She looked me over again, especially at my mouth. “You’re a private investigator, aren’t you?”
I smiled and shook my head, though not in response to her question.
“You look like you’ve had a run-in with somebody.”
I just stared at her. At least it was a pleasant experience.
“Listen, Mr. Pavlicek. I’m only trying to do my job here.”
“Listen, Ms. Grayson. These people just buried a husband and a father,” I said.
“Okay. Yes, I know. I’m sorry. But I spoke with a Ms. Estavez at your office back in Charlottesville and she told me you were out here for the funeral.”
“You’re quick on the draw. I’ll give you that.”
She said nothing—finally seemed embarrassed. A good trait, I thought, for a reporter. Provided it was genuine.
She reached inside her coat pocket, pulled out a card, and held it out to me. “Well, maybe we could talk tomorrow. You can reach me at that number. Anytime, day or night.”
I took the card from her. “Don’t hold your breath,” I said.
She gestured to the cameraman to stop shooting film. “Please pass on my apologies to Mr. Carew’s family. I’m very sorry if we’ve upset you in any way,” she said.
She spun around and walked briskly back down the steps and across the lawn to the truck, the cameraman trailing behind her. The door slid open, they disappeared inside, the door closed again, and the van pulled away from the shoulder and drove off.
6
I followed Tony Warnock’s blue Lincoln Navigator to his law office in Dunbar, midway between Nitro and downtown Charleston. The office was a nicely converted storefront with a couple of oversized concrete urns supporting impeccably groomed potted evergreens out front. The names of several other attorneys also graced the doorway, along with a different Charleston address. Though it was late in the day, an eager-eyed receptionist dressed in a conservative gray suit greeted us upon entering.
I had wanted to interview Warnock with Jake and Nicole there the same way we’d talked to Betty Carew, but the lawyer had insisted he wanted to talk to me and me alone and that he could take care of paying me my retainer at the same time.
“Any urgent messages while I was out?” he asked the receptionist.
She shook her head. “Just Mrs. Drunger about the divorce settlement again. And don’t forget, you’re due in court tomorrow morning at nine.”
“Got it. Frank, this is Penny Holt, my do-everything person around here. Penny, this is Frank Pavlicek. He’s a private investigator who’ll be doing some work for us. No calls for the next half hour. I’ve got some things to discuss with Mr. Pavlicek.”
Work for us ? I was beginning to get the impression Warnock was out to make me a bought man. At least Ms. Holt didn’t remark on the bruise splotching my face. Probably too professional for that.
“Will you be needing the special-account checkbook, Mr. Warnock?” she asked.
“Yes, please.”
He led me down the carpeted hall and into his office. It was a large room off the back, with the only windows being French doors opening to a small patio. An antique rolltop desk sat squarely against one wall. Next to it was one of those modular workstations with a
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