The Mystery of Jamieson Stone

By Jonathan Cross

When Jamieson Stone, the world's most famous television news anchor, apparently commits suicide on live international television, Stone's widow hires detective Michael Brand to find out the truth. Brand discovers that Stone was murdered, but the "how and why" behind the crime is a my

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rustik Haws LLC
• Release date: Jul 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781649340283

Jonathan Cross

Jonathan Cross of Honolulu has written three suspense/mystery novels. His ability to weave plot and character provides a new and exciting style of writing that puts readers inside the story, making them feel part of the plot. Publisher's Website: http://sbpra.com/JonathanCross.

Book preview

CHAPTER

1

WASHINGTON, D.C.

The studios of WNN (Worldwide News Network) were as hectic as usual. Producers, assistant producers, directors, assistant directors and a beehive of workers were all scurrying around pawning off papers and giving and taking orders. Cameras jostled into position as the lights focused on where Jamieson Stone would do his nightly news; the same seat he had sat in for more than twenty years.

Jane Simmons, the head assistant producer and floor manager, shouted at everyone within earshot, commanding the floor like a general. Let’s go people! Twenty minutes to airtime. Simmons had been with WNN for almost ten years. Her demeanor was always dour and abrupt, not that it was her natural personality, but she felt that it was the only way to get attention and respect. She was slated to become the show’s head producer within three months. She had waited patiently for Alex Trent to retire. Even though her salary was almost double of anyone else in her position at the other networks, being the head producer of ‘The Stone Nightly News’ was her entrée into an elite circle of Producers. Johnson, she yelled, where’s the damn teleprompter?

Almost ready, he said, not wanting to garner her wrath.

Let’s get with it, boy, she thundered, and then spoke quietly into her headset that nestled over her short, black hair to the director who sat over looking the studio set behind a bank of video screens. Have you seen Stone?

The director replied, Not a sign, in between punching up several shots of the set, still not finding one he liked.

It’s not like him. He’s always here at least two hours before airtime. I hope he hasn’t been in some kind of an accident, she said not wanting to imagine the possibility.

There’s been no phone calls from the police or any hospital. Probably stuck in traffic, he said trying to allay Simmons’ fear.

Just then she saw Stone enter through the green door that read Studio B. Simmons relaxed. She turned to Annie from makeup. Get him prepped. Do the best you can.

Annie nodded and strode off to intercept Stone. We’ve all been worried about you Mr. Stone. Are you okay?

I’m fine. Sorry I’m late. Just a touch of blush, okay Annie?

You got it Mr. Stone. I’ve got my tray right next to your desk.

Stone walked over and sat in his usual comfortable chair and slid a small black leather bag under the desk, but well within arms reach. Annie applied a small sponge to his face and dabbed in some color.

Simmons watched until Annie was done and then walked over. You okay, boss?

Fine J.S. he said. Sorry, if I caused you any problems.

Are you kidding? This place is always an insane asylum, she said with a mock smile. The main thing is that you’re alright, she patted him on the arm. We’ve got ten minutes. Need anything?

A glass of water would be nice.

You got it, boss.

Simmons collared a woman carrying a clipboard,

"Get Mr. Stone a glass of water.

And I mean now. We’ve got eight minutes to show time."

Sure thing, she said and scurried away and returned in seconds with the water. Anything else, Boss?

No, honest I’m fine, Stone said sipping on the water.

Simmons moved the glass out of camera range, We’re almost ready, she said and walked away.

Jamieson Stone sat there watching at least fifty people preparing for his nightly news cast, plus another twenty he couldn’t see working the controls behind the smoke colored windows above the floor of the studio.

Over the years, Stone had become the most famous and trusted newsman, not only in America, but also in most of the civilized world. A hundred and forty countries tuned in via satellite and Internet – over a billion people at last count. However, his fame had not been meteoric; he had carefully cultivated and crafted his personae over two decades. Though, he had been an anchorman on WNN, a fledging network at the time, he also worked the field better than any other reporter. Over the years, he had taken on the tough assignments reporting live during the Panama Invasion, the Island war of Grenada, and from the explosive cities and deserts of Iraq, Kuwait and Lebanon, not to mention that he had almost been blown up by a Palestinian suicide bomber while waiting for a bus in Jerusalem.

He had set himself apart from the rest of the television journalist, not just because of his imposing presence and commanding voice, but because he reported the truth about what he saw…the whole truth, no matter the consequence. His journalistic philosophy was one of integrity; he reported every controversial nuance. For that, he had almost been fired several times, except for the fact that his ratings were three times that of any other network news. Today, his ratings eclipsed all networks combined. He was the one man that the world tuned in to hear the truth, and he never disappointed them.

Tonight, he would not need the teleprompter. What he had to say would rock the nation. Stone possessed a unique quality; even when the bombs in Iraq were exploding all around him, he felt a calmness that even he couldn’t explain. His mind had always gone into that quiet peaceful place within the eye of the storm, while the rest of his colleagues and the all the world panicked in fear.

Jane Simmons looked at the huge, white-faced clock perched on the studio wall, and then to Stone who seemed to be waiting patiently as he always did, and picked up a loud speaker, Alright, folks, it’s time to relax. The same words she had always used before the start of every show. The studio went silent and then to black, except for the spotlights that lit Jamieson Stone. His face taut and intense with his hands folded in front of him. She spread the fingers of her hand below the camera’s lens and curled each finger as she counted him down…five, four, three, two and then pointed her finger toward Stone indicating he was on. The camera’s red eye above the lens blinked on and focused on Jamieson Stone. As the red eye came to life Stone felt a twinge of anxiety, something he had never experienced.

He began with his usual opening signature, This is Jamieson Stone reporting live to the world, telling you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. He sounded as if he were taking an oath on some unseen Bible.

The red eye above the lens of the camera glared at him like a laser beam. Stone stared back as if it were the only thing in the universe. He strained to focus his eyes away but his mind began spinning as if in the throes of an eddy, dizziness and the oncoming feeling of nausea flooded over him. Tonight, I have a special report about our immaculate Capitol Hill, forcing his voice through sheer will to retain its calmness. What I’m about to report will shake this nation, if not the entire world. But, as hard as he tried, the blood-red eye of the camera captured his mind in a vise. He grabbed the edges of the desk to steady himself. His voiced faltered as he continued to fight off the dizziness. Our country has come to expect the best from our politicians…

Suddenly, his eyes glazed over and his mind went to black. He reached into the leather bag he had set down next to him and retrieved a pearl handled twenty-two revolver, put it next to his temple and pulled the trigger.

CHAPTER

2

Pandemonium erupted, as the exploding sound of the bullet echoed throughout the confines of the studio. Stone’s body lurched sideways slipping out of sight under the desk. The director instantly jabbed a button sending the video screens to black and then to a commercial.

Jane Simmons’ mind reeled, but like a good general she fought with every ounce of her strength to retain control. She grabbed the loud speaker and shouted into it, Call an ambulance! Call 911! Call the police! But the one thing she couldn’t contain was her emotions; her tears streamed down involuntarily into a cascade of horror. She ran to Stone. His body had buckled under the desk. She threw the chair aside and reached for his throat, trying to find a pulse. There wasn’t any. She pulled her hand back, and the sight of her bloodied hand, which dripped red rivulets onto the desk, sent her into hysteria. No. No. No, she screamed and then fainted into her own blackness.

***

Captain Barton and his men flooded over the studio set. Get the hell out of the way, he shouted as the paramedics wheeled Jamieson Stone’s lifeless body, zippered into a body bag, through a crowd of shocked disbelievers. This is a crime scene. Everyone stay away from the desk. He turned to a police sergeant standing next to him, "I don’t want anyone leaving without my permission. Is that clear!"

The sergeant grabbed a couple of officers and headed to the studio door with the large red ‘B’ printed on it and stood guard.

A squat balding man in a dark three-piece suit forced his way through the melee, doing a version of bumper cars, until he reached Barton. I’m Daniel Jacobs, General Manager of WNN, he announced testily. This isn’t a crime scene! It was a suicide!

It’s a crime scene until we determine otherwise…and, personally, I don’t care who you are, the Captain said calmly without looking at him as he scribbled on a notepad.

We all saw it. The man put a gun to his head, and blew his brains out.

Must have been a friend of yours, Barton said sarcastically.

Jacobs relented. All I’m saying is that no crime was committed. It’s all on video. The poor man committed suicide. Can’t we keep this to a minimum?

Barton finally eyed the short rotund man with red veins that criss-crossed his face like an erratic map. Suicide’s a crime. No one leaves. I need a statement from everyone. Is that clear? Barton said, still not looking at Jacobs.

For Christ’s sake, just about a billion people saw him blow his brains out.

I don’t care if the whole world saw it, Barton said and continued to scribble in his notepad. Look, I’ve got a job to do. So, I’d appreciate it if you let me do it.

Well, I’ve got a job to do as well, Jacobs said defensively.

Then go do it. I’m sure you’ll put the best spin possible on it. Your ratings will probably go through the roof, Barton said without hesitation.

You know, you’re an ass, Captain, Jacobs retorted angrily.

And, if you don’t mind me saying, I think you’re an asshole.

I know a lot of people in this town, and they’re going to hear from me, Jacobs protested.

Barton just shrugged. Go for it.

***

A dozen officers sat in various corners of the studio painstakingly taking statements. No one really had anything to add that was not already known, but procedures were procedures, and Captain Barton was a stickler for thoroughness, especially when it came to high profile cases. And this was just about as high profile as it gets.

Barton looked around and grabbed the first person he saw wearing a WNN badge. Who knew Mr. Stone best…I mean who worked the closest with him on the set?

The young man startled and flinched for a second. That would be J.S., Jane Simmons, she’s the floor manager. He glanced around the room. There, he pointed, she’s sitting over there in the middle of that group.

Barton walked over. Excuse me, he said, shuffling a few people aside. Are you Ms. Simmons?

A crumpled looking tear stained face looked up at him. Yes, I’m Simmons, she said dabbing a handkerchief at her eyes.

I’m Captain Barton. Can we talk privately for a minute?

She nodded, and Barton hustled her off to a more or less quiet spot. I know this has been very traumatic for you, he said compassionately, but I only have a few questions.

I already gave one of your officers a statement, she replied, sucking in a deep sigh.

Thank you for that. I’ll make it quick. He opened his notepad, I understand that you and Mr. Stone were pretty close.

She blew her nose. Just here on the set, she said, her eyes filling with tears again.

When Mr. Stone arrived was there anything unusual…his manner, or something he said?

Simmons shook her head. Not a thing. He was always polite and professional.

Was it his custom to bring in that black bag?

I really didn’t notice the bag. He was late, and everything was frantic.

Was he usually late?

First time in over ten years that I can remember.

Did he say why?

No. There wasn’t any time to ask questions. I was just glad he was alright.

How late was he?

Close to two hours.

Thanks, Ms. Simmons, he said and patted her arm. We may have to talk again.

She nodded, and dabbed the handkerchief at her eyes.

Barton finally found his second in command, Lieutenant Washington, who was talking to the director in the control room hidden behind the smoked glass above the main floor. Washington was asking, So, that’s it? He reached under the desk and pulled out a gun and shot himself?

That’s about the size of it, the director said punching up another commercial. If you don’t mind, I’ve got to go to another studio. We’ve got to explain this…somehow to the viewing audience, he said. "After all, this is news." His voice sounded callous.

Washington sighed and waved him to go.

Wash, what do you think? Barton asked, as the director slipped from the room.

Washington was jotting down notes, but spun around at hearing Barton’s voice. You got me, Captain. Looks like it’s a suicide, plain and simple.

Nothing’s ever simple, Wash. There’s always an angle, Barton said, staring out at the set below where Jamieson Stone supposedly took his life. Get one of the technicians over here and let’s take a look at the replay of this so-called suicide.

Washington didn’t have to go far, he grabbed the guy in the next chair. Can you replay the video of Stone’s last minutes on earth?

Sure. The technician swung his chair over and pushed a couple of buttons. Barton and Washington watched in amazement as Stone put the pearl-handled gun to his head and fired.

Looks straight forward to me, Cap, Washington said. I guess the guy wanted to go out in a blaze of glory.

Or in a mystery, Barton said. But, the suicide replay appeared exactly as reported by all the witnesses.

You see something, Cap? Washington asked.

Nah, the poor slob just blew his brains out. But something about the scene nagged at the back of Barton’s mind. He couldn’t put his finger on it; so, he concluded that what he saw was the way it went down.

CHAPTER

3

Senator Simon Kensey rapped the brass lion’s head knocker on Susannah York-Stone’s front door, which was a massive Georgian-style house on the outskirts of Georgetown.

An elderly butler answered the door. Oh, sir, it’s good to see you. Mrs. Stone has been hysterical. I’m sure you can help. The doctor has given her some sedatives, but I don’t think they’re helping.

Nasty situation, the Senator said and walked into the foyer.

I’ll let Mrs. Stone know you’re here, he said forcing a smile and left.

In a matter of seconds, a set of double doors off the foyer burst opened and a statuesque blond in a blue robe rushed toward the Senator. She grabbed onto him sobbing in a way little girls do when left in the dark. I’m glad you’re here, Simon. I’m about to go crazy, she sobbed even harder.

Simon Kensey had been Jamieson Stone’s best friend since they had attended Harvard together. He patted her back, and held her tightly. I know what’s happened is unimaginable, but we’ll get through this. His voice was reassuring. He stroked her head as she sobbed into the lapel of his coat.

Why, Simon? Why? Her voice muffled through his tweed overcoat.

Come on, he urged. Let’s go into the sitting room and talk.

In the sitting room, he helped her to lie down on a soft, burgundy velvet sofa. He chose a wing-backed chair and moved it closer to her. He remained silent for a long time as Susan cried into a pillow, clutching it as if it were a lifeline to her own sanity. After several minutes, she said through deep intermittent sighs, We were going to Martha’s Vineyard this weekend. He had the boat all cleaned, and stocked with our favorite foods and wine. The Moseley’s were going to join us for the weekend… Why would he do this? It makes no sense.

Suicide never does, Kensey said.

You’re his best friend, Simon, how can you believe it? Susan asked through an avalanche of tears. I don’t care what the video shows. He never would have… she couldn’t bring herself to say the word, suicide. Simon, I have to know why. Why he did what he did, her voice pleaded.

You’re right, Susan, he was my best friend. I don’t understand this anymore than you do, Kensey said, chocked up. And then offered, after thoughtful consideration, I know a man, not the most reputable, at least not in political circles, but he might be willing to help. At least, it will put your mind at ease.

Susan looked up with her tear stained face, Thank you, Simon. Please call him. I have to do something. Even he finds out nothing, at least, I will have tried, her voice trailed off, as her eyes began to flutter.

Kensey could see that the sedatives were starting to take effect. I’ll be in touch. He kissed her on her moist cheek, and walked out into a blustery wind.

***

The phone rang in Michael Brand’s apartment. He put down the Washington Post and just stared at the phone, never picking it up until it went through the voice-messaging center. He screened every call in the same manner, most of which he never picked up. Usually they were some form of solicitation, or someone he had no desire to talk with. After the machine responded with No one’s here; please leave a message, a voice came on. This is Senator Kensey, I’d appreciate it if you would return my call…

Before the message ended, Brand’s curiosity forced him to pick up the phone. Senator, Brand here. Sorry, I was just getting out of the shower. His usual response when he decided to answer the phone.

Oh, good. I’m glad I caught you, Kensey said.

"This is a surprise, Senator. What can I do for you? I’m usually non gratis in your circles."

You still are. But this is not political, it’s personal.

You’ve got a personal problem, Senator?

Kensey ignored the question. I assume you’ve seen or heard about Jamieson Stone’s suicide on worldwide television.

"I’ve seen a dozen replays. The networks have no shame. It’s always ratings to them. I know that you were close friends. Stone was an upstanding man. My condolences, Senator, but, why are you calling me?"

I don’t want to discuss this on the phone. Do you think you can find some time in your schedule to meet with me?

Is this something urgent?

I wouldn’t call you if it wasn’t, Kensey said annoyed.

I’ve got time this afternoon, Brand replied not reacting to Kensey’s tone, he was much too interested to let Kensey’s arrogance bother him.

I don’t want to meet in any conspicuous place, I’ve got a reputation…

So do I, Brand interrupted. I know a small private, out of the way, Mexican restaurant called Terrazzo’s. It’s on twenty-third. I’m sure your chauffer can find it. Let’s meet at one o’clock, if that’s convenient?

Kensey agreed and hung up.

The powerful Chairman of the Senate’s Judiciary Committee needs a favor, Brand mused, as he skipped to the bathroom to take a shower.

***

Michael Brand was a uniquely complicated individual. His life had consisted of many layers of incongruities. He had been born in Colombia. His father was a doctor, and his mother a Bostonian socialite. At the age of seven, his parents, afraid of the Ruling Junta, and the insistence of his father’s family sent him to live with his mother’s aunt in New York, a fashion designer. Fearing discrimination, his aunt changed his name from Branderos to Brand.

During his high school years he had learned how to live a double life: his days as an honor student in a prestigious prep-school, and his nights roaming the barrio where he could feel his Latin heritage and be free to be himself, moving through both worlds with equal ease which set the pattern for the rest of his life.

In college he had gravitated to politics, he found he had unusual aptitude for it; maybe it was because he understood that politics was also two worlds: the real and the unreal. He had chosen Columbia University -- the name alone was ironic and somehow fed into the fantasy of his double life. After graduating with top honors, he accepted a position in one of the most prestigious political consulting firms in Washington, D.C. (the District of Columbia). No matter where he went he was always reminded of his roots.

During his first few years at the firm he had been given the task of running campaigns that had already been written off as losers, primarily because the campaigns were under-funded. But to his amazement, and the amazement of his colleagues his candidates always won. His ingenuity at tapping into the right issues, and his uncanny ability at fund raising had made the difference.

Soon he was the topic of conversation in political circles within the Beltway, and became a frequent guest on the Sunday morning news shows. Not only because he had garnered a winning political reputation, but his handsome good looks with his aquamarine eyes and witty commentary made him a more attractive guest than most. His fame, eventually, had compelled him to open up his own firm at the age of twenty-six. It was then that he met and married one of New York’s top fashion models, not so much because he loved her, which he did, but because she fit into the image that he had created for himself. It wasn’t long after that then Michael Brand Jr. was born. To him, his son became one of the joys of his life. He doted on him every minute.

But his married life, and the crushing pressure of winning elections began to take its toll. For relief and relaxation he turned to the one thing that made him feel free: the barrio. The excitement of the barrio, the drinking, the dancing that was in his blood, and especially the women who tempted him beyond his ability to say no was the beginning of his downfall. His wife had tolerated his indiscretions, but when he showed up in the Tabloids with pictures of women hanging all over him, it was too much for her to take.

The divorce was messy and public. It had cost him a small fortune for the privilege of seeing his son one weekend a month.

His reputation had suffered as well as his business. His ability at fundraising had been dramatically affected; as a result he started losing races. The aura of the young ‘Beltway’ genius was fading as fast as a setting sun. But that was twenty-five years ago.

***

Brand parked his car and walked to Terrazzo’s. As he entered, he heard a familiar voice, Ah, Señor Miguel, it’s so good to see you, José, the owner of the restaurant, said flashing a large grin. I have your favorite table waiting.

I’m looking for someone. Brand shifted his eyes around the room, and found Senator Kensey sitting alone in a small booth wearing ordinary slacks and shirts. "I’ve got a meeting, José -- a private meeting. Comprende?"

After twenty-five years nothing changes, eh, Señor, José said understanding completely. I will send over a waiter only when you signal.

Gracias, amigo.

Brand padded over to where Kensey was sitting, a menu half covered his face.

You’re late, he whispered.

Relax, Senator, these people here wouldn’t know a politician from a pollywog.

Keep your voice down, someone might hear you, Kensey said, and looked around, his voice filled with paranoia.

There’s not a person in this place that speaks English, Brand lied. You can’t be too careful, Kensey said still unsure.

Senator, let’s stop this cloak and dagger stuff. Besides, your own mother wouldn’t recognize you in those clothes. So, what’s on your mind?

It’s Stone’s wife. She’s hysterical over her husband’s death.

From what I’ve seen, looks like an unfortunate, but dramatic suicide.

Kensey shifted uncomfortably.

How about a drink, Senator…just to settle your nerves.

Good idea. I’ll have a scotch, neat.

Brand signaled by lifting his hand slightly.

José’s peregrine eyes watched for Brand’s signal and then sent over a waiter who asked in Spanish to take their order.

Scotch, no ice for my friend. And I’ll have a mineral water, Brand ordered in Spanish. He had quit drinking ten years ago. After the waiter left, So, why call me? What do you think I can do? Brand asked daringly.

I think she believes her husband really did commit suicide, but she feels she has to do something.

Senator, let’s not play games. What do you want from me? Brand asked impatiently.

Since you quit your career as a political consultant, ten years ago, you’ve gone into, let’s say… private practice, and have taken on some very personal, and I might add, high profile people, and you’ve always been very discreet. I’m counting on that.

Senator, I’m going to ask you for the last time. What do you want? Or, I’m leaving right now. Brand said, playing with him and enjoying it.

This is a delicate situation. Be patient. I’m out of patience.

The waiter brought over the drinks and set them down and left quickly.

Kensey inhaled his scotch in one gulp. I have twenty-five thousand dollars in cash in my pocket. I want you to convince…no, let me put it another way. I want you allay Mrs. Stone’s mind that her husband committed suicide just as we all saw on television.

Brand’s eyes steeled and glared at Kensey. You want what?

It’s a simple assignment. For God’s sake’s man, all I’m asking is for you to put a widow’s mind at ease.

The police could do that. You don’t need me.

She wants…she wants someone objective, Kensey said flustered.

Brand’s mind went into warp speed. He knew a lie from a half-truth. This was both. He was about to leave when his instincts kicked in. He immediately decided to take the case, not because of Mrs. Stone, the grieving widow, but because he saw something in Simon Kensey’s eyes that said he was hiding an awful truth; and that was something he had to find out. Twenty-five grand’s a lot of money just to hold her hand, he replied calmly.

It’s peanuts, if it puts her mind at rest.

Okay, sounds simple enough, Brand said, tacitly accepting the assignment.

Kensey reached into his pocket and withdrew an envelope, and carefully pushed it across the table hidden beneath the menu.

Brand stuffed it away into the inside pocket of his jacket. When would you like to meet again?

Never, I hope, Kensey said. Just do what you’re being paid for. I’ll tell Mrs. Stone to expect you.

Fair enough, Brand said.

Senator Simon Kensey, one of the most powerful men in Congress, left the restaurant looking more ill attired than any of the patrons. Brand mused at the stupidity of amateurs.

***

Before meeting with Mrs. Stone there were a couple of stops that Brand considered more important: First, to his sometimes’ friend, Captain Barton, and then to WNN to watch the replay in slow motion.

He and Barton had worked officially and unofficially on more than a dozen cases over the last ten tears. Their relationship was either good or bad depending upon the outcome of the case.

***

A short, but intense, April shower swept through the Capitol city, leaving a sultry air that seemed to press down gravity. The oppressive moisture lay like a cloud of lead weight. Brand walked up the steps of the 3rd precinct, his shirt and jacket already soaked through by the abhorrent humidity. As he entered the building, a cool, sweet smelling air conditioning flowed over him like the waves of a tropical breeze.

A stern looking Latino sergeant peering over a tall, walled off platform broke into a smile. "Que pasa, Michael? It’s been awhile. What brings you to this place between heaven and hell?"

Just in the neighborhood. Thought I’d pay a visit to Captain Barton.

"Michael, you’re never just in the neighborhood. You got business with the Commandante?"

Not really. Is he in?

He’s in, but I must warn you he’s in a foul mood. You know what I mean?

He’s always in a foul mood, so what?

There is foul, and there is foul. Are you sure you want to see him?

Unfortunately, it’s a necessity at the moment.

I’ll buzz him, but it’s your funeral, the sergeant said with a sardonic smile. Give me a minute.

Brand walked over and sat on a hard uncomfortable bench and watched as people and police alike vied for the sergeant’s attention. He handled them as deftly as a concert director.

After a couple of minutes, "He says, he’ll see you. Tread lightly, Miguel," the sergeant cautioned.

Brand walked down a long angular corridor until he reached Barton’s office. The shades were open and he could see Barton pacing around with a phone clamped to his ear and waving his free arm as if he were sword fighting with some unseen enemy.

Brand watched from behind the open slats of the blinds. Barton finally slammed down the phone breaking off a small piece of plastic sending it sailing through the air like a missile. His eyes searched the floor for a second, and then ran his hands through a thick, black mane of hair.

Brand waited another second and then rapped on the office door, opened it and poked his head in. He just stood there smiling at Barton.

What the fuck do you want? Barton’s face was still twisted in anger and agony.

Having fun yet? Brand closed the door just in time before a telephone book smashed against it. Brand complimented himself on his instincts, and reopened the door.

Brand, this is not a good time, Barton said, only slightly calmed down.

"It’s never a good time. Not in our business."

Not in our business, Barton repeated sarcastically. His eyes narrowed into menacing slits. Come on in, he finally said. Maybe, I can take it out on you, As Barton slumped into his chair.

Brand sat down on a rather soft corduroy sofa. By the looks of your conversation, it was either the Mayor or a member of our esteemed congress.

The Mayor’s an asshole, Barton fumed.

So are the vagaries of life, Brand said as if quoting from a play.

What?…Oh, never mind. What do you want?

Same thing you do. Trying to make sense of a mysterious suicide, Brand said, hoping it would flush out a few unintended remarks.

Barton held his hands against his temples and squeezed. Don’t tell me… Please don’t tell me you’re working on the Stone suicide, his voice pleaded.

What makes you think it was a suicide? Brand asked.

Barton looked up releasing his head, Who hired you?

Now you know that’s privileged.

You don’t have any privileges. You’re not licensed in any jurisdiction.

That’s why I need you. And, if I might add, you need me.

You’re the last thing I need.

By my count, together we’ve solved more than a dozen cases. Unless you want to take credit for all of them.

Okay, so you helped. So, what?

So, you need some help, Robert. We make a good team.

Barton rose from his chair and looked out the window. Splashes of sun squirted through a spongy looking mass of gray clouds. What do you think you know about this, Michael?

I don’t know anything, but I’ve got a lot of questions. And, I bet you do too, except the heats on for you to wrap this up into a nice tight ball. No investigation. No questions. Tell me I’m wrong?

You’ve always had good instincts, Michael.

You afraid of your job, Robert?

You know better than that. After twenty-years, I should give a good goddamn?

Then what is it?

It’s the bullshit -- always the bullshit. It never ends.

Then why don’t you quit?

After this case, I think I will. Barton turned to Brand. Alright, let’s go for it, he said impulsively as the corners of his mouth creased into a sardonic grin. If someone’s hired you, then there must be something we’re missing…You’re not going to tell me who hired you, are you?

Not just yet. But, since we’re partners again, I’ll tell you this; I’m working on behalf of Mrs. Stone. I haven’t met with her yet, so you can assume whoever hired me was not her.

Mrs. Stone, huh? In that case, I assume she doesn’t believe it was suicide?

I didn’t say that.

This is not the usual kind of case you get involved in, Michael. What’s up?

It’s exactly the kind of case I get involved with. Let’s call it the mystery of Jamieson Stone.

Sounds like a title from a Perry Mason show.

I didn’t mean it to sound so melodramatic.

Yes, you did.

Are we going to quibble, or find out why the most trusted news man on the planet committed suicide on worldwide television?

Okay, okay. Barton held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. So, what do you suggest?

First, we look at the replay of the suicide.

I’ve seen it a dozen times. I’ve got a video of it here in the VCR. It’s not going to change.

Not here, at WNN. I want to see it in slow motion.

CHAPTER

4

The WNN building was a sixty-five storied edifice built of crimson granite and gold tinted glass. Barton wondered how many people would be laid off now that Stone was dead. His nightly news show probably represented more than a third of their revenues, and Barton couldn’t imagine anyone who was capable of taking his place. He was sure though that they would try. After all, the news must go on.

Who was the director of the broadcast that night? Brand asked as they walked from the unusual humidity, half soaked, into the cool lobby of WNN.

Barton scrambled through his notepad. A Danny Greene was the director.

Let’s find him... Did you interview him?

No, Washington did. But I came in at the tail end. He seemed a little too cool for the situation.

Fact or impression? Brand asked. Impression.

Let’s see how cool he is under fire.

Whoa, Barton said. This guy’s boss, a Daniel Jacobs, the General Manager of WNN called the Mayor, and he chewed my ass out for ten minutes.

Because of this Greene guy?

No, because I had a run in with Jacobs…I called him an asshole.

You really don’t care about keeping your job do you?

He pissed me off.

The whole world pisses you off. Was Greene there when you talked to Jacobs?

No.

Brand smiled to himself.

Barton and Brand approached a huge, plum colored curved marble reception counter that was at least forty feet long with a sole receptionist seated in the center that was handling the phones in a staccato fashion. Please hold… Please hold… He’ll be with you in a minute… Her fingers danced across the over-sized phone’s keyboard.

This could go on forever, Brand jabbed Barton in the ribs.

Excuse me, miss, Barton said politely, holding up his badge. I’m here on official business.

The overworked receptionist eyed the badge, and blew a blond curl from the edge of her mouth. One second, she said to Barton, and then spoke into her headset. All lines are tied up for now, please call back. She looked at Barton. This place is crazy, and the other receptionist decided not to show, she said completely frustrated.

I’m Captain Barton of the D.C. police. I’d like to see Danny Greene. Is he in?

Let me check. She punched in a couple of numbers. A Captain Barton from the D.C. police to see you…Fine, she answered without blinking. Greene’s on the twenty-fifth floor, room 2505. He’s expecting you. The elevators are up the stairs and to your right, she said and returned to the phones. Hold please…

Thanks, Barton said, wishing he had a receptionist like that.

The elevator was a slow trip up to the twenty-fifth floor, stopping at every floor with people bustling in and out. Barton hated it, while Brand just picked at a fingernail.

After walking through a maze of corridors, they finally found Greene’s office and entered. Everything was some shade of purple or plum, the carpets, the walls, the furniture, even the clothes of the secretary, who looked more like a flight attendant than a secretary.

May I help you? she asked looking up from her computer.

We’re here to see Mr. Greene, Barton said showing his badge.

I’ll see if he’s available, she said with a practiced smile and picked up the phone.

Barton was about to explode when she said in an almost singing voice, You can go right in, he’s waiting for you. And pointed toward an adjacent hallway.

Barton and Brand, who had remained silent since entering the elevator on the first floor, walked down a purple hallway toward a magenta door that snapped open as they arrived.

Gentlemen, I only have a few minutes. I’m on deadline, Greene said and ushered them over to a grape colored leather couch. So, what can I do for you? I thought this episode was all wrapped up? Greene asked as if he were referring to a completed installment of a weekly TV dramatic series.

Who told you that Mr. Stone’s tragic death, which was viewed across the world, was all wrapped up? Barton laid a heavy touch to his words.

Jacobs, our General Manager.

Well then, I’ve got news for you, Mr. News Director. This is a full-blown investigation into the death of Jamieson Stone, and it’s starting with you.

Greene’s eyes widened. Look, I don’t know anything. I was just sitting behind the video console. You saw what I saw."

Brand interjected. That’s why we’re here, we want to see the replay again, but this time in slow motion. I know that you don’t want to be held on Obstruction of Justice in an on going investigation, so, let’s get your fairy ass down to a private viewing room. Do you catch my meaning?

Completely, Greene uttered.

As they walked to the elevators Barton whispered to Brand, Damn the torpedoes. He was glad to be with his sometimes friend again. He hated to admit it, but he missed him. Brand always brought the best out of him. Maybe, it was the competition. But, whatever it was, he felt invigorated.

Greene punched up a video screen and asked, Where do you want to start?

From the beginning, Brand ordered.

You mean from before Stone arrived on the set?

We want to see everything from the beginning, and I mean everything; from the time you first began focusing your cameras, to the positioning of lights, and everyone on the set. You had three cameras running at the same time, I want you to punch them all up.

Individually, or all at once?

Individually, Brand said. Except for some of the modern technology, Brand knew his way around a studio set and the director’s