CHAPTER ONE

"I can't believe Oliver is assigning me to this story," Lindsey fumed as she slid behind the wheel of her little blue Toyota. "Why me? Why not Peggy or Shawn or somebody? They're small story reporters with nothing better to do."

She started the car and punched the gas peddle, barely even noticing if her partner had made it safely inside the car before she pealed out of the parking lot of the Midland Press.

"Lindsey, calm down," Roger said, fastening his seat belt in an uneasy haste. "It's not like there are any other stories for us to cover at the moment. I don't think news has been this slow since I started at the Midland Press."

"I don't care," Lindsey snapped, whipping the car around a sharp curve. The rubber of the tires squealed on the pavement.

Roger braced himself by grabbing the handle on the passenger door. His knuckles turned white from his constricted grasp.

"You may be happy to cover any story Oliver wants you to but I'm not. I'm an investigative reporter. Oliver's 'star' investigative reporter if I might add. This is a suicide story. What is there to investigate?" Lindsey shrilled, throwing her hands in the air in annoyance.

"Umm…would you mind keeping your hands on the wheel?" Roger requested cautiously through gritted teeth.

"I know how to drive Roger," Lindsey barked in response.

"Sorry, I just know how distracted you get when you're angry."

"The woman killed herself. No one else did," Lindsey continued, lowering her voice to conversation tone. "We know how she died, when she died, and where she died. It's probably the same old story-the woman hated her life, probably found out her husband was fooling around on her or something, fell into a deep depression and felt the only answer was to take her own life."

"Well, if that's the case we'll have the story rapped up in a matter of minutes," Roger shrugged. "It won't hurt us to have an easy story for a change. We'll get a few statements from the husband, return to the office, write the story and we'll be done by quitting time."

"Yeah and then what piddly story will Ollie assign us to? Who does he think he is anyway?"

"Our boss maybe," Roger suggested with a slight chuckle.

"Give me a story like The Mystery Club murders or a story like the one on my next door neighbor's murder, now those were stories for an investigative reporter with my experience," Lindsey began to rant again as she brought the car to a halt in front of a split level brick house on Cumberland Lane. "This story is going to be more like an obituary. I haven't written obituaries since I started at the bottom of the totem pole at the newspaper five years ago!"

Roger grinned in amusement but didn't say another word and Lindsey knew why. They had been partners long enough for him to learn when she was in the mood she was in at that moment there was no getting through to her. Anything he could've said would have just made things worse. Although it was apparent that he thought it was funny as hell when she through one of her temper tantrums.

Lindsey had been appalled at the idea of being assigned a partner a few years back. In the beginning Roger hadn't actually been a partner but more like a student. Oliver, the Editor and Chief of the newspaper, had paired them together so she could train the tall, lanky, want-to-be reporter and show him the ropes. The fact that she had to teach another reporter everything she had worked tooth and nail to learn had infuriated her! The nerve of the geeky twerp taking the easy way out instead of reaching the top on his own as she had been forced to do. But after some time she had finally come to accept Roger and had really begun to see him as a dear friend as well as a colleague.

When Oliver assigned Roger to his first big story a couple of years before, Lindsey had been sure that their partnership days were over. Competing for the front page spot would surely be in the air. But to her surprise Roger had requested to remain at her side. Now their partnership was even tighter than ever. Their names in the by-lines of their stories had become expected and known throughout the city of Midland. But to have their names in the by-line of an obituary! They were both too good of reporters for such amateur stuff.

Taking a few deep, calming breaths, Lindsey climbed out of the car and put on her best reporter's face. She took the small note pad and pen that she carried everywhere with her out of her leather handbag and followed her long legged, gangling partner up the cement steps to the front door of the house.

Roger knocked three times on the solid wooden door, then stepped back and waited.

"Who is it?" an irritated baritone voice shouted through the closed door. "I'm not talking to any more reporters so if that's who you are get the hell off my property."
Roger flashed an astounded glance at Lindsey who simply rolled her sapphire eyes to the sky and puffed loudly.

I didn't want to talk to you anyway ass hole, she thought sarcastically. She started to turn on her heels and return to the car but Roger reached out his hand and stopped her in mid-stride.
"It's Roger Pitman and Lindsey Dyson sir," Roger bellowed in return. "If we could just talk to you for a minute about your wife's death-"

"Lindsey Dyson the re-por-ter?" the man interrupted, stressing each syllable of the word. "From the Midland Press?"

Roger glared at Lindsey as if waiting for her to speak up for herself.

"This is pointless," Lindsey whispered, throwing her hands in the air in provocation. "He's not going to let us in."

"Wait," Roger said to her in a slightly forceful tone. "Yes sir, we're from the Midland Press," he yelled to the man inside the house. "Can we speak with you please?"

After a few seconds of silence the door slowly creaked open to reveal a tall stocky man with chocolate colored hair and puffy red eyes. "Come in," he gestured with a flourish of his arm. He now spoke in a softer, kinder voice than he had been previously using through the closed door.
Surprised by the man's sudden change in attitude, Lindsey and Roger hesitated a moment before accepting the invitation to enter. Once inside, the man closed the door behind them and led them to the small cluttered living room.

Lindsey's first inkling was that it was evident who had kept the cozy house in order. Beer cans were strewn all over the place, an uneaten TV dinner sat in its beginning stages of decay on the coffee table and broken glass was in piles on the hard wood floor where objects had obviously been thrown to the wall and shattered to the ground. She found herself wondering what the house would look like in a week without the woman's touch it was no longer going to get.

Turning her attention to Mr. Brisco she surveyed him too. Judging from the man's appearance he remained dressed in the clothes he had most likely worn to work the day before. It was her guess that if he had changed clothes they would be scattered through out the room as well.

And how would you and your apartment look if you had just found your husband dead last night? She wondered. A thought she couldn't even picture in her mind. The man is grieving. Did you expect to enter a home out of a magazine with a host that could pass for the next Mr. America?
"Please have a seat," the man said almost in a whisper, resting on the edge of a navy blue recliner in the corner of the room.

Lindsey and Roger sat at opposite ends of the plaid cloth sofa.

"Thank you for agreeing to talk with us Mr. Brisco," Roger began slowly. "We understand what a rough time this must be for you."

"Save me the babbling bullshit," Steven Brisco rolled his blood shot eyes in aggravation. "When have you reporters ever cared about what a tough time anyone is having? People like you make your money off the tragedies and sadness of other people's lives."

"Then why did you agree to talk to us?" Lindsey asked in a semi cocky tone, speaking for the first time. She was in no mood to sit around and listen as the man before her hammered away at reporters. Grieving or not it wasn't her fault his wife was dead and she wasn't about to let him take it out on her. She didn't want to be there to begin with and if the only reason he had invited them in was to ditz reporters it was all the more reason to walk right back out the door.

"Jacquelyn was your biggest fan, Mrs. Dyson," Steven said simply, his gaze falling to the floor.

"She had the Midland Press delivered every morning just so she could sit and read your stories while she drank her pot of coffee before work. It was her morning ritual for years. So you see, I'm talking to you out of respect for my late wife and nothing more."

Lindsey felt a pang of guilt sweep through her trim body. All the way to the Brisco's doorstep she had whined and complained about being assigned to the story and now she discovers the deceased was a fan of hers.

Boy, don't you have a lot of respect for the dead? She scolded herself silently.

"Can you tell us about your wife Mr. Brisco?" Lindsey asked, now with a more sympathetic tone.

"Call me Steven," the man ordered softly. Then his blood shot eyes took on a far away look. "My Jackie was a ray of sunshine. That's the best way I can describe her. Everyday she was nothing but smiles and laughs.

"Until something changed all of that," Roger jumped in, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees.

Lindsey smiled to herself. She had definitely taught her partner well. Not only had he learned to be a fantastic investigative reporter but he had picked up her impatience and desire to get right to the point of a story as well.

Steven Brisco flashed an annoyed glance at Roger then returned his attention to Lindsey. "That damn job of hers took all of that away."

"Her job?" Lindsey repeated, wrinkling her narrow forehead. "Where did she work?"
As she waited for the anguished husband to answer, she pushed up the sleeves of her solid pale purple button-down silk blouse and flipped open the cover of her little trusty notebook.

"Charisma Fashion and Design," Steven replied. Complete hatred filled his voice. He stood from the chair and began pacing across the glossy hard wood living room floor. "She worked at that stinking company for nearly ten years"

"But you said it was the job that changed her," Lindsey narrowed her sapphire eyes in confusion.

"If she was unhappy then why did she stay so long? Surely she could have gotten a job with another company."

"She wasn't always unhappy at Charisma." Steven shook his head and sighed loudly. "She loved her job. Years ago when she was hired at Charisma she had been lucky to get her foot in the door. She didn't have any experience, no college education, and still they hired her for a secretary position. She worked her ass off everyday that she was at that damn company, always doing her best and attempting to learn everything she could in hopes that maybe one day her efforts would be recognized and she could work her way up the ladder to a top executive position. For some strange reason that was her dream."

"But that dream never came true?" Lindsey speculated, her sapphire eyes following the man's every step.

"Yeah, it came true alright. It was the worst thing that ever happened to her. She got her promotion six months ago-top executive just as she had always hoped for. Then suddenly in a matter of a couple of weeks my wife as I knew her was gone." Steven's voice trailed off.
Lindsey exchanged perplexed glances with Roger. She waited for the grieving man to continue but after a moment it became obvious he wasn't going to say any more without prompting.

"What could have changed her so quickly?" Roger finally asked softly.

"That job did something to her," Steven answered dryly, stuffing his hands in his wrinkled black polyester trousers.

"Almost instantly she stopped smiling, stopped laughing, she even stopped talking! I asked her time and again to tell me what was wrong-what was going on but she just blew me off swearing everything was fine. I knew she was lying but for some reason I just couldn't get through to her anymore."

"And then you came home yesterday evening and found her dead?" Lindsey asked carefully.
Immediately the tears began to rise in Steven's eyes. "I was late getting home from work yesterday. The office turned into an insane asylum and it was all I could do to escape. On my way home I stopped to buy Jacquelyn a dozen roses. I couldn't remember the last time I had done that and thought it would make her smile again even if just for a moment."

He paused briefly as he recalled the painful evening. "When I walked through the door I called for her repeatedly but she didn't answer. I checked the kitchen assuming she was cooking dinner but she hadn't even started preparing anything. Immediately I became alarmed. She always started dinner as soon as she got home. I continued to call for her-walking through every room in the house calling her name and still no answer. Then I-I entered the bedroom and-" again he allowed his voice to trail off. He squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed hard.

"Take your time," Lindsey said in the softest, most understanding voice she could muster.

"When I found her she was lying across the bed," Steven slowly continued, his voice cracking. His pacing across the floor became faster with each word. "At first I thought she was sleeping until I got closer to her. I leaned closer to her face but couldn't hear her breathing. Then I noticed the bottle of pills on the floor by the bed. It was empty. I dialed 911 immediately but it was too late. My Jacquelyn-my Jacquelyn was already gone."

Lindsey waited for a moment, allowing the man to regain his composure. Her heart reached out to him. She couldn't imagine what it must have been like for him. Coming home after work happy and ready to make his wife smile only to find out that he would never see her smile again.

"Did she leave a note Steven? Did she ever give you any indication that she was planning to kill herself?"

"My wife did not commit suicide Mrs. Dyson," Steven declared, throwing Lindsey for a loop. He stopped pacing the floor and glared at her. His expression was dark, cold and yet convinced.

"My wife was murdered."

"But the police said-"

"I don't give a shit what the police said!" Steven roared, cutting Roger off in mid-sentence. "The police absolutely refuse to listen to me! They think they have it all wrapped up. Open and shut case. They're wrong and I told them so but they don't care. They'll do anything to get their so-called job completed as quick as possible and get back to their donuts."

And Heaven forbid if their donuts get cold before they get back to them, Lindsey added silently. She couldn't help but smirk at the raving man's reference to cops and their donuts. Her father was a cop-the Sergeant of the Midland Police Department. She knew better than anyone an officer's love for the round sugary pastry. She had been fed so many donuts growing up she could barely stand the sight of them now.

"Steven, what makes you think Jacquelyn was murdered?" She finally asked when she was sure she could keep a straight face. She pushed a few strands of her shoulder length brunette hair behind her left ear.

"Dalmane-that was what was written on the bottle I found by the bed. It's a type of sleeping pill," Steven explained. "My Jacquelyn took sleeping pills quite often but never took Dalmane. There is a medicine cabinet full of different brands of sleeping pills upstairs but there has never been a bottle of Dalmane in this house. If you were going to kill yourself by overdosing on sleeping pills wouldn't you just use a brand that is conveniently in your medicine cabinet?"
Lindsey and Roger exchanged disturbed glances.

"And you told the police this?" Roger inquired, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"Of course I told them!" Steven exclaimed. "But they just said she probably decided to try a new brand and didn't tell me about it. Or that maybe she thought
Dalmane would get the job done quicker. Hell, they made up a thousand and one excuses for the stuff being in this house. Tried to make me look like a complete idiot is what they did."

"So you think someone forced her to take a lethal dose of these pills. Were there any signs that someone else had been in the house?"

"Not that I could tell," Steven sighed hopelessly, shaking his head sadly.

"Did your wife have any enemies?" Roger interrogated.

"No, everyone loved Jacquelyn. She had one of those magnetic personalities."

"Then why would someone want to kill her?" Lindsey asked with a slight shrug. A part of her was screaming to work on a good murder mystery but another part of her simply believed the husband was in denial.

"I don't know. All I know is she didn't take her own life. Jacquelyn would never do that," Steven swore. "I believe whoever killed her was someone she knew. Probably someone she worked with. That's all I can figure. I think she let the person in and they forced the pills down her throat," he speculated. "That's why I agreed to speak with you Mrs. Dyson. I need you to find outfor sure. I need you to find out who killed my wife."

"Mr. Brisco-Steven, I don't know what I can do," Lindsey shook her head.

"You're an investigative reporter, right? Investigate!" Steven ordered. "Please say you'll help me. You're my only hope of finding out what really happened to my wife."

"I can't promise anything Mr. Brisco," Lindsey began.

"But you will at least check it out?" Steven pleaded.

Lindsey hesitated. "I'll do all I can," she assured, giving in as she stood from the sofa.

"Keep me posted," Steven commanded as the three walked to the front door. "And thank you," he added sincerely.

"Don't thank me yet. I'm not making any promises. But if we find out anything you can be sure you will be the first person to know about it," Lindsey smiled slightly.

She and Roger said goodbye and sauntered down the cement walk to the car.

"Do you think he's right?" Roger asked, fastening his seatbelt a lot more calmly than he had the last time they were in the car as Lindsey pulled onto the street.

"You mean about his wife being murdered instead of committing suicide? Anything is possible I guess," Lindsey shrugged, keeping her sapphire eyes on the road. "I do have to admit that he brought up some good points."

"Such as why she would use a different brand of pills than what she kept in the medicine cabinet?" Roger inquired, turning slightly in the passenger seat to face Lindsey. "Does that mean we're on another investigation case boss?"

"I guess so," Lindsey chuckled slightly.

She always thought it was so cute when he called her boss. Even though they were partners now, calling her boss was a habit Roger had picked up when she was training him so long ago. Back then he had taken more orders from her than Oliver.

Old habits are hard to break, she thought to herself with a smile.

"You realize it's also possible that the husband is in denial," Roger asserted.

"Oh believe me, the thought crossed my mind."

"Maybe he doesn't want to face the fact that his wife was so unhappy with her life that she killed herself so he's looking for someone else to blame."

"And that's why I only promised we would check into it. Besides, the woman was a fan. It's not like we have anything better to do anyway."

"Looks like we may have ended up with a better story after all," Roger rubbed his long bony hands together. "Are you beginning to regret all the ranting and raving you were doing earlier because Oliver assigned us to this story?"

"Nope, not yet," Lindsey answered stubbornly. "As insensitive as it may sound I won't be happy until I know for sure the woman was murdered. If I find out that she truly did commit suicide and I go to all the work of investigating for nothing I'm going to be doing a hell of a lot more ranting and raving than I was earlier."