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  After circling the area around the hotel several times, Debbie squeezed into a snug parking space. The back bumper of her Civic crossed ever so slightly over into the no parking area marked by a yellow line on the curb. An inch, maybe two at the most, she guessed. Not enough to be illegal. It would do for a few hours.

  The board of directors for Teen Alliance consisted of the who's who of St. Louis money. Some of the people who sat on the board were the same folks who were fixtures of the debutante ball scene that was an embedded part of St. Louis society. Even as a teen, Debbie found the idea of debutantes ridiculous. Tonight, she would have to play nice with this group for her story, and that was also making her a bit sour.

  Debbie was the type of reporter who preferred crime scenes to society soirées. In some ways, Debbie thought, it was easier to be a reporter in a place where you weren't raised. New places meant that old experiences and resentments didn't color your judgment.

  Debbie adjusted her shoulders. Her muscles were tight and drawn. She needed to loosen up. She asked herself: Where is the opportunity?

  The answer was obvious. The gala was also about social justice and good works. If she was just focused on that fact--and Jarrett, the high schooler who had big dreams of college and coding--she could, perhaps, talk herself into a better mood. And a room full of movers and shakers meant cultivating sources--a chance to expand her circle of contacts--the currency that every reporter sought and hoarded.

  "Debbie!" It was the executive director of Teen Alliance, Darlinda Owens.

  "I'm so glad to see you," Debbie said with relief. "I always feel out of place at these things."

  "I'm delighted you could come. Jarrett will be thrilled. He talks about you constantly. He told me that he saw you at the funeral the other day. And whenever I see him, he asks me if I'm reading your work."

  Debbie smiled, slightly embarrassed. For someone who loved to ask people questions about their lives and accomplishments, she was always a little hesitant to talk about her work. Maybe she'd received one too many admonishments as a Catholic school girl about the dangers of pride. Debbie switched the subject. "I did see Jarrett. He was sitting next to an older woman."

  "That would probably be his grandmother, Ada Davis. She's formidable. Precisely the type of person we seek out within the community to get buy-in for our mission," Darlinda explained. "If we aren't trusted by the family gatekeepers, if we don't have their blessing, we're just another set of do-gooders that outsiders keep at arm's length. Anyway, she is here. As are Jarrett's parents. They're all seated at the head table."

  Debbie spotted the grandmother and grandson sitting across the room. Jarrett was wearing a starched white button-down shirt and a red tie. His hand kept traveling up to the neck collar. Debbie empathized with his discomfort. Ada Davis was wearing a neatly pressed jacket and skirt, the color of both as red as a cardinal, with a white collared blouse and a gold pin fastened at the neck. Her back was straight and tall as she sat in the chair. She was beaming with pride even as, Debbie guessed, Ada was gently reminding her grandson to stop tugging at the neck of his dress shirt.

  The ornate ballroom of the Chase Park Plaza was immense. Classic chandeliers with warm lights hung from the ceiling. Accent lighting scattered throughout gave the place a romantic glow--perfect for the high-class affair. White tablecloths covered round-top tables arranged with a collection of small yellow and white flowers in the center. On either end of the ballroom, cash bars had been strategically placed. Each seat had cost $200, which Debbie quickly concluded meant that one table was worth $2,000. And there had to be at least 30 tables. Probably more. And that didn't include the silent auction and random generous gifts.

  Debbie recognized this place. It was where lawyers often held fundraisers for Legal Services of Eastern Missouri. Her parents had been avid supporters, and they'd taken Debbie along when she was a teen, hoping that exposure to the legal profession would entice her to join their ranks one day.

  Their efforts had the opposite effect.

  "I didn't know you'd be here," a man said from behind Debbie.

  "Chase Laclede! What a pleasant surprise."

  "Somehow I didn't imagine that you'd find your way back into St. Louis society so quickly," Chase said.

  "I can barely afford to park my car, let alone buy a ticket for the event. I'm writing a story about Teen Alliance. I was on my way to meet with the executive director the day I encountered your client. Darlinda introduced me to Jarrett. She thought he might make a good face for a story."

  "Face?" Chase asked.

  "Readers relate to people, not organizations or causes. It is one thing to write a general piece about kids growing up in where the odds are most decidedly not in their favor. Or you can write about organizations, like Teen Alliance, and list their various virtuous deeds. But it doesn't really resonate emotionally with the reader. What sticks are stories about real people who have real problems and struggle to overcome the obstacles in their way. It's only through the example of real life that a writer can explain the impact of a policy or a nonprofit's work or even a corporation's wrongdoing."

  "I see," Chase said, nodding his head. "A case, a trial, is also a story. And a lawyer tries to humanize the plaintiff or defendant so that the jury can feel some empathy. My dad would say that humanizing a corporation is particularly hard."

  Debbie smiled and nodded. "Yes, I can imagine."

  "Come with me. There's some people you should meet."

  Chase offered the crook of his arm for Debbie to take. A formal gesture that belonged in a different time. For Chase, Debbie guessed, it was probably a vestige of escorting a debutante maid in taffeta or satin at the Veiled Prophet Ball.

  Debbie decided to go with it. And when she lightly looped her hand around his arm, she could feel the hint of muscle underneath the tuxedo. Standing this close to him, it was impossible to miss the fresh smell of soap and light splash of aftershave. And she thought of Christian.

  Chase led to her a couple close to her mom's age.

  "Debbie, I'd like you to meet David and Dee Laclede. Mom and Dad, this is the reporter I was telling you about, Debbie Bradley. She's the daughter of Beth Hughes and Cary Bradley."

  David and Chase shared similar builds, although the father's waist was a bit wider. Dee was a petite woman with smile wrinkles around her blue eyes. Her neat dark bob framed her small face.

  "I'm pleased to meet you," Debbie said, extending her hand to David and Dee. "A family of lawyers?"

  Dee laughed. "Yes, but we use our skills in different ways. We each want to do some good, though how we define good differs."

  David Laclede cleared his throat. "Yes, my wife wants to help nonprofits get exposure and raise money. I like to help corporations stay in business and give people jobs so they can support their families. And my son, well, the jury is still out. Right now, he wants to save all of the people who can't afford his talent."

  Chase shook his head, no longer fazed by his father's familiar refrain. It was one part annoyance, one part pride, and one part a reminder that the only reason Chase could represent poor clients was because his family had joined the ranks of the rich.

  "Dad," was all he said, as he patted his father's back.

  "Is your mother here?" David Laclede asked.

  "No, when I left, she had a legal file spread out across the kitchen table. I'm here for work. I'm doing a story on Teen Alliance and the young man who is being honored."

  "Ah, that would be Jarrett," Dee volunteered. "I sit on the board of Teen Alliance. They're an inspiring--and worthy--nonprofit. And I hope we can help Jarrett and other young people like him get the opportunities they deserve. We forget how much of getting into college isn't just about grades. You must know how to navigate the higher education system. There are applications, scholarships, and the dreaded FAFSA maze."

  Dee stopped and smiled. "Sorry, when I care about something, I can go on and on."

  "I don't mind at all," Debbie said, finding
herself liking Dee despite her society status. "I've written quite a few stories about kids in similar situations. When I was young, I didn't realize how much I had leaned on my parents to guide me through the college process."

  "You know I had the pleasure of knowing both your parents," David said. "Fine lawyers. Fierce opponents. Good people. I heard about your mother's cancer. How is she doing?"

  "Nothing seems to rattle her." Debbie paused. "So far, she's been lucky enough to skip radiation before surgery. We won't know about chemotherapy until after her tumor has been tested. I'll let her know you asked about her. Now, I'm sure you all need to mingle. And I should really go meet up with Jarrett and his family. It was a real pleasure."

  And she had meant it, much to her dismay. She wanted to dislike the society set. But the Lacledes seemed different. And David was nothing like she expected. He was much more charming than her mother had led her to believe.

  "Miss Debbie!" Jarrett said as he saw the reporter approaching.

  Hearing Miss in front of her first name was another reminder that St. Louis was situated at the intersection of the east, west, north, and south. The southern custom of children adding a Miss to the first name of an adult woman was one that still seemed to prevail in the African-American community.

  "Hi, Jarrett!" Debbie couldn't hide her enthusiasm at seeing the happy young man.

  "Are you excited?"

  "Aw, it is no big deal."

  Jarrett's grandmother spoke up. "Hmm, no big deal. You sure fussed a lot getting dressed tonight, boy."

  "This is my granny."

  The elderly woman stretched out her hand formally. "I have a name. Ada Davis. I saw you at the funeral. Jarrett told me who you were," Ada said, shaking her head. "Too many babies dying. Too many babies locked up. This old woman's heart just can't keep taking the sorrow."

  She stopped herself as she looked at her grandson. "Well, this is a night to celebrate. I am proud of my grandbabies. Jarrett was also such a bright child. And a handful. Seems like as soon as he could walk, he was getting his hands on everything in the house. It started with pots and pans. Then he moved to the television remote. Then it was lamps and cameras. He was always takin' things apart. I was always scolding him when I would look after him while his parents were at work. I asked him why he did it. You know what he said?"

  Debbie shook her head. "What?"

  "He said he liked puzzles. He had to take it apart to know how it worked. And he liked the challenge of putting things back together."

  "Did everything still work once he was done?"

  "Mostly," Ada said.

  Jarrett laughed. "Yeah, I had some problems getting an old TV back together."

  "My husband, Jarrett's granddad, he used to get ticked. But I told him hush. I figured that if taking things apart and putting them back together kept Jarrett at home and off the streets, it was a good thing. His mind was just craving something--and as long as he focused on old things, he wasn't doing too much harm."

  "Yeah, after I took the TV apart, Granddad decided it was time for a computer. He brought home a used one, something they were getting rid of at work," Jarrett added. "Once I had the computer to play with, I stopped messing with his things."

  Ada nodded her head. "My husband was a wise man. He figured out a way to channel Jarrett's curiosity. And he had a vested interest in keeping his good television in one piece."

  "Is your husband here?" Debbie asked.

  "Yes, he is. He's looking down from heaven right now," Ada said. "He's been up there nearly ten years now. Lungs finally gave out. He worked at the cement factory most of his life. They mixed asbestos with the cement to make it stronger. Black workers were given the dirtiest job--offloading bags of asbestos from trains that pulled right up to the factory. Dust everywhere. And when the bags broke, he used to say it was like Christmas, snowflakes of asbestos floating around them in the air. Took a long time, but we got a settlement, part of some class-action lawsuit. But the money didn't do nothing to make the suffocating pain he endured any more pleasant. And then God called my true love home. Sometimes it is hard to thank the Lord when someone so precious isn't with you in the physical sense any longer. But I try to tell myself that the good Lord also gave me my man. And I had beautiful children. And," she smiled as she looked at Jarrett, "a clever grandson."

  Ada, avoiding the wine on the table, reached for her glass of water and took a sip. "My husband," she said with a faraway smile, "he was always thinking about me--and about his family. He worked hard to pay off our home. That way I'd always have somewhere to live. What he couldn't have known was that crack cocaine would sweep through our neighborhoods like wildfire, claiming a whole generation of young people--much like heroin is doing now to white folks in fancy neighborhoods. But that's another story," she said, shaking her head again.

  Ada wiped the sweat off the bottom of her glass carefully with a napkin, then set it back down on the table. "Those who could flee, well they left. But now I had a house that, if I sold it, wouldn't buy me a new one in a safer place. So, I stayed. Besides, someone's got to keep an eye on the next crop of babies coming up in the neighborhood. And when my time comes, it comes. And then I'll be with my husband once again."

  She patted her grandson on the knee. "I'm an old woman, I don't care so much anymore about myself. But I'm so happy for my grandson. And his grandfather would be--is--so proud. Proud that his grandson would get to use his brain, not his muscle, to make a living. He'd be so proud to see all these people here, in their fanciest of clothes, honoring Jarrett."

  Debbie willed away tears. This was material that she could weave into a riveting lead paragraph.

  "I'm really honored that I could be here," Debbie said. "Most of the stories I write don't have happy endings."

  Debbie's heart felt lighter as she left the fundraiser. Spending time with Jarrett, his parents, and his grandmother, watching Darlinda cajole just a few more donations for a worthy cause, had softened her reporter's cynicism.

  Journalists looked for dark clouds, not silver linings. It couldn't be helped. They were the ones who kept the public advised of floods and tornadoes. They were the ones right behind rescuers and first-responders in the aftermath of a school shooting. And every journalist on the beat long enough had, at least once, been told a blatant and outright lie by a powerful person whose only concern was protecting his or her position, not the public good.

  But tonight, Debbie had witnessed generosity and optimism. It had been a while since she felt so positive.

  "You seem to be in high spirits, Ms. Bradley." The speaker was concealed behind a pillar at the hotel's entrance, only the bright blue sleeve of a uniform clearly visible. But she knew who was attached to the voice.

  "What brings you here, Detective?" Debbie asked as Flannery stepped out of the shadows. Instead of his usual khaki pants and white button-down shirt, he was in a crisp uniform of bright blue, navy tie, navy pants, navy cap with a gold crest on the front, polished dress shoes, and a clearly visible gun strapped to his waist. A 9-millimeter Beretta, Debbie guessed, based on the knowledge she'd gleaned from a story she'd done while working in Washington about the Virginia owner of a shooting range who was fighting with local neighbors in exurbs over the noise.

  "Because the mayor and police chief attended the gala this evening, we have some extra police presence. I agreed to take the spot of one of the young officers who was supposed to work. His wife went into labor earlier today. Their first kid. I had nothin' better to do."

  He paused. "So, I take it you were here for, er, pleasure?"

  Debbie shook her head emphatically. "This was all about work. But there was no blood involved tonight. While I'm not one for fancy affairs, I do like to see someone deserving receive some recognition for a change."

  Flannery nodded. "I see. My idea of fun is bocce ball and a beer."

  "You play on The Hill?" Debbie asked, referring to the traditional Italian neighborhood in St. Louis.

  "Where
else?" Flannery answered. He looked at the keys already in Debbie's hand. "Where's your valet ticket?"

  "Valet. Seriously? I'm still waiting on my first paycheck."

  Flannery frowned. "The area is already clearing out so there isn't a lot of foot traffic on the street. Why don't you let me walk you to your car? I was actually getting ready to head home. The mayor and chief ducked out about an hour ago. Because I did a favor, I got to be the first to get off for the evening."

  "Really, that isn't necessary. I can take care of myself."

  "Humor me," Flannery said, gesturing with one hand to encourage Debbie to proceed in front of him down the steps. "While I'm not a fan of reporters, I also don't want to see anyone hurt."

  She wasn't a damsel in distress. She'd been in rougher neighborhoods by herself in pursuit of a story. But perhaps this was a chance to get to know Flannery better. She hadn't given up on turning him into a source. In fact, after Sam suggested it would be impossible, it had become a personal challenge.

  "Fine. But if you're going to walk with me, you have to tell me a little bit about yourself."

  "Off the record?"

  "You might be surprised. I am capable of carrying on a polite conversation. Besides, I've worked enough tonight."

  "Again, off the record?" Flannery asked.

  "Of course," Debbie answered as Flannery fell into step beside her, shortening his stride to accommodate Debbie's high heels.

  "You don't wear heels often, do you?" he asked.

  "Why?"

  "You're limping."

  "If I wasn't worried about broken glass, I'd take these damn things off and walk barefoot."

  "My ex-wife loved high heels. The more expensive, the better. Though I'll admit that her legs were the first thing I noticed when we met."

  "So you're divorced. Remarried? Kids?"

  "Yes, I'm divorced. Nope on the rest."

  "A dog?" Debbie asked.

  "Not even a dog. Although I do like them. In fact, my ex-wife and I had a dog. But she got it in the divorce. No, I work a lot. It just wouldn't be fair to leave a dog alone so much."