Read Online Going Nowhere Fast by Gar Anthony Haywood - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gar Anthony Haywood
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chasing down Liz Taylor—that's why. What did you think?
"My husband I have nothing to say," I said, confident that neither man would take me at all seriously.
"Mrs. Loudermilk?" the one without the camera asked.
They were both dressed to the nines. That struck me right away. Perfectly tailored Armani suits in a matching charcoal gray, razor-cut silk ties, and high-gloss wing-tipped shoes—the full GQ treatment, everything first-class. Cub reporters, these guys weren't.
"I told you my husband and I have nothing to say," I said again.
"Mrs. Loudermilk, please. This will only take a moment, I promise you." It was the one without the camera again. He was the taller of the two, and the more handsome, though neither man looked like anything a bright girl would shove off the love seat in the family parlor. "My name is Ray, and this is Phil." He extended his hand, amber eyes sparkling. "Phil and I are doing a story on the Geoffry Bettis murder case. But I imagine you already guessed that."
I shook his hand, but only indifferently. "That's an Instamatic camera," I said, staring at the tiny little thing tethered to the neck of the one just introduced to me as Phil.
Both men followed my gaze before Phil looked up and shrugged his wide shoulders, apologizing. "My Nikon's in the shop, ma'am," he said.
"You gentlemen are from a newspaper?"
"Yes ma'am," Ray said.
" The Sentinel ," Phil said.
"Aren't you kind of late?" I asked them. "I mean, all the other papers talked to Joe and me two days ago."
"Yes ma'am," Ray said. "That's true. But that's because Phil and I are doing a different kind of story than the other papers. We're doing what's called in the trade a 'follow-up.' "
"A follow-up," Phil agreed, nodding.
"A follow-up's a more in-depth look at the people involved in a story. A more personal look, if you will."
"More personal," I repeated.
"Yes ma'am. In other words, we don't so much want to know what happened as we want to know why and how it happened. It's the human drama we're after here, not just the cold, hard facts."
"The human drama. Exactly," Phil reiterated, head bobbing up and down.
"For instance," Ray went on, "we'd like to know what exactly was the nature of your relationship with Mr. Bettis before his death. Were you and your husband friends of his? Old business acquaintances? What?"
"We didn't have a relationship with Mr. Bettis," I said impatiently. "We'd never even heard of the man until the day we found his body in our bathroom."
"I see."
Ray fell silent, trying to find a tactful way to pose his next question. After a moment, he said, "I hope you'll forgive me if this sounds disrespectful, Mrs. Loudermilk, but I find that rather difficult to believe. I mean, this is a big park." He swept his right hand in a wide arc before him to illustrate the point. "Mr. Bettis could have been killed in a thousand and one different places. But he was killed in your trailer. Sitting on your private commode. Now, there has to be a reason for that, don't you think?"
"There may be a reason for it," I said, "but if there is, neither my husband nor I know what it is."
I watched him toy with the idea of pushing me even further on the subject for a brief moment, before he said, "Okay. Stranger things have been known to happen, of course. We'll move on to our next question: What did Mr. Bettis say to you or your husband before he died? Anything?"
"Mr. Bettis was already dead when we found him. Haven't you read your own newspaper?"
"Please don't misunderstand, Mrs. Loudermilk. We don't mean to imply that you or your husband have been anything but honest with the press or the authorities regarding Mr. Bettis's death. In fact, we're certain you've both been entirely truthful in the matter. However… you've now had two days to think about what happened to review things in your mind, if you will—and we just thought you may have remembered a few things that you'd forgotten or overlooked initially. You see?"
"You think
"My husband I have nothing to say," I said, confident that neither man would take me at all seriously.
"Mrs. Loudermilk?" the one without the camera asked.
They were both dressed to the nines. That struck me right away. Perfectly tailored Armani suits in a matching charcoal gray, razor-cut silk ties, and high-gloss wing-tipped shoes—the full GQ treatment, everything first-class. Cub reporters, these guys weren't.
"I told you my husband and I have nothing to say," I said again.
"Mrs. Loudermilk, please. This will only take a moment, I promise you." It was the one without the camera again. He was the taller of the two, and the more handsome, though neither man looked like anything a bright girl would shove off the love seat in the family parlor. "My name is Ray, and this is Phil." He extended his hand, amber eyes sparkling. "Phil and I are doing a story on the Geoffry Bettis murder case. But I imagine you already guessed that."
I shook his hand, but only indifferently. "That's an Instamatic camera," I said, staring at the tiny little thing tethered to the neck of the one just introduced to me as Phil.
Both men followed my gaze before Phil looked up and shrugged his wide shoulders, apologizing. "My Nikon's in the shop, ma'am," he said.
"You gentlemen are from a newspaper?"
"Yes ma'am," Ray said.
" The Sentinel ," Phil said.
"Aren't you kind of late?" I asked them. "I mean, all the other papers talked to Joe and me two days ago."
"Yes ma'am," Ray said. "That's true. But that's because Phil and I are doing a different kind of story than the other papers. We're doing what's called in the trade a 'follow-up.' "
"A follow-up," Phil agreed, nodding.
"A follow-up's a more in-depth look at the people involved in a story. A more personal look, if you will."
"More personal," I repeated.
"Yes ma'am. In other words, we don't so much want to know what happened as we want to know why and how it happened. It's the human drama we're after here, not just the cold, hard facts."
"The human drama. Exactly," Phil reiterated, head bobbing up and down.
"For instance," Ray went on, "we'd like to know what exactly was the nature of your relationship with Mr. Bettis before his death. Were you and your husband friends of his? Old business acquaintances? What?"
"We didn't have a relationship with Mr. Bettis," I said impatiently. "We'd never even heard of the man until the day we found his body in our bathroom."
"I see."
Ray fell silent, trying to find a tactful way to pose his next question. After a moment, he said, "I hope you'll forgive me if this sounds disrespectful, Mrs. Loudermilk, but I find that rather difficult to believe. I mean, this is a big park." He swept his right hand in a wide arc before him to illustrate the point. "Mr. Bettis could have been killed in a thousand and one different places. But he was killed in your trailer. Sitting on your private commode. Now, there has to be a reason for that, don't you think?"
"There may be a reason for it," I said, "but if there is, neither my husband nor I know what it is."
I watched him toy with the idea of pushing me even further on the subject for a brief moment, before he said, "Okay. Stranger things have been known to happen, of course. We'll move on to our next question: What did Mr. Bettis say to you or your husband before he died? Anything?"
"Mr. Bettis was already dead when we found him. Haven't you read your own newspaper?"
"Please don't misunderstand, Mrs. Loudermilk. We don't mean to imply that you or your husband have been anything but honest with the press or the authorities regarding Mr. Bettis's death. In fact, we're certain you've both been entirely truthful in the matter. However… you've now had two days to think about what happened to review things in your mind, if you will—and we just thought you may have remembered a few things that you'd forgotten or overlooked initially. You see?"
"You think
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