The Mourning Mail (FINAL)

Chapter 59

SIX YEARS LATER

The display on my cell phone read "Unidentified" as the ring tone added to the commotion. I was running late already. My husband and I were frantically getting Tommy and Sarah their lunches and their backpacks before the school bus and daycare van arrived, all while coercing the dogs out into the backyard and away from the kids and the food.

"You can take it, honey; I got this handled," Paul called out from the kitchen, so I stepped into the bedroom we used for a home office.

"Is this Debra Ann Wynn?" the throaty voice on the other end asked.

"Before I was married, yes. What can I do for you?" I replied.

"Well, Debra Ann, I've been a fan of your writing for a long time and following your fascinating career. I have a story I know you'll want to hear, and I can't think of anyone else qualified to report it."

"I'm flattered, but... I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name...," I said. And I don't have time for this, raced across my mind.

"I didn't give it, Debra Ann," the disembodied voice replied. "I will say I've become rather an expert on quality reporting—the media has written about me extensively. But you'll know who I am soon enough."

"Look, I don't want to be rude, but...." I pulled the phone away from my ear to punch the disconnect button.

"It's about two murders you don't know about and one that wasn't," the voice said, not seeming too concerned about me hanging up. "It's your chance to get it right this time. Or not—your choice. But you'll want to do your job, Debra Ann. Meet me in the main lobby of the Hotel Del at ten."

"How do I know..." I started to ask, but the line was dead. They'd hung up on me.

#

I started an independent news bureau four years ago. I'd thought about doing it sooner, after Dad opened up my options with the money he'd left me, but there were too many things going on at the time.

And honestly, the idea of running a business had never appealed to me, for many reasons. For one, I hadn't inherited that greed gene that modern capitalism seems to require for success. In my mind's eye, I would picture the allele that represents mercenary sleaze just slip-sliding out of my DNA chain because it's so greasy, though I'm pretty sure that's not how it actually works.

Most of the things I valued in life weren't quantifiable in dollars and cents. Sure, some people spend their entire lives using perceived, contrived, or stolen advantage to take more from other people than they give back, calling the unearned gain 'profit.' But I'd always wanted my life to stand for something a little less transactional than a gangbanger robbing a liquor store. And it was hard to respect business leaders who displayed the same narcissism and sociopathy I saw among the criminals that I investigated every day.

No, I had never been so weak and insecure that I needed to scam stuff from other people to affirm my identity, and I thanked my parents for much of that. I preferred getting my hands dirty chasing a story to earn the kudos that came my way, especially if readers benefitted.

But you can never know how your life might work out. Doug Stein had read the tea leaves well and was awarded that MBA he earned going to classes part-time during his last several years at the Union-Tribune. By the time the paper let Doug go, we'd been talking quite a while about his belief that we could build an honorable business together the old-school way. He convinced me we could focus on providing much-needed, high-value pool reporting and investigative services accessible online, and trust that our efforts would be rewarded organically. Doug would become my indispensable right hand, managing the business side of things while dabbling in editing and writing as time allowed. That would permit me to run herd on our reporters and story development, and to take the lead on the interesting or more important pieces.