The Burning Edge

Something had happened in there with her. She had to be Morrow’s witness. I was so close, but I dropped the ball. What happened with that woman in the center?

Gannon searched the cream clouds of his coffee for the answer as he tried to determine his next step.

Time was slipping by.

Maybe he could salvage something out of the incident, shape it into a story? He needed help. Using his BlackBerry, he sent a message to Brad West, his state police source who’d tipped him to coming to the center today.

Am in your hood, got time to meet?

Gannon knew he was pushing things, but he had few options. Eugene Bennett hadn’t responded to his latest request, and he hadn’t heard back from Adell Clark. At the moment, Brad was his best shot.

After sending his message, he checked for any breaking stories on the heist. Nothing new had surfaced. The search upstate was the lead story of the day. Part of him wished he was up there. It was easier to report and if they made an arrest it would bust things wide open.

Lisker had also dispatched staff from the WPA’s Rochester bureau to support the team from Syracuse. They’d already filed words and images from the scene. The hunt had built-in drama, made for good pictures—helicopters, dogs and cops on ATVs combing the region—but so far it had failed to yield anything.

At least we’re covered there, Gannon thought, determined to follow his instincts and keep digging, just as Brad West responded to his message.

Where R U now, Jack?

Ramapo, Moonshade Cafe.

Meet us in 20 min at Jade Sun Chinese place S. of Southfields on 17, just N. of 17A on the right.

OK.

Us? Who is ‘us’? Gannon wondered.

Ten miles later, he arrived at the Jade Sun. Parked among the pickups and commercial vehicles. He noticed an unmarked police car.

Who belongs to the unmarked?

Gannon looked it over before he entered the diner. It smelled of deep-fried food. Cutlery clinked along with the hiss of running water and Johnny Cash singing “Ring of Fire.” Half the tables and booths were in use. Trooper Brad West was in uniform, occupying one side of a booth opposite a woman in a West Point sweatshirt and jeans.

“There he is.” Brad smiled at Gannon, offering his hand and a seat beside him as the woman turned.

“This is my wife, Detective Anita Rowan with Ramapo P.D. Anita, this is Jack Gannon, a reporter with the WPA.”

“Hello, nice to meet you.” Gannon shook Anita’s hand.

“I was telling her,” Brad said, “how if it wasn’t for you, the charity in Buffalo would have tanked. When I went to Jack, he wrote a fantastic story on the front page of the Buffalo Sentinel. That got us the benefit concert, and the donations rolled in like water over Niagara Falls. I told him he had a friend for life here. How ya doing, buddy?”

“Good, thanks, Brad. I appreciate this.”

“No problem, sit down. Ya hungry? The egg rolls are deadly here.” Brad glanced at the waiter. “My treat.”

“No, thanks.”

“Ya sure?”

“Just a ginger ale, maybe.”

“Can I get a ginger ale?” Brad repeated to the server, turning to Gannon.

“You’re all he ever talks about,” Anita said to Gannon, twisting a straw through her fingers. He sensed unease behind her smile. He was walking a tightrope. Brad West had a big heart. He trusted Gannon with his job and now he was going to extend that trust to include his wife, who, from the way she was working that straw, was apprehensive.

“How can we help you, buddy?” Brad said.

“Wait,” Anita asked. “You’re not going to use names or anything?”

“Don’t worry,” Brad said. “I told you, Jack’s a good man.”

“I protect sources, I don’t use names.”

Anita studied her straw.

“I saw you back at the center,” she said, “through the glass, outside with Agent Morrow.”

“You were there, inside?” Gannon said.

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me what you were doing?”

“Helping with the investigation.”

Their food arrived, a heaping plate for Brad, who dug in, and a salad for Anita. It was followed by ginger ale for Gannon, who sipped some, deciding it was time to play his cards.

“Maybe you could help me confirm a few things?” Gannon asked Anita.

“Maybe.”

“The woman with Morrow, who looked a bit distraught, that was a witness, right?”

“Right,” Anita said.

There’s my confirmation, Gannon thought.

“And the FBI brought her back to the scene today?” he continued.

“Uh-huh.” Anita took a forkful of salad.

“Walked her through the scene, I imagine.”

Anita nodded.

“She must be the key witness?” Gannon asked.

“I can’t say.”

“Is she from the city, or local?”

Anita hesitated as she picked through her salad. Tension mounted with every passing second of silence. Gannon threw a look to Brad, who nodded at Anita to continue.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Brad, I’m just not comfortable doing this. I mean, I just came from the center. I don’t feel right about this. You two go way back, but this is not something I do. I’m sorry.”

“Honey, I trust him completely.”

“It’s okay,” Gannon said. “I understand.”

“Anita, you can trust him,” Brad said.

“What I don’t get—” she stabbed her salad with her fork “—is why do you need to know? That’s part of a police investigation.”

“He needs to know because he’s reporting on the heist,” Brad said.

“I asked him, Brad.”

“Journalists investigate, too,” Gannon said. “I’ve got a tip, a long-shot tip I’m working on that may be connected to the case.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a bit vague right now, but it’s possible someone with advance knowledge on the case contacted the WPA.”

Anita put her fork down and turned to Gannon.

“If that’s true, you should tell the FBI.”

“I’m not a police informant. I’m a journalist and I investigate independently.”

“Except when you need our help, like now.”

“Anita,” Brad said.

“It’s okay,” Gannon said. “I understand, and I apologize for making you uncomfortable. As for my tip, I’m not certain of its reliability and I’m still looking into it. Please keep that confidential. Look, I should be going.”

“Hold up,” Brad said. Then he turned to Anita. “Jack is the best journalist I know. When a charter jet crashed in Lake Erie near Buffalo, everyone said it was terrorism. Truth was, the Russian pilot committed suicide. Jack got the story and was nominated for the Pulitzer. Then there was the Styebeck case. Remember? The murders tied to a