Thirty-Five
Ding!
The only alarm Kenny set the past week and a half was the one to clock how long she spent swimming morning laps, so she was startled when her phone sounded while she was still lying in bed. Before she rolled out of the covers or reached for the device, she glanced around the room. The sun shining through the French doors casted bright, warm rays on the right side of the mattress where Kenny’s body was still comatose. Through the slightly tilted Pella blinds, she could see the water aerobics women gathered around the pool deck but they hadn’t yet started their synchronized, aquatic routine. She deduced it couldn’t have been later than 7:00 a.m.
Kenny hadn’t answered a phone call or replied to an email before the crack of dawn in twelve full days and theDing!of her phone made her realizeshe wasn’t ready to go back to that routine. She stared at the purple wallpapered flowers on the ceiling and thought about the many times thatDing!changed the trajectory of her day.
There was theDing!the night that Whitney Houston unexpectedly died, and Kenny had to abruptly end a first date that, shockingly, didn’t lead to a second. There was theDing!about a gunman who killed an entire classroom of elementary school students in Connecticut that came in when Kenny was out for a birthday lunch with her brother. There was theDing!that a man from New Rochelle, who commuted in and out of the Grand Central train station, had contracted COVID-19, and exposed the entire tristate area to the deadly virus. Soon after, the country shut down. Although she didn’t physically hear theDing!the day she lost the Clinton White interview, because she was in the hot room at her yoga studio, she swore she could hear after-Dings!in her sleep.
Kenny apprehensively reached for her phone and prayed that it was an indecipherable text from Hailey or a snarky message from Colby about his dalliances from the night before. But she knew both were unlikely possibilities since it was daybreak on a Friday morning.
She assumed Haiely would be driving to the Pittsburgh International Airport to catch her flight into Savannah, since she was terrified to board the delicate puddle jumper that departed from Morgantown. Kenny had been on that exact aircraft when she covered the story of Jack and Diane, the teen killers who plotted to murder their parents, and couldn’t blame Hailey for not wanting to get on the plane that resembled a model figurine. And while Colby would normally be sleeping off Thirsty Thursday, she remembered that the Manuscript Eater had called one of her infamous sunrise meetings. Which meant Colby was making a mad dash across the wide avenues of Midtown Manhattan, barking orders to whomever was on the other side of his Apple air pods and bulldozing over any unsuspecting pedestrians in his path, while trying not to spill an ounce of his Trenta Starbucks latte that would hold him over until lunch.
Kenny took a deep breath and looked at her phone.
Text from Lonnie Locke: Luke and I both emailed you and received your out of office reply. Can you spare a few minutes? We have intel you’ll be interested in. You might call it a “scoop.” Call either one of us.
“Ugh!” Kenny yelled into one of the overstuffed down pillows and threw the phone on top of the pile of purple decorative ones that were stacked on the floor next to her. “Why can’t you people leave me alone?” she screamed and angrily kicked the tops of her feet against the mattress from under the covers, knocking the throw pillows that remained next to her on the bed, to the floor.
After the mini exaggerated tantrum, she grabbed the phone with her left hand that dangled over the side of the bed, sat to her knees which remained under the sheets, and peered out the French doors. She wished she was lifting foam dumbbells up and down over her head with the women in the pool who were forty years her senior.
Breathe in, two, three, four. Hold two, three, four. Out two, three, four. Breathe in, two, three, four. Hold two, three, four. Out two, three, four.
She contemplated ignoring the text, or at least putting off her usual immediate reply, but knew that was simply delaying the inevitable. The result would be having this “thing” hang over her head until she decided to deal with it. She was also unnerved by the term “scoop.” Until the day she lost the Clinton White interview, Kenny had been the one doing all the “scooping” in this story and didn’t realize what an ugly word it was until the shoe was on the other foot. If she wanted to regain her scoop streak, she had to hear out the Locke brothers.
She remained slightly annoyed with the elder brother, Luke, for calling her “Dear” in the email he sent her trying to explain away the debacle with their rogue client, so she dialed Lonnie’s number.
“Kennedy, I’m happy you called. I wanted to touch base before I head into court in a few minutes and the weekend gets ahead of me,” Lonnie answered on the first ring.
“Good morning, Lonnie. What’s going on? What can I do for you today?” Kenny tried to sound chipper and not disgusted that she felt forced into an unwanted conversation.
“You can’t do anything right now; this is all off the record. But things,bigthings, are happening behind the scenes. Of course, you’re my first call,” Lonnie said, breathlessly.
She rolled her eyes at the last few words of that statement and could tell the robust attorney was walking the stairwell at the courthouse and not riding the elevator.
“Remember when Luke and I told you there was a second set of footprints found at the White home?”
“Sure, I remember that. I also remember you saying that it’s not the job of the criminal defense team to identify or solvewhokilled Ada White. It’s solely the job of the defense to convince the jury thatyour client,Clinton White,isn’tresponsible for the murder,” Kenny parroted.
“Correct. That is still all true. But get this,” Lonnie gave a pronounced pause, indicating to Kenny he had reached the landing of the fourth-floor stairwell of the Stamford Courthouse. “Around the time Ada White was killed, a woman from Idaho went missing while she was out for a jog. Pressure and eyes have been fixed on the husband but there hasn’t been enough evidence to make an arrest. A few weeks ago, the missing jogger’s husband made a call to Phil Flora, my friend who’s the attorney from Boise, to retain him as counsel. I introduced you to Phil last summer at the National Association of Criminal Defense Attorneys conference in Palm Beach.”
“You did. Phil is great. You brought him over to the WBS exhibit booth between your sessions. We hit it off because his daughter is interested in going to my alma mater.”
“Well, this is going to blow your mind,” Lonnie continued. “The husband—Phil’s new client—was Clinton White’s roommate during undergradandmedical school! He steadfastly maintains his innocence and told authorities that in the weeks leading up to his wife’s disappearance, he found suspicious footprints on and around his property. He alleges on the day his wife went out for the jog she never returned from that he confronted her about having an affair.”
“What? That’s wild! Do you think the two are connected? In any way?”
“I don’t know. Luke and I are still skating on thin ice with Dr. Love. It’s going to take a while before we believe anything he says. But I told Phil Flora to call you as soon as there are any developments with his new client. I hope you don’t mind. It’s going to be a media frenzy when something breaks, and I assured Phil that he can trust you with fair and accurate reporting.”
“Thanks, Lonnie. That means a lot,” Kenny said.
“You’re welcome. Your out-of-office reply says you’re gone until the second week of October? We’ll make plans to have dinner when you’re back in the city. I’m sure you know the NBC interview never aired, what a shitshow that whole situation was. Judge O’Toole is still furious, and he hasn’t scheduled the next court appearance on the docket.”
“Got it. I look forward to connecting when I’m back. Send your brother my best and I’ll see you both in October. Thanks for reaching out, Lonnie,” Kenny said before hanging up.
As much as she didn’t want to think about life outside of Sea Pines, or life after Wednesday’s date with J.P. at Charlie’s, the conversation with Lonnie Locke left her reassured and relieved. She never bought into the sayingWhen one door closes, another one opens. She perceived the notion as a weak excuse people fall back on when things don’t go the intended way and self-proclaimed victims are incapable of handling the truth. But, in this case, she felt like a window had cracked ajar, due to a door slamming in her face. The professionalism and work ethic she displayed while working on the Clinton White case, gave her one foot inside the next big story that was about to break in the true crime world. When this hiatus of life came to its unavoidable end, Kenny would be positioned to hit the ground running. In the meantime, she intended to float through the remaining three weeks on a euphoric cloud.
Thirty-Six
