Free Front Page Fatality by Lyndee Walker

that.
    I scribbled. “What does that mean? Do you think they were joyriding?”
    Lowe’s voice made a low, rumbling sound through the phone, like a murmur or a fading cell signal, but then came through loud and clear again.
    “We’re looking at this case from every angle. The theory the officers took the boat without orders certainly is among the scenarios under review, but it’s not the only one. We’ll know more as the investigation progresses.”
    From doing me a favor to doubletalk in less than a minute. Welcome to covering cops.
    After we hung up, I dialed the next number on my list. I read Charlie’s stories on the Channel Four website and hummed along with two Aerosmith covers and a Rolling Stones song as I waited for the FBI agent assigned to avoid questions from the press. Experience told me this call was probably an exercise in futility. Special Agent Starnes said nothing to disprove my theory.
    “What I can tell you is limited by the constraints of an ongoing investigation.” Her words were clipped.
    Charlie had footage of FBI agents, logo caps and all, squatting and peering at blackened bits of something on the riverbank, but no quotes from anyone at the FBI, including Starnes. Which meant I was more determined than usual to get something I could use.
    “I understand that,” I said. “I also understand this is the first police boating accident in Richmond in more than forty years. Does the FBI always investigate water accidents involving police vessels?”
    “Not always.”
    “Then why this one?”
    “Miss Clarke, I really can’t discuss an ongoing investigation,” she said. “It’s bureau policy.”
    I sighed. Her wall was well-fortified against badgering, so hammering at it with quick questions was unlikely to produce the information doorway I needed.
    “Agent Starnes, I appreciate that. I know you’re just doing your job. I know the police detective who blew off the FBI’s involvement this morning is just doing his.” I didn’t think I threw Aaron too far under the bus, and I hoped the idea of the locals dismissing the feds might annoy her. “But I have a job to do, too. I have readers who want to know why these men are dead. Clearly you’re investigating for a reason. Give me something, anything. Why is the FBI involved?”
    She paused. “We got a tip.”
    I added another line of chicken scratch to my notes, hoping she might elaborate but knowing she probably wouldn’t.
    She didn’t.
    “A tip that there might be foul play? That the boat was stolen?”
    “That this might be…more than it seems.”
    “Have you found anything to support that?” I asked.
    “I’m sorry,” she said. “Ongoing investigation.”
    I wondered if there was a daily budget for frustrated sighs when another one escaped my chest as I laid the phone down, partly because her cryptic answers weren’t hugely helpful, and partly because it was time to call the families. Last on my list.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             
    Valerie Roberts sounded spent, her voice scratchy and hollow when she answered the phone. I stumbled over my words as I apologized for bothering her and asked if she felt like talking about her husband.
    There was a heavy, hitching sigh on the other end of the line. “Maybe,” she said. “I can try, I guess.”
    “Thank you. I won’t keep you long. How long were you and—” I glanced at the file again. “—Alex married?”
    “Two years.” Her voice