Free The Black List by Robin Burcell

You’ll excuse me?”
    “So tell me, Mr. Dalton,” Micah said. “Anything about the documentary you’d like to know?”
    “What can you give me in a line or two?”
    “This . . . For every person present tonight, we’re able to relocate one refugee from the overburdened camps to this country to start a new life. Moving them from a hovel of sticks and tarps to a real brick building.”
    “Every person present?”
    “Twenty-five hundred dollars. You have no idea what it feels like to walk into a village, war-torn, poverty-stricken, feeling helpless and insignificant, because all the money won’t make a difference to these people. But when we bring them here, they have a chance. I can’t tell you what a sense of fulfillment this has all brought me. Having a place in this world, knowing that my little documentary has helped pave the way for so many underprivileged refugees who had nothing.”
    And so it went for several minutes, small talk, people discussing the film and what a good cause it was. Apparently Tex had moved off by himself, because a moment later he said, “You two might want to get in here. I found her.”
    “Found who?” Griffin radioed back.
    “The woman Sydney sketched. Only they were wrong about her looking like Veronica Lake. I’d say she’s more like Jessica Rabbit.”
    “How the hell do you know it’s even the same woman?”
    “She’s wearing the earrings Sydney drew.”
    Veronica Lake . . . Jessica Rabbit. Whoever she was, Tex was all for getting a closer look, because what he saw was intoxicating. She wore a silver lamé dress that hugged every curve, the discreet slit up the side hinting at silken legs that went on forever, and he pictured her bloodred stiletto heels being kicked off in the middle of his bed. “I think I’m in love, Griff.”
    “Down, boy. We’re on our way in.”
    Tex glanced toward the main entrance, where all the doors stood wide-open to the lobby beyond, but didn’t see Griffin yet. Unfortunately the auburn-headed bombshell turned and started walking in the opposite direction, her silky hair cascading down her back, her dress shimmering with every step.
    Love, lust, who was counting? He quickened his pace, gaining ground, then almost ran into her when she suddenly stopped next to a table piled with books.
    “Oh my God!” She jumped, her hand going to her chest.
    “Sorry about that,” he said. “I wasn’t watching.”
    She looked around her, then turned back to him. “No, no. It’s probably my fault. There were these guys— Never mind. It’s like I’m running in fifteen different directions and I have no idea what I’m doing.”
    “Have you read it? The book?” he asked, picking up a copy and opening the front cover.
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name,” she said.
    “James Dalton, with the Washington Recorder.”
    “Eve Sanders.” Her mouth parted slightly, showing a line of even white teeth. Then, lowering her voice, she said, “The Recorder ? As in the same reporter who talked to Dorian Rose?”
    “I am.”
    “I realize this is awkward, but when he told me you had contacted him, I—I just had a feeling something bad was going on. I guess I just never expected that he’d kill himself. It was all very surreal. I mean, I’d just left his apartment.”
    “You were there?”
    “I was, but he didn’t answer his door, so I left. I just—I knew he was in there. And now I have to wonder if there’s something I could have done differently. Maybe knocked louder, stopped him from taking his own life—”
    “Is something wrong?” he asked when her attention was suddenly diverted toward the front doors.
    She pulled her gaze back to him. “Sorry. I thought I saw— I’m just tired.” She reached out, grasped his arm. “You aren’t going to write about this, are you? Dorian’s suicide?”
    “No, ma’am,” he said.
    A moment later he heard Griffin announcing, “We’re here.”
    Tex looked in that direction, saw Griffin