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Walt’s mind reached back across twenty years to when he was a young, inexperienced detective handpicked to run a high-profile homicide investigation. Things had bothered him back then about that promotion, and he was realizing that they still bothered him today.
“I’m not out to prove Victoria’s innocence to the world,” Avery said. “This many years later, I’m not sure that would be possible even if it were true. I have no plans to paint you or the BCI in a poor light. You conducted your investigation and everything you found pointed to Victoria Ford. Those are the facts. I’m simply asking to review all the evidence and hear about the investigation from start to finish. It will play a crucial role in the exposé I’m planning.”
“We can do that,” Walt said. “What do you have in mind?”
“My goal is to tell America the story of Victoria Ford. Her life, her flaws, and the tragic day she died along with three thousand other souls. And now, twenty years later, her remains have finally been identified. That she was involved in a sensational murder investigation is simply part of her life’s story. That she claimed, until the final moments of her life, to be innocent, is also one of the facts of the case. The recordings are there for everyone to hear, and they form an arc in this story—from the beginning to the very sad and tragic ending—that I want to share with my audience. You and your investigation are part of the story, so even if what you tell me contradicts what Emma Kind believes, I’m okay with that. Yours is a crucial part of the story and I need to hear and understand it all.”
“I can see why your show is so popular,” Walt said. “You take that approach with all your stories?”
“I do.”
“Okay. Let me walk through the case for you, start to finish.”
Throughout dinner, Walt covered his role in the Cameron Young investigation—from the moment he stepped foot onto the property of the Catskills mansion, to each bombshell he discovered during his investigation. He discussed the crime scene and finding Cameron Young hanging from the balcony. He covered the blood and urine recovered from the scene, and the fingerprints lifted from the wineglass—all of which matched Victoria Ford. He explained how a thumb drive found in the desk drawer of the office contained a homemade sex video that led him to Victoria Ford. He reviewed the autopsy findings that painted a vivid image of Cameron Young’s final moments. He discussed the grand jury that had been convened, the prosecution’s argument that Victoria Ford was a jilted lover who’d been coerced into having an abortion that left her unable to bear children, and the imminent indictment that was to come before the morning of September 11 brought a crashing end to the case.
He watched Avery while he spoke, as her fingers jotted notes onto page after page of a yellow legal pad. There was something elegant yet powerful about the way she scrawled her notes, and Walt found himself attracted to her in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to be for some time. The situation he found himself in tonight—dining with an intelligent, talented, and attractive woman—made him wonder if he had wasted the last three years on heartache when they might have been better conquered by facing life head-on and allowing the natural progression of time to wash his pain away.
The dinner plates were cleared. They turned down dessert, but each ordered a glass of port as they continued their discussion. Avery paged through her notes and asked follow-up questions until Walt sensed that she was satisfied with the information he had provided.
“I guess that’s everything I can think to ask for now,” she said. “What are the chances I’d be able to look at the case file myself? Eventually, I’d love to get some of my production team to capture images of the case for American Events—photos of interview transcripts, footage from video interviews, images of the crime scene, and even—parts redacted, of course—some footage from the homemade video that helped you break the case.”
“I have it all back at my hotel. I’d have to run it past the brass and get them to sign off on anything we share, but I’m sure it could be arranged. Let me make a few calls?”
“I’d appreciate it.”
There was a short pause to their conversation, as they both searched for a reason to continue talking now that the purpose of their dinner meeting had ended. They both stared at each other until Avery finally spoke.
“So, Walt, I pride myself on my instincts.”
“Uh oh.”
Avery smiled. “I’m curious about something you’re not telling me.”
Walt raised his eyebrows. For a fleeting moment he considered that he’d somehow been blown before he’d done any actual surveillance. That this smart, observant journalist had figured out his and Jim Oliver’s and the entire FBI’s plan to burrow himself into her life in an attempt to locate her father.
“What am I not telling you?” he asked.
“What really brought you back to New York.”
He swirled his port as he mulled the question.
“Come on,” Avery said. “You’re a good-looking, successful guy who got injured on the job in his forties and then decided to live as a recluse on a tropical island? And suddenly a television journalist calls and you come running back?” She shook her head. “Sorry, I’m not buying it.”
“Who said I lived as a recluse?”
“Nice try. And I appreciate the attempt at diversion, but there’s got to be more to your story.”
Walt lifted his chin and took a sip of port. “Don’t let anyone knock your instincts.” He stared into the wine before he spoke. He remembered his plan to be as honest as possible. “I was getting bored in Jamaica. I went there to clear my head after I was injured, but I figured out that whatever cobwebs were still present after three years were not likely to be swept away by time. You called and I thought it was a good opportunity to get out of a rut. Plus, I told you. I’m a fan of the show.”
He watched her slowly take a sip of port. He got the impression that his answer did not satisfy her.
“You know,” she said, “maybe a better question is why you went to Jamaica in the first place.”
“You are a journalist. Through and through.”
“Another dodge. How very male of you. I didn’t figure you as the typical man, but I’ve been known to misread people before.”
Walt smiled, caught off guard by Avery’s sudden probing into his personal life. He understood now, though, that her inquiry came from a natural curiosity and not from any sixth sense she had about his true intentions or the job the FBI had tapped him for. She was simply asking an obvious question. Perhaps he was thrown off because, for the past three years, none of his Jamaican friends—all men—gave a shit about what drove him to their tiny little island. Walt bought their rum and told his stories, and that was good enough for them. He had clearly spent too much time out of the presence of a woman.
