Bad Boy Beat

By Clea Simon

A page-turning journalistic thriller starring a rookie female reporter for the Boston Standard who’s determined to chase down a big story . . . with potentially deadly consequences.

Boston Standard journalist Emily – Em – Kelton is desperate for a big story. As a new reporter Em covers the police beat, which has her responding to every crime that comes across the newsroom scanner. Despite the drudgery and the largely nocturnal hours, it’s a beat that suits her – especially with her affinity for the low-level criminals she regularly interacts with and what she considers a healthy scepticism for the rules.

But she’s sick of filing short news briefs about random street murders that barely merit a byline, and when she sets out to cover yet another shooting of a low-level dealer, she begins to wonder if these crimes are somehow connected.

With not much to go on but her instincts, Em sets out to uncover the truth behind these sordid crimes. But the more she investigates and uncovers a pattern, the more she digs herself into a hole from which she might not come out of alive . . .

Drawing on her career as a journalist, Clea Simon delivers a fast-paced, intricate plot and intriguing characters that bring the city of Boston to life. Mystery fans who love a strong female protagonist, unexpected twists and turns and a mind-blowing ending won’t want to miss Bad Boy Beat!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Severn House
• Release date: May 7, 2024
• ISBN: 9781448313051

Clea Simon

Before turning to a life of crime (fiction), Clea Simon was a journalist. Starting as a rock critic, she ended up writing about books and other arts. A native of New York, she came to Massachusetts to attend Harvard University, from which she graduated with high honors, and never left. The author of three nonfiction books and seven mysteries, she lives with her husband, the writer Jon S. Garelick, and their cat, Musetta.

Book preview

ONE

It’s an hour before deadline when the call comes in. DB in PA 149. Dead body in a public alley, the number placing it somewhere downtown. November, pissing rain, and, here in Boston, it has been dark since five, but I’m already rummaging in my desk for pencils, my heart racing as I search for the waterproof pad that won’t shred – or not so quickly – once it gets soaking wet.

‘I’m on it,’ I yell to my editor, Saul. Two desks away, his eyes go to the clock.

Really, Em? I can read his pained expression once he looks back at me. ‘Knock yourself out,’ he says out loud. ‘I can take a news brief. I’ll hold the Australian surfer if you get anything.’

Hardly a concession. Shark attacks anywhere were huge after the summer we’d had, a bloody initiation that made me wonder why New Englanders even bothered with the beach. But that story would run better online. Pictures meant eyeballs, and like all daily papers, we were desperate for the clicks. Still, I have my pride.

‘A brief? That’s all?’ We have this battle every time.

‘That’s it, unless it’s the mayor or a stripper.’

‘We call them dancers now. Like, for the last thirty years.’ I don’t wait for a response. Deadline wouldn’t either.

‘She just wants to see her boyfriend.’ Dave, walking from the printer, speaks loud enough for me to hear. I flush, heat rushing up to my cheeks. Anger, that’s all.

‘Stuff it,’ I tell the old-timer as I head for the stairs. I wasn’t going to argue. I had a story to get.

Sure enough, there’s a stiff face down on the pavement when I get there. The rain has stopped for the moment. The police lights reflect off puddles, though I can’t tell what’s water, what’s blood. I’d slipped past the barricade. The uniform on duty recognized me, and a dead body – probably some homeless guy – isn’t a huge deal down here in what used to be the Combat Zone, Boston’s red-light district.

Nevertheless, I give the body a wide berth as I walk up the alley, past the glitter of broken glass and a sodden mess of cigarette butts and scratch tickets, noting the dirty jeans, a corduroy jacket that once might have been tan, and what appeared to be new tennis shoes, white soles face up, all topped by a mop of messy hair that I don’t want to examine too closely. Whoever that poor guy was could make or break my story, but he isn’t going to talk to me. I’m more interested in the man standing off to the side, head nodding as the beat cop who took the call reads off his report. He towers over the uniform, his black wool coat thrown back, hands on his hips, despite the cold. It’s a dashing look, that coat like a cape, but the clothes are only part of it. Detective Jack Harcourt, all six-foot-five of him, pushes back the thick, wet hair that hangs over his forehead. Rubs a jaw like a Greek carving before turning and fixing me with a 100-watt smile. ‘Hi, kid. What took you so long?’

Yeah, I love my job. The perks are part of it.

‘Detective.’ I nod in acknowledgment, glancing back at the body to show that I could. That jacket, it didn’t look warm enough for a night like this. Not that he’d be feeling it. ‘What have we got?’

‘Nothing to see here.’ Jack smiles like he knows how much it hurts me, then turns to consider the corpse. ‘A known perp.’

‘You know us,’ I reply. ‘If it bleeds it leads.’ In truth, with a news brief, I’d be lucky to make the Metro section.

‘And a cold stiff is always going to lure you away from a hot date.’ We already had a routine. ‘Where was it this time? L’Espalier?’

‘Bistro Po.’ I pick a name at random. ‘But he was only a minor diplomat, no real juice at all.’

He raises those raven brows. ‘Come on, Em. You can do better than that.’

I smile and flip open my note pad, signaling the end of play. Jack is quite a distraction, but he isn’t why I’m here.

‘Sent.’ Forty-five minutes later, and I’d filed my piece. Two hundred fifty words on the body in the alley. The victim – gunshot, that bloody head – had been known to the beat cop, Ruiz. After getting the nod from Jack, Ruiz had agreed to ID him as a ‘low-level dealer.’ No name, not yet, but that meant he’d had convictions. No suspects, no quote that I could attribute, but a gunshot victim left in a public place was still enough to earn me a signer – Emily Kelton – and a clipping for my files.

‘Good.’ Saul, more confirmation than praise. Another day in which I’d earned my keep. I sip my coffee; it tastes like ash. Time for a refill.

‘Taking off already? Cleared by the copy desk?’ Dave, brows raised as I pass by. He’s a nobody – associate deputy page two or something. Clearly not enough to do.

‘I know how to do the job.’ I check that my phone is on. No questions from the copy drones.

‘They’ll save your life someday.’ He sees me checking and has to have the last word. Just because I’m half his age. Female, not burned out. I don’t know which of these gets to him most. Fifty-something, pushing sixty, with more hair on his knuckles than his head, Dave is one of those old-timers who thinks girls don’t belong in the newsroom. Or, no, that’s not fair – he sees a place for himself showing me the ropes. But I know how to report. I was breaking city news on my college paper in Columbus, and two years on a suburban weekly were enough for me to bring down a corrupt councilman, pandemic shutdown or no. I accepted that as a newbie at the Standard, Boston’s smaller, scrappier morning paper, I’d get the cop beat. I’d thought of it as a stepping-stone to the City Hall bureau, originally, following on the heels of my buddy Roz. Maybe the State House or D.C. That was four months ago, before the current wave of shootings – the homicide rate rising even as the New England autumn frosted the rest of the city’s street crime. That was before I met Jack.

The coffee’s probably been stewing for hours. Still, it’s hot and that’s really all that matters. I wasn’t out for that long, but I can’t write in gloves – not notes I can read, anyway – and my hands still feel chapped and raw. I wrap them around my office mug and blow, feeling the warmth on my nose. It’s almost too much, and the aroma is far from savory. But I can use an excuse for the blush that I know gives me away.

Jack. Damn, that man is good looking. Gave me my first break, too, so that must count for something. I know what Dave thinks. From some of the looks I get, I gather he’s shared his theory around the newsroom. Cops play reporters for their own purposes – to burnish their reputations or to spread their pet theories. But the opposite is true, too. Without someone on your side, you can get shut out of a story. Besides – I thought of Jack, the way he looked – there are worse things than being used.

TWO

‘Nice piece.’ Chris Ruggle takes the seat next to me at the morning meeting. With his Oxford cloth shirt and khakis, he looks like what he is – a Harvard grad turned political reporter. Chief of the City Hall bureau, he’s also my pal Roz’s boss.

‘He’s sweet on you.’ Roz, seated behind me, leans over, her breath hot on my ear. She smells like peppermint and cherry lip gloss. ‘He’d put you up for a spot at City or even the State House, if you wanted.’

Despite our obvious differences – I could never wear a skirt like that, not to mention those heels – we were good friends. Roz had the cop beat before me and is always on the alert for ways to get me off it. I look over at Ruggle: that grin. The floppy hair, two weeks late for a trim.

‘He’s all yours,’ I tell her. She kicks my chair, but it’s Ruggle who turns away. He’s so pale, I can see the rash-like blush on his jaw. Christ, he thinks we were talking about him. Never mind that we actually were.

‘Hey, people.’ Saul, our city editor, leans back on the sill, managing to get one butt cheek up there. ‘If you’ve got a story, let’s hear it. If not, supplements are looking for contributors.’

General groans. Thanksgiving is the beginning of supplement season. The fat papers of the past may never be coming back, but enough retailers still buy four-color ads to justify a special Black Friday section and then a holiday and a year-end standalone after that. I’ve seen Jan and Julie, the editors, scrounging for copy to run between the sofa ads. They’ve had that wild-eyed look for weeks already.

‘Don’t they have a freelance budget?’ Roz kicks me again, but the words are out before I can stop myself. It appalls me that we might get roped in to write about stuffing recipes or gift wrap.

‘If we paid by the word, Kelton …’ He doesn’t have to finish the threat, I’m already squirming.

‘The cops are going to catch a break.’ I say it like I’m sure. ‘We’re up to sixty-two homicides this year.’

‘Very good. You can count.’ Saul is losing patience. ‘When you have something more than random street crime, as tragic as it may be, you can raise your hand. Ruggle, where are we on the council budget and the corruption inquiry?’

‘Nothing yet, boss.’ Chris flips the pages of his reporter’s pad. ‘There’s a holdup while the internal affairs case is being adjudicated.’

The cops. There’s always tension between City Hall and the police. I’ve heard Jack grumbling about it. ‘Some of my colleagues, Em. They’re willing to cut corners to make the numbers look better. Stupid asses, the lot of them.’ For a split second, I think about telling Chris once he’s done going on about the case. For all his nerdiness, he is a bureau chief, and that means he’s got some clout. But Jack’s on the rise in the department, and while he talks to me, he wouldn’t appreciate having his name bandied about in the newsroom. Nor do I want Jack thinking I’m linked up in any way with some Ivy League goofball. Whatever else, Jack’s my best source. Besides, the conversation has moved on.

‘Ada Blanco is calling for a recount.’ Roz is pitching her story for page one. She’d sketched it out to me by the coffee maker before the meeting. ‘She’s saying there were illegal contributions in the city council election.’

‘The usual sour grapes.’ Noah Borelli, the other City Hall reporter, is barely audible, his dark eyes focused on his iPad. Roz hears him, though, and I can feel her stiffen. If looks could kill …

Saul, meanwhile, appears preoccupied with not sliding off the sill, and I realize I’ve got to speak up for my friend. ‘She suspects gang involvement, right?’ That’s got to be sexier than a run-of-the-mill election story. Besides, I want to stick it to Borelli, with all his supposed contacts. ‘Organized crime?’

‘There is some speculation.’ Roz is always careful, double checking the facts. That’s good, but this is a pitch meeting.

‘Stay on it.’ Saul stands. ‘Roz, let me know at three what you’ve got. I’ll offer that and the cop story to page one. Ruggle’s piece, that is.’ He sees that I’m about to jump up and shuts me down. Just as well, I didn’t have anything concrete – not yet – and the meeting is over.

‘What’s up between you and Noah?’ I grab Roz after the meeting. ‘He on your case again?’

Borelli is Roz’s senior at City Hall. He’s been on the beat for years. Sure, he’s got to feel Roz nipping at his heels – she’s ambitious – but word is he’s gunning for the State House job, so I didn’t understand the tension between them.

‘He’s at it again.’ Her eyes dart around. Somehow, we’re the only ones at the coffee machine. ‘Actually muttered something about model minority when I came in last night.’

‘You gonna file a complaint?’

‘Hell, no.’ Roz – Theresa Roscommon to H.R. – might take after her Korean immigrant mother, a pediatric oncologist at one of the big Chicago hospitals. But she’s a scrapper like her boilermaker-turned-businessman dad, despite a posh Lake Forest upbringing. ‘I can handle that pretty boy myself.’

‘Atta girl.’ I do my best to encourage her. She tosses her jet-black hair and scans the room, looking more like me at that moment than either of her siblings, the lawyer brother or the doctor sister. Roz had all kinds of honors from Penn and I was lucky to get through the state school, but we’re both street fighters at heart. Damn good reporters, too.

My first call is to Jack, but that goes to voicemail, and when I try the department’s main line, I end up talking to Hal Hooley, the press liaison.

‘I’m sorry, Ms Kelton.’ I’ve called often enough that he knows my name. Hooley doesn’t try to hide his annoyance. ‘Nothing’s changed since this morning. No ID, no suspect. We will be releasing information as we can.’

‘Roz, can you grab lunch?’ Two hours later. I’m doing my best not to be discouraged. Half of this job is sitting around and waiting. I know it. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t get tiresome.

‘Sorry.’ She shrugs and lifts the tablet to show her notes. ‘I’m waiting on a confirmation from the Boston PD.’

‘Say hi for me.’

‘You won’t be on that beat forever if you just do the job.’ Dave must have heard me, even if Roz has returned to her phone. ‘But, you know, spinning conspiracy theories is not going to endear you to any of the higher-ups.’

‘Conspiracy theories?’ I give him my best dead-eyed stare, but he only shakes his balding head.

‘Maybe I heard you wrong, but it sounded like you were implying all these homicides are linked.’ He raises a hand before I can protest. ‘I mean, by more than the opioid crisis and the general failure of the infrastructure in this sorry town.’

‘Yeah, that’s your beat. Isn’t it?’ Dave made his name during the years of the Big Dig. He’d told everyone that the indictments would come out as soon as Boston’s massive effort to replace its overhead Central Artery with underground roadways was finished, and he wasn’t far off.

‘I’m just saying, you should be careful. It’s our job to report the news, not make it.’ He leans in, his voice going soft and intimate, as if he weren’t delivering a lecture that I’d heard a thousand times. ‘You’ve reported on the bump in homicides, and that’s good. But this morning when you said the cops were going to catch a break, you were dangerously close to suggesting that they’re connected somehow. I get it, Em. You want a big story, but—’

‘I guess I’ll just have to go and find one then, won’t I?’ I grab my pad and my coat and take off.

It feels good to get outside, even with the lingering drizzle. I didn’t become a reporter to be a desk jockey. Calling to copy down canned quotes from politicians’ mouthpieces. The Standard’s in town, or almost, on the east side where the Irish bars are giving way to galleries and condos. Still, I take my beat-up Toyota in from Somerville each morning, battling the traffic all the way. The last thing I want when I’ve got a lead is to be stuck waiting for the T, Boston’s dysfunctional mass transit, and I pay off enough of my tickets so that I won’t get the boot. It goes without saying I have enough sense not to park in any of the cop spots when I pull up to the city police headquarters, fifteen minutes later, even if it means circling for a spot three blocks away.

‘Detective Harcourt in?’ I should be asking for Hooley, the public information officer who dissed me earlier, but why not go for the source?

The officer behind the front desk gives me a pained look that I recognize. ‘Come on, Raines.’ I lean in, like he’s a friend. ‘You know Hooley’s just going to give me the run around.’

‘I know that new kid at the Dispatch doesn’t try to cut corners.’ I’ve dripped on his blotter, and he’s pissed.

‘Fine.’ I knew the Dispatch had a budget we could only dream of. I didn’t know they had a new hire, but I can tell when I’ve been out-maneuvered. ‘May I see Officer Hooley then, please?’

He smiles as he picks up the phone. ‘I’ll just see if he’s available.’

Dave is right, of course. A good portion of the job is waiting around for the trickle that comes through the official channels and then putting it into context. We don’t make the news, even if we want to, no matter what Dave may think of me. We work hard enough to report it. But as I sit, kicking my heels in the drafty bus station of a lobby, I can’t help getting a little pissed. Hooley’s job is meeting with the public. I’m the city’s main conduit to the public. Keeping me out here is a power play, pure and simple. I tried to go around him, and he’s making me pay.

When the chubby spokesman finally does show his jowly face, poking his head through a glass-fronted door, I’m ready. All smiles, I thank him as he leads me back to an office cluttered with framed photos of minor celebrities. A couple of fishing shots, and I recognize the mayor and his wife, on the deck of some big boat, the Logan control tower on the shore behind them. Then, doing my best perky girl imitation, I sit on the edge of the chair, pen poised over pad, and dive right in.

‘I understand that the victim of last night’s shooting was a known offender.’ Always lead with what you know, and if it sounds like you know more than you do, well, that’s their problem. ‘Does he have a name?’

‘We can’t release any names until we’ve notified the next of kin.’ This is boilerplate, so I move on.

‘So, when I call the morgue, they’ll have him as a John Doe.’ I pause, hoping for a comment. He doesn’t bite. ‘Have his former associates been picked up for questioning yet?’

‘You know we can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.’ He’s sticking to the script today.

‘I’m not asking if you have any suspects. I’m looking at the bigger picture. Specifically, if there’s any connection between last night’s shooting and any of the previous sixty-one homicides, all shootings, all low-level street hustlers.’

‘You’re assuming what took place last night was a homicide.’

I don’t roll my eyes, but it takes an effort.

‘Are you saying it was suicide?’ I don’t wait for an answer. ‘I understand you may not have a coroner’s report yet, but …’

Hooley had been a cop – a real cop – for twenty years. His dead-eye stare is as cold as they come.

‘Come on, Hooley.’ I try a smile on him. ‘You’ve got to give me something here.’

‘There was an incident last night, with a deceased person found in a public alley—’

I cut him off. ‘I was there.’

‘And now you’re here. And as you well know, we have procedures, and any determination will take time. Our resources are stretched to their full capacity—’

‘Maybe if you spent some of that city council money Ada Blanco’s yelling about on staffing.’ A nod to the photo behind his head. A face I recognize from the sports pages and a striped bass big enough for a trophy. ‘You know what they say about boats.’

‘That’s enough, Kelton.’ He rises before I can deliver the punchline, and I follow him to the door.

‘A hole in the water that you pour money into,’ I call back as he slams that door behind me.

THREE

I’m thinking about calling Roz as soon as I’m out on the sidewalk. No, I don’t have anything solid for her, but the fact that the cops were so sensitive to even a wisecrack about corruption? That means she’s on the right track with her article, and at least I can cheer her on. She and I have gotten close these last few months. Maybe the fact that we’re so different helps. So when my phone buzzes and shows her name, I’m not surprised.

‘Hey, Roz, how they hanging?’ She always sounds so professional I can’t resist going the other way.

‘I may have something for you, Em.’ Her voice sounds muted, like she has her hand over the receiver.

‘What a coincidence! I might have something for you too.’ I scan the street, trying to remember where I’d parked. ‘I mentioned the city council investigation to Hooley—’

‘You what?’ A pause, and her voice goes quiet again. ‘Please, Em. Leave that alone.’

So much for thanks. But she’s still talking. ‘There’ve been a series of break-ins, or attempted break-ins, in the City Hall garage.’

‘The garage? The one where the pols park?’ It sounds small, but I reach for my pad. It wouldn’t hurt to have something for the three o’clock meeting. ‘Wait, you said attempted?’

‘Uh-huh. Supposedly the guards have been taking heat over it. They’re supposed to increase the patrols.’

‘So, nothing has been taken.’ It isn’t much, but I can work with it. ‘Do you know whose cars were targeted?’

‘Sorry, Em. I just thought, you know …’

‘Yeah.’ I’m a charity case. And she’s a friend. ‘I’ll follow up. Thanks, Roz.’

Pocketing the phone and my pad, I turn back to the cop shop. Hooley’s not going to be happy to see me return. Then again, we both have jobs to do. Attempted break-in – they’d simply call it vandalism – wouldn’t be more than another news brief. But that, I can hear Dave’s voice in my head, is the job.

I’m as ready as I’ll ever be to swallow my pride and make nice with Hooley. An old-timer like him probably liked Roz better than me from the start, with her smart suits and those heels. But he needs me as much as I need him, or so I tell myself, my steps slowing as I turn the corner to the main entrance. If I could only be more girly with him, even flirt a bit instead of sniping. Now, if it was Jack Harcourt …

Speak of the devil. The man himself is coming down the front steps, his face set in a frown of concentration. Had he been in there all along? I need to develop some better contacts – or get his cell number. As it is, I check my phone again. Not even two o’clock. I could follow up on Roz’s parking lot tip, maybe swing by City Hall and talk to the guard. Or I could trust my instincts and pursue a real story.

It isn’t even a question. In fact, the only real choice is whether to get my car or continue on foot. But as