Hidden - Laura Griffin Page 0,2

I’d give it two grafs, max,” she said.

“They minors?”

“Yeah.”

“Then don’t bother. Listen, where are you?”

“In my car,” Bailey said, pulling the hood of her sweatshirt over her head before ducking through the water. She jogged across the lot to her white Toyota that had been in desperate need of a bath until this afternoon. “Why? What’s up?”

“I don’t know.”

But something in Max’s voice made her pulse quicken. She slid into her car, dripping water all over the seats as she kicked off her flip-flops.

“Some chatter on the scanner,” Max said. “Lance heard something about a code thirty-seven.”

“What’s Lance doing in on a Saturday?”

“Some drama with one of the councilmen. Long story. Listen, you know what a thirty-seven is?”

“A shooting,” she said, starting up her car. “Where is this?”

“The lake, I think.”

“Lady Bird Lake?”

“Yeah. But this could be nothing. Scanner’s been quiet since.”

“I’ll check it out.”

“Text me if it’s anything,” Max said. “And do it soon. I’m trying to get out of here.”

“Got it.”

She dropped her phone onto the seat beside her, along with the damp spiral notebook where she’d jotted the details of the convenience store holdup that wasn’t. Would this be another dud? Probably, given her pattern lately. For the last three weeks she’d been chasing down court filings and scanner chatter and only netted a few short briefs.

Saturday traffic was light, but the afternoon downpour had thrown everyone for a loop, and she passed two fender-benders before reaching Barton Springs Road, which took her straight into Austin’s biggest park. On a typical sunny weekend, the place was busy. Several weeks a year it wasn’t just busy, but packed, with traffic choking the streets and the soccer fields crammed with festivalgoers. Today, the fields were empty except for a few clusters of people sheltering from the drizzle under sprawling oak trees. Bailey parked in the lot near the pedestrian bridge, noting the conspicuous lack of police vehicles. This was probably another non-event.

It was time for Bailey to get creative. It had been a slow month, and rumor had it the newsroom was in for another round of layoffs. She should spend her Sunday brainstorming feature ideas. Something about local law enforcement that wouldn’t be interchangeable with a story pulled off the wire. Maybe an innovative new forensic technique. Or budget overruns. Or official corruption. She had to dig up something. For months she’d been hanging on to this job by her fingernails. Her industry was shrinking, and she was in a constant battle to prove her worth relative to more seasoned reporters who fed at a bottomless trough of news tips.

Bailey shed her wet hoodie and grabbed a blue zip-up jacket from the back seat. She stuffed her notebook into the pocket and looked around. It was unusually empty for a Saturday evening—just a few wet dog walkers and a guy strapping a paddleboard to the roof of his Volkswagen. She zipped her jacket and ran her fingers through her wet brown curls. With this weather, she probably looked like Medusa, but it was pointless to fight her hair. It did what it wanted.

Bailey hurried across the parking lot, hopscotching around potholes as she made her way to the pedestrian bridge. The six-lane highway overhead provided cover, along with a roar of traffic noise as she crossed the lake, which was narrow here.

She reached the trail marker on the opposite side and glanced around. Normally, this area was bustling with cyclists and pedestrians, but this evening it was empty except for a pair of shirtless runners in burnt-orange shorts. UT track and field, if she had to guess. They didn’t spare her a glance as they blew past her.

Looking up the trail, Bailey noticed the orange barricade positioned in the center of the path, along with a sign: CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE. Bailey had been here three mornings this week and that sign was new. She walked up the path, skirting around the barrier. The trail curved into some leafy trees, and Bailey’s pulse picked up as she noticed the swag of yellow crime scene tape.

“Area’s closed, ma’am.”

She turned around to see a bulky young cop striding toward her. He had ruddy cheeks and acne, and Bailey didn’t recognize him.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Trail’s closed off.” He stopped beside her and wiped his brow with the back of his arm. His dark uniform was soaked from what looked like a combination of rain and sweat.

“I’m with the Herald.” She unzipped her jacket and held up the press pass on a