Distemper (30 page)

“Think of it,” Bill said, “as a return to the olden days of reporters and rewrite men.”

“But I’m reporting it
and
writing it.”

“You’re also in it up to your hips, Miss I-Had-to-Go-Find-a-Body.”

“So why do you have me covering it?”

“Because my cop reporter flew the coop and I have no choice, unless you’d like me to drag poor old Lillian in here.”

“Well, if it’s so bad I’m covering it, shouldn’t we, you know, disclose our bias?”

“Nah.”

“Bill…”

“Why do you want a byline so bad, anyway? Don’t you get enough of ‘em?”

“Yeah, but it’s kind of demeaning to be Mad’s ghostwriter.”

“Come on, Bernier,” Mad said. “Do you know how many chicks would kill to be working under me?”

“Oh,
spare
me.”

“What can I say, Bernier? It’s not my fault you’ve got conflicts of interest up the big wazoo. It couldn’t be any worse unless…
Gee, I don’t know… Unless you were boffing the detective in charge.”

Mad—the jerk—made it sound like a big joke. Luckily, that’s exactly how Bill took it. “There’s a laugh,” he said with a lusty
snort. “Alex and that big macho man. I’d pay money to see
that
one.” The ha-has went on for a while. I wanted to kick Mad right where he lives. “Okay, Alex, I hear you,” Bill said when
he finally caught his breath. “Give daddy something really juicy, and he’ll give you a lollipop and a nice big byline.”

“For real?”

“Yeah, what the hell? I can only get fired once.”

“You mean,” I said with deliberate malice, “like a cute picture of Marx and her puppy? The kind of crap that breaks your heart
so bad you just have to buy the paper?”

His eyes turned flinty. “You
don’t
.”

I pulled a photo out of an envelope and handed it to him. “The breeder lady has a whole wall of these, like baby pictures
at a doctor’s office. Adopter and new pooch.”

He dropped the picture on his desk and stared at it. “This is totally beneath our dignity.”

“Like it was beneath our dignity that time those five little kids died in a house fire, and you ran all their pictures under
a hundred-point headline that said ‘
VICTIMS OF A DEADLY DAWN
’?”

“I won an AP award for that.” “Yeah, it’s on the wall behind you.”

“I don’t know,” he said, still gazing at the picture. “Dead kids are one thing, but this…”

“Takes cheesy to a whole new level?”

“Oh, yes.”

“And you’re not going to run it under a hammer head that says ‘
COCOA, WHERE ARE YOU
?’”

He took the words out for a spin. They seemed to give him a deliciously guilty sort of pleasure. “Marilyn would kill me.”

“Yeah,” Mad said, “or maybe she’ll give you a raise.”

“Hard to predict,” Bill said. “Be nice if I had a story to run it with.”

Having gotten the hint, we repaired to my computer to start banging out the piece. “ ‘Cocoa, where are you?’ ” Mad mimicked.
“Alex, you
bad
girl. You bucking for a job at the
New York Post
?”

“Scary how fast he went for it, huh?”

“There’s a tabloid writer lurking inside us all.”

I typed for a while, then turned to him. “Listen, Mad, I was thinking. Should we be telling the cops about this?”

“They’ll find out in tomorrow’s paper.”

“Yeah, but should we tell them now?”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Is this because you’re banging the detective in charge? Bill sure thought
that
was a hoot.”

“I could have killed you, you prick.”

“Relax. Now you know you’re beyond suspicion. Apparently, the idea of you banging some cop is too nuts even for…”

“Will you
cease
?”

“What was your question again?”

“Should we let the cops in on this?”

“Jesus, Alex, Cody isn’t doing your job for you. Why should you do his for him?”

“Because his involves catching a killer.”

“Oh. Right. Well, tell him whatever you want. I won’t rat on you.”

“Marilyn might approve, actually. Doesn’t cost us anything, and it might earn her some points in the name of official cooperation.”

“Whatever.”

“Where is she, anyway?”

“Ass-kicking class. She’ll be back.”

It’s long been Marilyn’s custom to stop by the newsroom between breaking bricks with her head and having a late dinner with
her husband. Sure enough, by the time we’d finished a draft of the story—with both our names on top, might I add—Marilyn was
back, wearing her martial-arts pajamas and holding an ice pack on her chin. When I went into her office the first thing she
said was that the other guy was in much worse shape than she was. The second thing was that, yes, I should call the cops.
“Make sure they know we’re not just calling to give them a chance to comment,” she said as I was leaving. “Let the bastards
know we’re doing them a favor.”

I called Cody. He wasn’t there, but the sergeant at the desk said he’d be back any minute, so I walked over to the station
and intercepted him just as he was getting out of one of your garden-variety unmarked cop cars.

“You left before I woke up this morning.”

“I bet you say that to all the cops.”

“True.”

“Sorry about taking off like that. Zeke wanted to go running, and I didn’t want to wake you.”

“How did it go?”

“Great. We did seven easy. Whatever you did to my back last night, it worked.”

“How about what I did to your front?”

He shot a look at the front door of the cop shop. Nobody was in hearing distance. “Um… I’d say that worked too.”

“Excellent.”

“Did you want to try and grab some dinner? I could probably take half an hour.”

“Actually, I’m on an official mission. But I guess we could just as well talk about it eating.”

We walked the twenty steps to the Green, which abuts the back door of the police station, and went into what’s far and away
the best sandwich place in town. Schultz’s is a German deli owned by a genuine ex-Nazi who, as the legend goes, figured out
forty years ago that it was a good idea to decorate his store with a large number of American flags. However, the truth is
that (according to local carnivores) the bratwurst is so good, even the PC set would be willing to eat it under a portrait
of the F? When I’m not in the mood for falafel or tabouli and I want a solid dose of cholesterol (or I’m just feeling sorry
for myself), I go to Schultz’s and indulge in a mighty Swiss cheese sandwich.

That’s what I had when I went there with Cody, and since I pretty much go in there once a week, Herr Schultz’s grandson started
making it when I walked in the door. The great thing about Schultz’s is they pile the cheese an inch thick; I have it on rye
with lettuce, tomato,
onions, and brown mustard. Cody went for roast beef on rye with lettuce, onions, cheddar, and Russian, which I was beginning
to learn was his favorite sandwich in the whole world.

Behold yet another stage of intimacy; I made a mental note not to remember how he likes his coffee.

We sat at one of the heavy butcher-block tables, and the sandwiches came out a few minutes later, served in little baskets
with chips and a whole pickle sliced down the middle. Cody took a bite, and a look I can only describe as orgasmic slipped
across his face.

“Man, this is
great
.”

“Haven’t you been here yet?” His mouth was full, so he just shook his head. “I’m surprised. Cops love this place.”

He swallowed. “Jesus, I can see why.”

“Here, try this.” I held up my sandwich for him. He was in mid-bite when I realized it probably wasn’t such a great idea to
be acting this cozy in public.

“Mmm… You want to try mine? Oh, right, sorry. Hey, Alex, does it bother you to have me eat meat in front of you?”

“Nah. To tell you the truth, I always thought vegetarian men were kinda wimpy. See? I’m a mass of contradictions.”

“It’s awful charming. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever asked you about the vegetarian thing.”

“You mean why?” He nodded. “Nothing too interesting. I just never could eat it since I really realized that to get it you
had to kill a perfectly nice animal. You gonna eat that pickle?”

“You’d eat a pickle that touched my roast beef?”

“Sure. I’m kind of a hypocrite.”

“Also charming.”

“You know, since you asked, I’ll tell you something else. The thing that bothers me isn’t even the killing—okay, it
is
the killing. But it’s also that people eat meat without dealing with the morality. Hunting doesn’t really bug me that much.
But the meat industry hides the ugly part and gives you a nice shrink-wrapped package. It’s like putting a contract out on
somebody.”

“I’ll have to bring that up over at the station house. ‘Conspiracy to commit hamburger.’ “

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to go on a tirade.”

“Well, since you’re on one, what about that business you were covering up at Benson?”

“You mean the animal testing?”

“Right. Where do you stand on that one?”

“I’m not sure. I mean, the thought of a bunch of dogs and cats in cages makes me totally sick. But if it’s going to save people
in the long run? I don’t know. It’s a tough question.”

“So you’re not an extremist?”

“Did you think I was?”

“No. An extremist wouldn’t sit here while I eat the best roast beef sandwich of my life.”

“To each his own. There’s a lot of kids on campus who’d throw blood at me for wearing leather shoes.”

“And the protesters thought the issue was black and white.”

“Well, most of them have graduated by now, but you’re right. They were demanding an awful lot.”

“So is it all over?”

“They’ll probably regroup in the fall, but it always
takes some time to get going, and the next thing you know it’s Christmas break. I think the university will throw them a bone,
maybe unload some stock. Anyway, that’s how the newsroom pool was leaning when the story dried up.”

“You bet on this sort of thing?”

“And cops don’t?”

“Well… they’ve been known to.”

“So what’s the action on your big case?”

“I’m the last guy they’d tell.”

“Yeah, but you must have heard something.”

He cracked a naughty little smile. “Well, there are two opposing camps. The smart money says the city boy’s in over his head,
and the chief’ll cry uncle and turn the case over to the feds before my guys can crack it.”

“And the other?”

“The other’s a bit more charitable. They think I’ll solve it, but not until there’s a few more corpses.”

“That’s awful.”

“They don’t mean anything by it.”

“Does it bug you?”

“Nah. Comes with the rank.”

“Lonely at the top?”

“Something like that.” We finished our sandwiches, and I got us a big bowl of Frau Schultz’s rice pudding, which is made with
so much cream there’s no use trying to convince yourself of the nutritional value of the rice. “So what did you want to tell
me, anyway?” Cody said, licking cinnamon-coated whipped cream off his spoon. “Didn’t you say you were here on official business?”

“I was just about to get to that. Oh, and before I tell
you, I’m supposed to make it clear that we’re being a bunch of stand-up guys, and the chief better not forget it.”

“So why don’t you tell him yourself?”

“Because you’re better in bed.”

“Ah.”

“Did you see today’s
Times
?”

“The story about the so-called ‘Canine Killer’? Yeah, I saw the goddamn thing. Who is this Gordon Band anyway? How can he
just make things up like that?”

“Knowing Gordon, he didn’t. Somebody probably said it as a bad joke, and he took it out of context. ‘Some people are saying
it,’ that kind of crap. It’s a sloppy way to do business. And believe it or not, it’s not his usual modus operandi. When he
worked for the
Monitor
, he was rather fanatically ethical.”

“I’d expect better from the
Times
.”

“You’re cute when you’re naive.”

“So what were you going to say about the story?”

“Well, if you saw it, you know he broke the thing about how Lynn Smith had a dog.”

“Yeah, a blind old mutt named Harley. We knew that already.”

“Don’t you think it’s important?”

“If both of them really were abducted while they were walking their dogs? Yeah, probably. It doesn’t quite make a pattern,
but if the others…”

“That’s just what I wanted to talk to you about. Mad and I went up to Syracuse today to talk to Patricia Marx’s roommate.
Kim Williams.”

“And?”

“And she did have a dog after all.”

“But our guys already looked into that. They interviewed the roommate three times, and she said…”

“Yeah, but she didn’t really know. I ran down all the Doberman breeders around there, and it turned out Marx had gotten a
puppy from a couple in Cortland.”

Cody crumpled his soda can. “Son of a bitch…”

“Are you mad? Because I was just doing my…”

“Jesus, no, Alex, I’m not angry with you. Truth is, I’d like to hire you. You’d do a hell of a lot better than the bunch of
Gomer Pyles I’ve got working for me.”

“It’s a small-town force. They’re not used to this kind of thing.”

“Believe me, I tell myself that a hundred times a day just to keep from punching holes in the wall. So what else did you find
out?”

“Marx bought a puppy, but she hadn’t paid her pet deposit yet, so she couldn’t bring it home. The breeder in Cortland let
her leave it with them.”

“Do they still have it?”

“No, the girl took it to the Benson vet clinic to have its ears cropped. That’s the last they saw of either one of them.”

“So is it still at the clinic?”

“I don’t know. I have a call into my roommate Emma who works there, but I haven’t heard back from her yet. You could find
out, though.”

“Is that why your editor let you tell me? An exchange of information?”

“Not exactly. I think she just wanted to run up some credit with the chief.”

“Particularly since it doesn’t cost you anything.”