Razzamatazz (A Crime Novel) (15 page)

"Which friends?"

"Well, the ones you go marching with. Seems to me something like this would be right up their alley."

"Waldo, in case you don't get it, my marching friends are interested in human rights, not solving crimes."

"This is human rights. It's a human right not to be murdered."

"That's not even funny."

"Didn't mean it to be funny. Look, there's about twenty-five thousand names in the local book. If five of you took five thousand names each, you'd get the A's out of it in about a day or two. You should end up with maybe three hundred A-related names each. I'll have four new phone lines put in, and it probably wouldn't take more than three or four days to get through them with the questionnaire we'll make up. Then you'd have to sort them, get them into categories. After that, well, I'm not sure exactly how we'd approach it from there, but I'll figure it out."

"What you're saying, Waldo, is you want five women, me included, to give up a week of our time to try out a scheme you're not even sure will work."

"Dammit, Fran, you give up your time for stuff a lot less important than this."

"Like what?"

"Like every damn cause that comes down the pike, that's what! Save the whales, drunk drivers, nuclear plants, save the wetlands, planned parenthood, right to abortion—"

"You just wait a minute, Waldo. Are you saying those things are less important than running down some names in a phone book so you can maybe find some nut?"

"Some nut who's a killer, Fran, just don't forget that little point. I mean, you spend hours every week on stuff like getting sex education in the schools, which I could add is a little bit embarrassing to me, and when I ask you to do me, your husband and public servant, a favor, you go bananas."

"You call this going bananas? Oh, hon', you ain't seen nothin' yet."

The whole point of this lunch was slipping through his fingers. He had to calm down, do something quick. "Okay, okay. Let's not get all hot under the collar. I won't attack you, you don't attack me. Here's the deal. I'm asking you to do me a favor. You and some friends. I'm sure you can find some willing to help. I'm asking a favor of a wife for her husband. In other words, a love gift for a husband, and service to the community."

"That is out-and-out blackmail."

"I guess it is. Even so, that's what I'm asking." He grinned boyishly.

Fran stared at him not smiling. "I'll think about it."

"Time is of the essence."

"I need to think about it."

"Two hours?"

"Three."

"Right."

She picked up her knife and fork, cut a good-size piece of steak, popped it into her mouth, chewed, swallowed. "Not going to let this go to waste."

He'd be damned if she wouldn't sit down to a five-course meal after a nuclear attack warning. Nothing could put Fran off her feed. A nice slice of Crawford's cheesecake ought to clinch the deal. Ten- to-one by tomorrow morning Fran and her friends would be making their lists.

LOOKING BACK—25 YEARS AGO

Miss Harriet Laine, who had previously appeared before the board to register complaints about the dogs roaming the village, presented a petition signed by many residents and non-residents. Mayor Nichols said there was reason to believe an item might be placed in the town budget providing for a well-equipped dogcatcher. The board was not unanimous that the problem had been solved.

SEVENTEEN

Colin hadn't slept well the night before. He'd had bad dreams— Nancy begging him to save her, calling him a traitor. Once awake, thoughts of Annie kept him from going back to sleep. Now, as he went over the material for an article about Seaville Hospital's deficits, his eyes kept closing.

Picking up his coffee cup, he left his office. He stopped at David Wenshaw's desk. "All ready to cover the big meeting tonight?"

Wenshaw gave an exaggerated yawn. "Ready as I'll ever be. I don't even need to go. I could write that shit in my sleep. Same damn stuff every time."

"Think of it as experience, Dave."

"Experience for what?"

"Maybe it'll make its way into your novel."

Wenshaw gave a weak smile. The novel was a sensitive subject and he wasn't sure if Colin was making fun of him.

Colin picked up on Wenshaw's expression. "I'm serious. You never know what might be material."

"Believe me, I know. Whether we're going to have condos at the end of Fourth Street or not is never going to make it into any novel I write."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

He gave Dave a friendly slap on the shoulder and continued toward the front. The coffee machine was near the receptionist's desk. Sarah was filling in for the regular, who was out sick.

Colin poured himself a cup. "I can't stay awake today."

"Did you have a bad night?" Sarah asked.

"Yeah." He ran his fingers down his mustache.

"Mark told me about you not wanting to do the story. I don't blame you, Colin."

He'd finally gone to Mark, said he couldn't write the Mary Beth Higbee story. He'd keep on with the rest, follow-ups, anything new. Mark had said okay. "I just couldn't hack it," he said to Sarah.

"That's understandable."

He nodded, feeling lousy.

"I hear you went to church yesterday. How'd you like it?"

"Annie told you?" he asked, slightly annoyed.

"Everyone but. People saw your car. Or you. You can't do anything in secret here."

"Except kill people."

"I guess," she sighed.

"Church was interesting. A lot different from what I grew up with. I never heard a woman preacher before. She's good."

"The best."

"Is she seeing anyone?"

"You mean dating?"

He nodded.

"No. I think she's still getting over her husband's death. A few men have asked her out but she hasn't been interested."

"She seems nice."

Sarah smiled. "She is nice, Colin. And so are you."

"Matchmaker." He smiled.

"Sorry."

"It's okay. See you later." At the typesetter's room he stuck his head in the door. "Sparky, let me know when you have Page Three set."

"Yo," Sparky answered.

In his office Colin pushed aside the hospital material and began shuffling through items for the back of the book, but he still couldn't concentrate. He kept thinking about Annie and—Nancy. Dr. Safier had warned him about this. It was inevitable, he'd said, that when Colin met a woman whom he found appealing, he would compare her to Nancy.

Colin couldn't believe he was doing it already. There really was nothing to compare. He'd spent forty-five minutes alone with Annie. But even in that short time he'd found he liked her. She was smart and funny, interesting and attractive. So had Nancy been. Fuck it.

He switched over to the bound issue of the Seaville Gazette of twenty-five years before, opened it up and ran his finger over the columns until he came to one that looked interesting.

Due to numerous complaints regarding the speeding of motorcars and the disturbance caused by blaring car radios and exhaust cutouts by teenaged motorists, the Seaville Police Department started a drive this week against teenaged motorists who create disturbances late at night
.

As they said in his youth, Colin thought, rots of ruck! Twenty-five years later they still had the same problem in Seaville. It was just like the dog leash law. According to Mark, an article on that subject had been in the paper every year at the beginning of summer for the last thirty years. He decided to use the teenage-motorists piece and marked the place with an index card. As he was opening the book for fifty years before, Babe Parkinson came into his office.

"You're looking mighty dour," she said.

"Am I?"

"Mmmm. Rough weekend?" She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

"A rough weekend for everybody."

"Ah, yes, that. Terrible. You were on the scene again, I hear."

Had he heard an incriminating hint in what she said or was he just imagining it? "Me and about two hundred other people," he responded.

She touched a hand to the back of her hair. "Don't get testy, sport."

"I'm not. It's just that your lack of sensitivity boggles the mind."

"Really? Well, my mind's boggled by your lack of ambition."

"What's that mean?"

"Mark's given me the Higbee kid story to write. How come?"

He played with a paper clip. "I guess he thinks you'd do a good job. Why look a gift horse—"

"Puleeze, Maguire, don't treat me like some asshole just 'cause I was born and bred here. I've been to the big city, you know."

He felt uneasy, under fire. And he was pissed off at Mark; he'd thought he'd write the story himself, not draw attention to Colin's abdication. "I didn't want to write it."

Babe said, "Clearly. The question is, why not?"

"I don't think I have to answer to you, Babe."

She leveled her green eyes at him. "You can't blame me for wondering, can you?"

He couldn't. Had it been reversed he would have had the same questions. Still, he didn't know what reason to give her, so he remained silent.

She said, "No, Babe, can't say that I blame you. Good, Maguire, I'm glad you see it my way. Sure thing, Babe. So, Maguire, how about answering why you gave up a super story, something that doesn't come around too often in the career of a small-town journalist? Well, Babe, its like this—" she gestured toward him, palm up, indicating he was on.

"Give me a break," he said softly.

"No, you have it backwards. It's you who's given me a break. And I appreciate it, I do. But what's the catch?"

"No catch."

"You just didn't feel like writing this story. You'd rather do something fascinating like covering the zoning board meeting or maybe another little piece on how Temik is polluting our water? Sure, that makes perfect sense."

"It's really none of your business why I don't want to do the story, but I'll tell you anyway." He took a deep breath, having no idea what he was going to say. "Something happened when I was a kid, to my sister," he lied. "I'm not going into it. Suffice it to say I have a hard time writing things—bad things—about kids. Okay? Can we leave it at that?"

"Sure. I'm sorry."

She didn't look sorry, Colin noted.

"Want to have lunch?" she asked.

"Can't. I have too much work."

"You have to eat."

"Not today."

She stretched, giving him an eyeful of her breasts. "Catch you later."

He watched her walk away, ass swinging. Now he found himself comparing Annie to Babe. Feature by feature maybe Babe was better looking but Annie had class, sweetness, and strength. Babe was strong but had no vulnerability. What bothered him most about Babe was her ruthlessness. There were reporters like that in Chicago and he'd never liked any of them. When his family was murdered there were two of them who'd taken advantage of their relationship with him; he'd expected it from one but the other surprised him. And it had hurt. At least Babe could never hurt him; he knew exactly what to expect.

In a moment Annie was back in his mind. Then it hit him. How the hell was he going to explain why he had to meet her at the restaurant instead of picking her up? And what about after dinner? Would she invite him back to her house even though they were in separate cars? Maybe he should forget the whole damn thing. But that wasn't acceptable. Besides, she undoubtedly knew about his problem from the way he'd behaved the first day they met.

Recalling her laugh, her eyes, her mouth, he decided that nothing was going to stop him from seeing her Saturday night. Not nerves, panic attacks, revelations, or comparisons. Nothing.

At the counter of the Paradise, Babe Parkinson stared down at her scoop of tuna on a leaf of worn lettuce. She kept going over her little chat with Colin. About the sister. Why couldn't he tell her what had happened? Babe could only think of two reasons: Either the sister had died some terrible way and Colin was responsible for it, or he was lying and there was a whole other reason he couldn't write the Higbee story. She didn't know why but she favored the second.

Then she got an idea and smiled, thinking if somebody was drawing this they'd put a light bulb over her head. She reached inside her red Sportsac bag and pulled out a battered address book, turned to R, and ran her finger down the page. There it was: Susan Rice, her old journalism school chum. She hadn't talked to her in a dog's age, but so what? They were good enough friends for that not to matter. Susan lived in Chicago and worked for the Sun-Times. Why hadn't she thought of this sooner? By tomorrow night she'd know everything there was to know about Colin Maguire. Babe paid her check, leaving her tuna uneaten. She wanted to get to a phone in a hurry.

There were three cars ahead of him at the Drive-Thru window when Hallock stopped at the bank on his way back to the station. Crawford's, like everything else, had gotten more expensive than the last time. It was a dumb thing to do when every cent counted, Stephanie being one year away from college. Still, he'd achieved what he'd set out to do: Fran was going to help him. Even though she had the appetite of a truck driver, he didn't believe the steak had done the trick, but it hadn't hurt. Crummy business bribing your own wife. Crummy business being a cop, the things you sometimes had to do, all in the name of law and order.

He moved up one car, looked at his watch. He was late. Damn! Late for what? Late for Schufeldt? Christ Almighty! Since when did he have to answer to some snotty twenty-eight-year-old kid? Gildersleeve had called the bastard in and told Hallock Schufeldt was to be given every cooperation. Did that mean the kid was in charge? Not in his book. Checking the time again, he decided to skip the bank, but when he glanced in his rearview he saw that there were two cars behind him and he couldn't move out of the line. Naturally he could pull rank, order the cars to back up, pretend something important was going on, but he didn't want to play that game—not with a triple murder worrying everybody.

What if his phone book plan didn't work? he wondered. He'd told Fran the job would take about five days, but he thought it'd be more like ten. And just what the hell was that questionnaire going to be? Maybe he could get Maguire to help him with it on the QT.