The Girl Next Door (20 page)

“That’s his house,” I said.

“Looks dark.”

“Yeah, I’m sure everyone is fast asleep after the excitement of the evening.”

Tommy said nothing, but a small kernel of an idea had suddenly plopped itself down in my head. It quickly germinated, dug in its roots, and started reaching out its stalks, and before I knew it, I was opening my mouth to give voice to it.

“You know, you could sneak in there right now and have a little look,” I said.

Tommy’s head whipped in my direction.

“What?”

“It’ll be easy. I’ve already scoped it out and made every possible mistake. We know about the camera, and besides, there’s no one awake now to be looking at it. It was just bad luck I got caught in the first place. It’s not like you’d be breaking into the Louvre.”

“Forget it.”

“C’mon, if you get caught, I’ll have them wrangle up some of those rough-and-tumble outlaws you were fantasizing about.”

Tommy made a face like someone replaced his entire shoe collection with white Reeboks—the kind with Velcro.

“Haven’t you broken the law enough for one evening without being an accomplice to another crime?” he asked.

“I’ve got a flashlight in my car. You can shine it in there, take a quick look at the bumpers, and be out before anyone knows you were ever there. You’re much sleeker and stealthier than I.”

“That’s true,” he said, letting the thought drift along for a second before swatting it down. “No. No! Are you crazy? Absolutely not. I’m not getting my head stuck in some stupid cat door.”

“No way you get stuck. Your head is much smaller. Look at this big coconut of mine. It’s practically Jupiter. Yours is more like, I don’t know, Mercury or something.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m going to go along with an idea you’re pulling out of Uranus.”

We both stopped to snicker. Hard to resist a Uranus joke.

He pulled up alongside my car. Decision time was here.

“I’m going to get my flashlight. When I get back, I want you to be in the passenger seat.”

I climbed out, expecting that as soon as I was clear, Tommy would gun the engine and put down a fresh layer of rubber in his haste to get away. But no, as I retrieved the small flashlight from my glove compartment, I heard the driver’s side door open and close. And when I returned, he was riding shotgun.

“Hurry up before I change my mind,” Tommy said. “I’m only doing this because of those pocket squares Jackman wears. He gives pocket squares a bad name, and I’ll not have anyone besmirching an otherwise wonderful accessory.”

“Thanks ag—”

He held up a hand. “Just drive. Go by slowly so I can get a good look at it, then drop me off down the street.”

I did as instructed. Before he departed, I reminded him about the security camera and the motion-sensing lights over the garage.

“Don’t worry,” he replied. “I don’t plan to screw this up like you did. Just stay here.”

“Leave your cell on. I’ll keep a lookout for cops.”

He didn’t answer, taking off at a brisk jog before I even killed the engine. I waited in the dark, staying alert for Mendham’s finest. But there was no traffic of any sort. New York may be the city that never sleeps, but Mendham likes to get its shut-eye.

Ten minutes later, Tommy jogged back and jumped in the passenger seat.

“Nothing,” he said, panting a little.

“What do you mean
nothing
?”

“No SUV.”

“Are you sure? Could you see that well?”

“Sure I could see. I walked right inside and turned the lights on.”

“You what?”

“While you were busy playing cat burglar, you missed the most obvious fake rock in the world just to the left of the door. It had a key inside with the security code written on it—8331, in case you care. So I used the key, shut off the security system, and walked inside. There’s a silver Lexus and a tan Ford. Neither one is an SUV, neither one is black. Would you like their license plates and VIN numbers? I got those, too.”

I started the car, rolling past Jackman’s still-dark house.

“So, what, I guess he must have had someone do it for him? A hired hit?”

“Or a rented car,” Tommy said. “Either way, it’s not in his garage. Can I go home now? If I miss too much REM sleep, my skin breaks out.”

*   *   *

I have scant memory of driving to Bloomfield, showering, or getting under the covers. But I must have done all those things, because I was at home, in bed, and smelling unlike rot when my cell phone rang at precisely nine the next morning.

I was in the midst of one of my usual anxiety dreams, the one where I’ve shown up for the final exam in a college French class, and I suddenly realize I don’t speak a word of French. So, at first, the phone was ringing in the middle of the dream, just as the professor was passing out the exam.

When I finally figured out who I was, where I was, and that I shouldn’t answer with “
bonjour
,” my phone had rung three times. I tapped the answer button and tried to say my name, but with my vocal cords still asleep, it came out as, “Carr Rahh.”

“Carter, it’s Jim McNabb.” His voice boomed through my earpiece. He had me on speakerphone, and like most people of a certain age, he felt he needed to yell at it to be heard. It was loud enough that Deadline, who had been pressed up against my thigh and doing his best impression of a stuffed animal, actually lifted his head to investigate. Usually, it would take the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse having a hoedown at the foot of the bed to stir such curiosity.

“Hi, Jim,” I said, propping myself up and stifling a yawn.

“Are you busy?” McNabb yelled.

“Not for a while. I got indefinitely suspended from my job yesterday.”

“Oh yeah?” he said, with his usual interest in anything that sounded like scuttlebutt—enough that I could hear the sound of him picking up the handpiece and taking me off speakerphone. “What happened?”

I debated whether I should confide in McNabb, who tended to use information as leverage. But, in this case, desperation outweighed caution. Besides, he was a friendly guy. And sometimes you just need friends.

“Jackman is on to me,” I said. “He trumped up some stuff against me and tried talking Brodie into firing me. The old man wouldn’t go quite that far, but he did suspend me.”

“Really? Wow. Well, I guess it’s no surprise that prick plays for keeps. You better watch your back around him. We’ve already seen what he’s capable of doing to an employee who pisses him off.”

“Yeah, thanks,” I said, making a mental note to look both ways when I crossed the street.

“So how long are you on the bench? A week? Two?”

“Try three months.”

“Whoa, that’s a big number!” McNabb said, like we were discussing how much I lost on the ponies over the weekend. “See, that’s why you need a union behind you. We’d file an immediate appeal, probably throw in a grievance, too, just to complicate matters. If they still didn’t want you coming to work while it all got settled, no problem—we’d make sure you were getting a paycheck the whole time. Eventually we’d throw enough stuff at them they’d be begging us to settle. You’d get a free vacation and never be out a dime.”

“Well, I don’t have a union. So until I can prove to Brodie what Jackman’s real motivation is, I’m on a one-way street to the poorhouse. I’m hoping you’re calling with some information that will help me get off it.”

“Yeah, yeah, actually, I am,” he said. “I got something to show you.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t want to ruin the surprise. Just come into the office. You got to see it in person. It’ll be worth the trip. It’s something you can actually use—no off-the-record this time.”

“Okay. I’ll see you in about forty-five minutes.”

“I’ll be here.”

Deadline had slipped back into repose, and with the Four Horsemen elsewhere—probably behind the counter at a Starbucks, screwing up people’s orders—my departure from bed did not disturb him. I had a brief debate about what I ought to wear, inasmuch as I was technically off duty. But I settled on my usual reporter’s garb, which included my notepad in my right pocket and two pens in my left. That was my armor, after all. And even if this particular knight had lost his liege, it was still what I wanted to wear as I went into battle.

I waved to my neighbor, Constance, as I left my house—she was watering her lawn, as usual—and made the trip to downtown Newark. I found parking outside a dry cleaner on a cramped side street, about eight blocks from my destination. Now that I was no longer on the
Eagle-Examiner’
s dime, I needed to keep my expenses down. No parking garages for Citizen Ross.

I got out of the car to find the sun was already starting to beat down on the pavement. The temperature and humidity were doing that mid-July tag team where one slams you to the canvas and the other jumps off the ropes and lands on you. I was already wiping sweat off my brow by the time I finished my eight-block walk and made it to the revolving front door of the National Newark Building.

I went through the routine of announcing myself at security, riding up to the twentieth floor, and pushing through the doors etched with the IFIW logo. At the reception desk, I was greeted by a smiling Jim McNabb, who was again dressed like he was on his way to play in a member-guest golf tournament. Every day must have been business casual for Big Jimmy.

We took what appeared to be the same circuitous route back to his office, winding our way through cubicles and workstations, past the low-rent bleached blonde with the overdone eye makeup. She was standing next to her desk, wearing a tight blouse that, if it could talk, would say,
Hi, I’m trying too hard.

“Hey, Big Jimmy!” she called out playfully.

“Hey, candypants,” he said.

We rounded the next corner and I couldn’t help myself.

“Candypants?”
I asked.

“I don’t do that with most of the girls,” Big Jimmy said. “But that one actually likes it, you know? Makes her feel good, like she must be doing an okay job because why else would the boss pay attention to her?”

Either that or it made her feel like her ass had just been caramelized.

*   *   *

We rounded one last corner and went into McNabb’s office, with its commanding view from Newark to Manhattan and all the Superfund sites that lay in between.

“I’m glad you were able to come in,” he said, settling himself into his ergonomically correct chair and sliding a keyboard out of a drawer under his desk. “I got something I want to show you on the computer.”

He typed in some kind of password and waited as the machine came out of dormancy.

“I just love the computer,” he said. “I’m not real natural with it, but I’m trying. Some guys my age, they need to be dragged kicking and screaming into this stuff. Not me. To me, this is the future and you got to get with the program. So give me the BlackBerry, the blueberry, the iPhone, the mePhone, the youPhone. I’m actually thinking about getting a new one right now. I want to stay current with all of it.”

He started working the mouse with the skill of someone who, for all his good intentions, never quite got comfortable with the thing.

“Okay,” he said. “I was going to forward you this e-mail, but I wanted you to be able to see it with your own eyes, exactly as I got it, so you didn’t think I was monkeying around with it or making it say something it didn’t really say.”

He turned the flat-screen monitor on his desk toward me. He had highlighted a message from Jackman that had been sent July 1—exactly a week before Nancy was killed—at 10:34
A.M.

“This, as you can see, is an e-mail from Gary Jackman. You can look at the full header later if you want to so you can see it’s legit.”

“That’s okay, I trust you, Jim.”

“I know you do. I just know how you reporters are. You guys have to be suspicious of everything and I don’t blame you. I want you to know this is for real.”

“Got it.”

He double clicked on the e-mail and I started reading:

Jackman, Gary [[email protected]]

To: ‘McNabb, James’

Cc: ‘Porterhouse, Gregory’; ‘Koncz, Sophie’; ‘DeLillo, Alec’; ‘Blake, Michael’

Subject: IFIW Local 117 Renegotiations

Jim,

As you are aware, these continue to be extraordinarily difficult times for newspapers, and the
Newark Eagle-Examiner
has not been immune to the forces that are ravaging the industry as a whole. In short, revenues continue to fall, despite sustained efforts to stop the slide.

As I have told you previously, this newspaper has been operating at a loss for far longer than any business ought to. And while our owners have taken a long-term view and shown remarkable patience, that patience has come to an end. They have informed me that if I cannot return the paper to at least some small level of profitability by the end of the year, they will cease operations and sell all remaining assets.

The only way for us to avoid this dire scenario is to drastically change our business model. To date, our Mailers’ union, Drivers’ union, and Printers’ union have recognized the extraordinary nature of our distress and agreed to substantial givebacks on their contracts. Our nonrepresented employees have also withstood a series of pay cuts and furloughs. Other arrangements with vendors and suppliers have been modified. Your union, our Deliverers, remains the lone holdout. Yet without a new agreement with our Deliverers, we will have no choice but to cease operation. All employees—from your members to this paper’s publisher—would be terminated.

This is not an idle threat or posturing for the purpose of negotiation. This is a necessity, and I will be happy to have our COO open our books to prove it to you. Unless we can reach an accord, your union will be responsible for bringing the
Newark Eagle-Examiner
, one of the great remaining American newspapers, to its knees. It is my hope we can work together in good faith to avoid this dire outcome.

Sincerely,

Gary

When I finished, I turned the screen back in his direction. I knew things were real bad at my paper. I didn’t know they were
that
bad. It occurred to me for the first time that when my suspension ended, I might not have a job to return to.