The Headsman (33 page)

Twenty minutes later Ed McCarthy walked into the showroom with a copy of the
Express
under his arm and a big smile on his face. His voice was cheerful. “Hey, Karen—how’s the celebrity?”

For the second time that morning her face flamed. “I’m no celebrity.”

He came over to her desk. “That’s what you think. When people read that piece in the paper you’ll be famous. You know, that’s amazing, what you did. I never knew you could do stuff like that. Hey, tell the truth—is that really how it happened? You saw the kid in your head and you knew where he was?”

“No. It was just a hunch.”

“Yeah?” He gestured toward the copy of the
Express
that lay on her desk. “Don’t tell anybody—the paper’s version is a hell of a lot more exciting. Next thing that happens is you get another story on you, this time in
People
magazine. Then Carson has you on as a guest. After that somebody writes a book about you.”

Karen shook her head. Ed was like a great big overgrown kid.

He went to the rack and hung up his coat, then returned to where she was sitting. “Tell you what. You hire me as your agent, and we’ll both make a bundle. After Carson, we put you on the lecture circuit.”

“I don’t think so. Like I said, it was just a fluke. A one-shot. So my career has already ended.”

“Think I’m kidding, don’t you? I’m telling you, a thing like this could be worth a lot of money.”

She folded the newspaper and put it aside. “Sorry, Ed. And now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”

That brought her five minutes of peace, which was the last she’d get that day. The telephone rang again, and this time it was the radio station, WBDK. Braddock wasn’t big enough for its own TV outlet; the only broadcast operation was this one, an affiliate of WCBS–FM. A young man identified himself as a news reporter and asked if she’d care to add to the story in that morning’s
Express
. The station wanted to run a feature on her, he said. They’d record her in an interview to be broadcast later in the day.

Karen told him to forget it and hung up.

A few minutes after that Jack Morrow and Fred Guzik came in. Whenever Karen saw them, she thought of Frick and Frack. But this morning they were no joke. Both of them began teasing her about the piece in the paper, making idiotic remarks and then guffawing at each other’s cleverness. Joe asked if Karen would help Fred locate his pliers, which he’d mislaid someplace in his garage. Or could she tell Joe which horse to bet in the fifth race at Hialeah? Would she like to go to Vegas with them for the weekend? They could make a killing. No? Then how about Atlantic City?

They kept it up until Boggs arrived, only then backing off and going to their own desks in an effort to convey to the boss that they were working hard.

Boggs had a strange expression on his face as he passed Karen and said good morning. She mumbled a reply and then he told her to come into his office—he wanted to talk with her. He went on in and closed the door.

For a minute or so she simply sat still. Again she wished she could just get up and put on her coat and walk out of Boggs Ford and never come back again. But that wouldn’t really solve anything. As she had so many times, she reminded herself that the job paid well, and she needed every cent she could make. Finally she stood up, and squaring her shoulders walked to his office. She knocked, opened the door and stepped inside.

For once she was glad to close the door behind her before approaching his desk. She certainly didn’t want any of the others to overhear whatever it was he had to say.

He looked up at her, the peculiar, wide-eyed expression again on his face. “Sit down, Karen.” He indicated a chair.

She sank down onto it, holding her breath.

“That story in the paper,” he said. “That true?”

She took her time before answering, telling herself to follow the police chief’s advice. “It was way overplayed. I just had a feeling something like that might have happened. You know how kids take chances fooling around on ice. So I suggested the police look in the pond.”

“And that’s all?”

“That’s all there was to it.”

“So the reporter just blew it up into a big deal.”

“Pretty much.”

“You know what I think went through some people’s minds when they read that story?”

She kept her gaze steady, her face expressionless. “No, I don’t.”

“You can bet they thought of the headsman. They said to themselves, if she could find the answer to one mystery, maybe she could solve another.”

Which is what went through
your
mind, Mr. Boggs, she thought. “That’s a farfetched idea.”

“Yeah, well. You know how people are. Wouldn’t surprise me a bit if the cops started asking for your help. Soon as they read the story. That reporter who wrote it—you know who she is, don’t you?”

“Her name is Sally Benson.”

“Yeah, and she’s also the chief of police’s girlfriend.”

Karen was stunned. She stared at him, trying to wrap her mind around what he’d said.

Boggs didn’t notice her reaction. “I’m surprised she didn’t tip him to the idea. That you could help with the Dickens case, I mean. With the cops coming up with nothing, I’d expect him to jump on it.”

He went on talking, but Karen didn’t hear him. She felt dazed, sitting in the chair with her stomach dropping out of her.

Sally Benson is Jud MacElroy’s girlfriend
.

So he’d lied to her. Completely deceived her. Let her go on and on with the assurance that anything she told him was in confidence. And then he’d tipped off his sweetie the hotshot reporter that there was a hell of a story to be had. He’d even had the gall to call her this morning and tell her not to let the story bother her.

The rotten bastard
.

She got to her feet and Boggs halted whatever he was saying in mid-sentence. “Karen—are you all right?”

“I’m—no, I’m not.”

“What is it?”

She shook her head. “All of a sudden I just don’t feel well.”

“You want some water or something? Want to lie down?”

“No, no. Really.”

“Listen, if you’re sick, maybe you ought to go home.”

“I think I’ll do that.” She got up from the chair and waved him away when he rose and moved toward her. “Please, I’ll be okay.” She left his office.

When she put on her coat and walked out the front door she was aware that people in the outer office and the showroom were staring at her.

Eleven

FROM OUT OF THE PAST

1

J
UD WAS AT
the desk talking to Brusson when the call came in. Brusson said Chief Broadhurst was on the line from Binghamton, and Jud told him he’d take it in his office.

He went in and shut the door behind him, then sat down at his desk and picked up the phone. “Hey, Chief—how are you?”

“Good, Jud. I think maybe we got something more for you on the family you asked about. The Donovans?”

Jud leaned forward. “What is it?”

“One of our guys here remembered hearing the daughter went up from New York on armed robbery. I made a couple calls to the city and found out the case was handled by the Seventeenth Precinct. I talked to a lieutenant there, and I just heard back from him. He said Joan Donovan had a long sheet for prostitution and then after that she was arrested twice in jewelry store holdups. First time she did a year and two months in Westchester, second time she got five to ten.”

“She out now?”

“No, still in Westchester. The superintendent’s name is Fred Wallace. You want the number?”

“Sure.” Jud took it down and said, “Thanks, Chief, you’ve been a lot of help. I really appreciate it.”

“Anytime, Jud. Glad we could come up with it.”

Jud hung up and thought about what he’d learned. Then he called the number Broadhurst had given him for the Westchester Correctional Facility and asked for the superintendent.

When Wallace came on, Jud told him who he was and said he was calling about an inmate, Joan Donovan. The superintendent said he’d had another call on her from the chief of police in Binghamton and asked if this was in connection with the same case. Jud said it was, that it was a homicide investigation and he wanted to interview Donovan. He made an appointment for the next day and hung up.

Next he called Sally Benson at the
Express
.

When she answered he could hear the excitement in her voice. “Did you see my story this morning on that Wilson woman and the Mariski boy?”

“Yeah, you did quite a job.”

“I told you it was a good piece. I’ve already had a bunch of calls complimenting me on it. Even Maxwell said he thought it was first-rate. And getting praise from him is really something.”

“I’ll bet it is.”

“And you know what some people have said?”

It wasn’t hard to guess. “What have they said?”

“That maybe Wilson could help with the Dickens murder. Maybe she could tell where Buddy Harper is. So now you don’t have to get mad at me over the idea—it’s occurred to others as well.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well—are you going to follow up on it?”

“No. What’s more, I expressly forbid you to quote me or to write anything that suggests I’m even considering such an idea. You got that?”

“Oh, Jud. You can be a real ballbuster at times, you know that?”

“Answer the question. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, I got the message.”

To take some of the sting out of it he said, “You may not think so, but I appreciate hearing some of the things you come up with. It’s just that I can’t have anybody saying I’m feeding stuff to a reporter or cooperating with her because she’s a friend of mine. You know that—we’ve been over it a hundred times.”

“Haven’t we, though.”

“And now I have a favor to ask.”

“A favor? Now you want me to do you a favor?”

“Will you help me?”

“Do I get something I can use?”

“Maybe later on, if it turns out to be valuable. How about it?”

“I guess so. What is it?”

“You said you have a morgue in that place, right?”

“Yeah, but it’s not great. I told you, I had to do a lot of digging just to find the pieces on the Donovan murder.”

“Is there a photo file?”

“Yes. Also hit or miss.”

“Okay, here’s what I want. Go back to the period around the middle nineteen sixties and see if you can find pictures of men who were living in Braddock and who are still living here now.”

“Wait a minute. You want pictures that were taken then, so you can see what they looked like at the time?”

“That’s it.”

There was a pause. “Hey, this sounds exciting. You’ve got an angle on the Donovan case, right?”

“I don’t have anything. I’m only trying to find something that might give me a direction to follow.”

“I don’t believe you, but sure—I’ll help. Just don’t get your hopes up too high.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t.”

“Now tell me who you have in mind.”

“Like I said, anybody who’s around today but lived here back then. And any kind of pictures you can round up. Group shots of any kind, portraits—anything. Okay?”

“I guess so. But I can tell you right now, this is a project. When do you want the pictures—tomorrow, I suppose?”

“Wrong. I want them tonight.”

She groaned.

“Well?”

Her tone brightened. “If I bring them over, do I get a repeat performance?”

“Sure, do I?”

“Yes, but I didn’t appreciate the way you sneaked out on me last night.”

“I was just being careful not to wake you. I couldn’t stay there anyway, I didn’t have my uniform.” Jesus, why was he making all these dumb excuses?

2

Jud left his office a little after eight. He drove over to Memorial to see the kid who’d been struck by the Cadillac and gave him the baseball he’d bought earlier in the day. The kid was in good shape, considering. He’d suffered deep cuts and a concussion, and a compound fracture of his left wrist, but the doctors had said he’d have no problem mending. The cast would come off in a couple of weeks. He was due to leave the hospital the next day, and he was tickled with the ball. After that Jud went home.

He drank a beer and then took a shower and put on jeans and an old flannel shirt and went back into the kitchen to see what he could find to eat.

There wasn’t much; for dinner he had one of those frozen things in a plastic and foil package. He took it out of the freezer and stuck it into the microwave and by the time he finished another beer it was ready. It was a mixture of ground beef and gravy over noodles and it made him think of the stuff you got in the army they called shit on a shingle. Except here you didn’t even get the shingle. Nevertheless it was hot and it didn’t taste too terrible and with another beer it went down all right.

The best thing about it was that when you finished you didn’t have dishes or pots and pans to clean up; you just heaved the plastic into the garbage and that was that. It occurred to him that the meal made quite a contrast with the one he’d had at Armando’s the night before.

He cracked a fresh beer and went into the living room. There was still some kindling left and a few logs on the hearth and in a couple of minutes he had a good blaze going. He got out the Gibson and sat in front of the fire as he tuned the guitar.

His fingers were a little stiff and he ran some chords to warm them up. When they were limber he tried a walking rhythm he’d been practicing, one he’d heard on a Roy Orbison record and admired. Then he went into a song, accompanying himself with the new rhythm.

Goin’ down a long and lonesome road

Carryin’ an awful heavy load

Hopin’ that my trip will end

Hopin’ that I’ll find a friend

Wanna quit this long and lonesome road

Not bad, he thought. He liked the way the rhythm worked; sort of fit the lyric, too. Not that it was much of a lyric, but it was all he’d thought of so far. He kept the rhythm going, trying a variation of it by emphasizing the first and third beat of each bar. He was in F, because he preferred keys with flats over the ones with sharps. They were the traditional blues keys, for some reason or other, and he didn’t know why they worked so well for R&B but they did. He stayed with it for eight more bars, then modulated into E-flat and sang the song again.