The Quick Fix (21 page)

“
The Merchant Saler
, spelled
s-a-l-e-r
. Not a bad pun, actually.”

My hands started shaking. “Did you scan those into the computer?”

“No. But I do think we have a couple of boxes of them around here somewhere.” He stood up and started walking through the aisles. He pulled a box out but, after
a quick look, put it back. He did that a couple more times before he hit pay dirt. “Here they are.”

My heart was pounding as he handed me the box.

“I think there's another box around here, too,” he said, then started walking through the aisles again.

I sat on the floor and carefully pulled all the newspapers out of the box. They smelled old and musty, like my basement office; it gave me a strange feeling, almost like déjà vu. I flipped through them. They weren't in any kind of order. Issue 213 was on top of issue 34, which was on top of issue 114. The chances of finding issue 136 in this box were slim.

“I've found some more,” the librarian called out from across the room.

I smiled, then picked up the last five in my box. Issue 136 was two up from the bottom.

I looked at the issue number again, sure that I had seen it wrong, that maybe it said
36
. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and stared at it again. It still said
issue 136
.

The librarian came walking over with the other box. “You found it,” he said.

“I did.”

• • •

Back out in the main room, I sat and stared at the newspaper lying on the table in front of me. I couldn't bring myself to open it yet. I was almost afraid to touch it.

I glanced up at the front desk. The librarian was back at work, but he was keeping an eye on me. He seemed genuinely concerned; I gave him a little smile to try to let him know I was okay. I guess it wasn't my best smile, because it made him look even more concerned.

I looked down at the newspaper. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath … and placed my left hand flat on the newspaper. My thumb felt for the lower-right corner. I took another deep breath and opened my eyes. I turned the page, and didn't stop until I had hit page 15.

The two photocopies were folded up and tucked into the back pocket of my jeans.

The sooner I could get them into the filing cabinet in the basement, the better I'd feel. So, I walked faster.

When I got home, my mom's car wasn't in the driveway. I knew she wasn't working at the restaurant, because we were going to have our talk later that night.

Our talk. The photocopies. In my back pocket.

I ran around back, to the door to my basement office.
Jimmy Mac was leaning against the door, his head moving around erratically, as if he was expecting an ambush.

“Mac. You all right?”

“What happened to you today?” he asked. “You disappeared.”

“I had something I needed to do. Are you okay?”

“I've got something to show you.” He held up the manila envelope and gave it a little shake. “Inside.”

“Of course.”

I opened the door. He followed me in, closing the door behind him.

I sat down at my desk; he sat in the chair across from me. Before I could say anything, he threw the envelope on the table. It slid over to me. I stopped it with my hand.

“An eight-by-ten glossy, lightened up to show some faces,” he said. “They're some interesting faces.”

I opened the envelope and pulled the picture out. The faces were interesting, all right. My mind was racing, making all the connections that were obvious now that the circuit had been closed. “Did anyone see you with this?”

“My mom, but I'm pretty sure she's on my side.”

I looked at the photo again, then quickly put it back in the envelope. “With something like this, I'm not sure I'd even trust
her
.”

I heard the latch to the door click softly. I jumped up. Jimmy didn't move.

“What are you guys talking about?” Cynthia asked as she walked in.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, taken completely off-guard.

“The door was unlocked.”

I shot a look at Jimmy, but his eyes were directed at the floor. I smelled a setup.

“What are you guys talking about?” she asked again.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Sure looked like something.”

“Well, that just means your imagination is better than your eyesight,” I said.

“What's in the envelope?” she asked.

“None of your business,” I answered.

“I hired you. Consequently, it is my business.”

“Cute little logic problem you've got figured out, there,” I said. “Unfortunately, I didn't take my smart pills this morning, so I'm just going to go with ‘Nuh-uh.'”

“Just show her the photo, Matt,” Jimmy said.

I shot him an angry look.

“You guys are really cute, you know that?” I said. “Why go through all this, though? You charmed Mac to get in here … why didn't you just charm him into showing you the photo?”

“He wouldn't.”

“Not mine to show,” Jimmy said.

“So just show me, Matt. Or Jimmy's going to tell me. I know a picture is worth a thousand words, but I'm pretty sure that he can boil it down to a sentence or two.”

“He wasn't going to show you, but now he'll tell you?”

“I didn't think you'd be so stubborn about it,” Mac said.

“He actually respects me,” she said.

“Yeah, well, I don't think Jimmy's thinking straight,” I said. “I think that if he was, he'd realize that telling you what's in the photo would be putting you in the line of fire.”

“Or maybe Jimmy's not a male chauvinist and respects me enough to realize that I can take care of myself.”

“You know how I can tell that someone can't take care of themselves?” I said. “They usually say something
brilliant like ‘I can take care of myself,' and actually believe it.”

“How condescending of you,” she said, then turned to Jimmy. “Tell me what's in the photo.”

“Don't tell her,” I said.

“Tell me!”

“Shut up! Both of you!” Jimmy shouted, loud enough to make me hope my mom wasn't upstairs. “I'm sick of both of you. I just want to go home. You work this out. You don't need me.” He got up to leave. I got up with him, but Cynthia stepped right in my path. Jimmy saw this. His frown sunk even deeper as he walked out the door.

“He likes you. A lot. And he thinks that you like me instead.”

“He's right. Now show me the picture.”

I choked, then coughed, even though there was nothing in my mouth but saliva.

“You think it's an accident that he's a damn good reporter?” she asked. “He's got instincts, and eyes … something that you don't seem to have, which makes me wonder what kind of detective you are.”

“You're going to have to do a lot more than tell me you like me to get me to show you—”

She cut me off with a kiss. It was long and slow. I tasted peppermint, like she had just licked a candy cane. My head was buzzing when she pulled away.

“Does that qualify as ‘a lot more'?” she asked.

“Maybe,” I said, trying to sound jaded and unaffected, but that's hard to do when you're floating six inches off the ground.

“Silly, Matthew,” she said, then came in close again. “Keep the photo to yourself … just kiss me again.”

“No. Maybe I'm a hopeless romantic, but I like to kiss girls who aren't trying to seduce something out of me.”

She pulled back from me. She didn't pout. It wasn't in her nature. “I'm impressed and amazed by how stupid you are,” she said with a smile.

“Most people are.”

“All right … hold on to your photo. Just tell me what's happening so I can help you.”

“If you want to help me, go home.”

“Listen, Matt, you can't stop me from helping you. We're locked in the same building for seven hours a day.”

“Yeah, I know. Just give me a day to see this through, my way … on my own.”

“What is it with you? I'd chalk it up to male macho crap, but you don't seem the type.”

“I'm not. You know how many girls have knocked me around? The only way I could still be a male chauvinist is if I had frequent memory loss.”

“Then what is it?”

I took a couple of steps away from her and thought of the photocopies that were still in my back pocket. “There's an aspect of this case that no one else knows about. It's personal.”

She stared at me. “Oh,” she said. Her face fell. “It's something to do with Liz, isn't it?”

I didn't contradict her.

“Okay,” she said quietly. She turned away from me. “I guess that makes me an idiot.”

“No. I'm pretty sure that makes me an idiot. And I can think of a hundred boys who would back me up on that.”

She didn't say anything. She just stood there with her back to me. It took all of my willpower to not put my hand on her shoulder … turn her around … and kiss her.

“I just want to get through this case first,” I continued. “Get my head straight. And I can't do that when you're around me.”

“Don't do that,” she said.

“Do what?”

“Give me hope.”

“I'm not trying to,” I said. “I'm just trying to be honest.”

“Finish the case,” she said. “Your own way. And hurry up about it. I want you thinking straight when I kiss you again.”

“All right,” I said. “The drop is at seven tomorrow morning. After that, one way or another, I should be finished. You might want to wait until then before you commit to kissing me.”

She touched my cheek. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

I didn't exhale until she was gone.

I went back to my desk and pulled the photocopies I got from the library out of my back pocket but didn't look at them. I needed to stay logical … unemotional … and looking at those photocopies didn't allow for that.

I took the newest blackmail note that I'd gotten from Vinny out of my front pocket. I studied it again, looking for anything that might narrow down the field a bit. There was nothing in the content, but on the bottom there were a few markings that I hadn't noticed before. They looked
like pen taps, indentations that wouldn't necessarily show up on the original but showed up on the photocopy. I went into my desk drawer and took out the first blackmail note. The marks were at the bottom of that one, too. I read both notes again, and other things popped out at me, clues that seemed obvious now.

I had a phone book on my desk. I flipped through it until I found the number I was looking for. I picked up the phone and dialed.

The kid picked up on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“I have something you're going to want to see,” I said. I slid one of the photos out of the manila envelope, looked at it, then slid it back in.

“Matt?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Tomorrow morning. Seven
A.M.
Locker 416. And bring some money. You lied to me, and now you're going to pay for it.”

I hung up. I sat and looked at the outside of the envelope. I didn't want to look at the pictures again. I wanted to take my mind off what tomorrow was going to be like, but the only thing I had to distract me was thinking about my talk with my mom.

I rested my head on my desk and drifted into a
troubled sleep. I dreamt I was on the basketball team and I was trying to dribble the ball, but it wouldn't bounce back up to me. It just sat deflated on the floor. Everyone I knew was in the stands; they were all booing me. Someone walked out of the gym in disgust. I didn't see who it was, but I knew it was my dad.

woke up a short time later. I wiped my face with my hands a couple of times and checked the clock: 5:07
P.M.

I opened my desk drawer. I picked up all the notes and photocopies—anything having to do with the case—and placed them on the desktop. I put them in order, chronologically—not when they happened but the timing with which I thought they pertained to the case. I told myself the story of how I thought it had all gone down.