"I need a warrant to search the place, and where's my probable cause? You tell me nobody phoned in a disturbance. Nobody's reported her gone," Tarkington says. "However, if you'd care to sign an affidavit stating you entered the premises and observed what appeared to be a crime scene—"
"You know damn well I can't." That would make me a witness and put me at the center of the story—and then I couldn't be the one to write it. Another reporter would be given the assignment; the newspaper's lawyers would see to that.
"What about Jay Burns?" I ask.
"By all means. The genius who got smushed by the mullet truck." Tarkington raises his arms beseechingly. "He's drunk, stoned and now his head looks like a fucking Domino's deluxe. And you want me to prove it's homicide."
"Look, I know there's problems—"
"Problems? Old buddy, you've already given me enough to pinch you right now for trespass, b-and-e, tampering and obstruction," says Tarkington. "But that's assuming you and I are having this conversation, which we're not."
The Springsteen tickets—I'd almost forgotten. Sometimes it pays to be a shameless suck-up.
"Killer show," Tarkington says, warming at the memory. "Floor seats, fifth-row center. I owe you for life, Jack. But I can't do much with this one. I'm good, buddy, but I'm not a magician."
"And if Jimmy's sister turns up murdered ... ?"
"I'll be there like a gator on a poodle," he says, "and I'll not hesitate to subpoena your scrawny, white, First Amendment-quoting ass. Now, before you go, play me that song again."
Given the setting, it's a strangely mellow interlude—Tarkington listening with his eyes closed, his chin on his knuckles and his elbows braced on four fat brown file folders: two murders, a DUI manslaughter and the sexual battery of an eleven-year-old child. People think the media is full of bleeding-heart liberals, but most reporters I know root for the Rick Tarkingtons of the world.
"That's nice," he says of Jimmy's singing. "You can tell he was into the island groove."
I switch off the boom box. "So where we at, counselor?"
"Well"—Tarkington, the prideful cracker, pronounces it like "whale"—"we've got an ambitious young widow who may or may not have bumped off her rock-star hubby. What we don't have are human remains to examine, as the decedent has been inconveniently incinerated. However, we do have the corpse—more or less—of a keyboard player with questionable lifestyle habits. We also have assorted sloppy burglaries of a fishing vessel, an obituary writer's apartment and the dwelling of the dead rock singer's sister, who may or may not have been abducted."
"Don't forget Tito Negraponte," I mutter.
"Not for a moment! Our bass player, plugged in the bupkis by a couple of beaners supposedly recruited by the aforementioned ambitious young widow. Unfortunately, we have no suspects, no supporting witnesses and damn little evidence, circumstantial or otherwise. Which brings us to our pretty little love song, the alleged motive behind all this mayhem—"
"Hey, I just figured out what you can do for me."
"Wait, Jack. I'm not finished—"
"Just give me a quote. That's all I want."
Tarkington snorts. "Are you deaf on top of everything else? Let me repeat this: You're not here. I'm not here. We're not having this chat."
"One crummy quote," I nag him. "Not for publication now, but later."
"The only thing I've got to say to you is be very careful, Slick. Don't be a nitwit and get yourself whacked. And that's strictly off the record."
"One quote, Rick, come on. It doesn't have to be substantial, for Christ's sake."
"Oh, there's a load off." Tarkington scowls.
I try dusting off an old standby from my hard-news days. "What if you were to say the state attorney is 'investigating a possible link' between the deaths of Jimmy Stoma and Jay Burns, and the coldblooded shooting of a third member of the band. You don't have to mention Cleo or the song. Just say you want to find out if somebody's bumping off the Slut Puppies. It's a helluva headline, you've got to admit."
"Except we're not investigating a damn thing."
"Yes, but you wouldinvestigate—wouldn't you, Rick?—if more evidence turned up. Startling new evidence, as we say."
"Be sure and call me when that happens. Then you'll get your precious quote."
My predicament, which I'd rather not explain to Tarkington, is that I'll need more than a string of baroque incidents to sell the Jimmy Stoma story to our managing editor. Abkazion might be a Slut Puppies fan, but he's also a hardass when it comes to the front page. He'll want to see a quote from somebody in law enforcement saying they smell a rat. Tarkington would be ideal. Unfortunately, he's a hardass, too.
"Are you telling me," I plod on, "it's all coincidence, everything that's happened since Jimmy died?"
"Hell, I don't believe much in coincidence," he replies matter-of-factly. "I think you're probably onto something."
"And the blood's not enough to make you pick up the phone? His own sister's blood?"
Tarkington glares as if I've just spit up on his boots. "What blood, you fucking bonehead? The sample you stolewhen you broke into the lady's house? Jesus W. Christ."
"Rick, I needed to know for sure. That's why I did it."
"And I need a warrant, old buddy. You find me some PC and I'll find a judge and then we'll go cut us a piece of that rug, nice and legal." He stands up, stretches his arms. Throws in a yawn, in case I'm not taking the hint. "Jack, don't get bummed. You've got quite a story here ... "
"But what?"
"A helluva story, as you say. But you're not done yet. It's still missing the pretty ribbon and the bow." Tarkington nods toward his stack of files. "Now you'll excuse me, I've got a couple widows of my own to interview. They aren't nearly as chipper as yours."
"Okay, but first give me your impression—in a word, Rick—of everything you've heard so far."
"Intriguing," he says.
That's good, but it's not what I'm looking for. Abkazion will demand something stronger.
"How about 'suspicious'?" I venture.
"Yeah, all right. It's suspicious."
"Highlysuspicious, would you say?"
"I would say goodbye now, Mr. Tagger. And if my name appears in the paper this week under your byline, it'd better be because I've croaked in some newsworthy way."
That's what I mean about Rick. I couldn't even joke about something like that. As soon as the office door closes, I take out my notebook and jot the following:
Asst. State Atty. R. Tarkington says he's preparing to investigate circumstances of J. Stoma death and disappearance of Stoma's sister. "Highly suspicious," says the veteran prosecutor.
Forgive me, Woodward, for I have sinned.
The pier at Silver Beach is not a big draw at high noon on a hot August day. I arrive half an hour early and, from the safety of my car, I scope the place thoroughly with binoculars. Team Cleo has had two days to run the phone number I wrote on the compact disc, an easy job for any private investigator.
But I don't see any egregious lurkers, anyone who looks as if they don't belong. There are a couple of shirtless teenagers drinking beer and snagging pilchards; a row of retirees in folding chairs, dozing under hats the size of garbage-can lids; a smoochy young Hispanic couple sharing a single fishing rod, taking turns reeling in baby snappers; a trio of weekday regulars, leathery and windblown, laden with bait buckets and bristling with heavy tackle.
After yanking off my necktie and loosening my shirt at the collar, I set off at a breezy amble for the phone booth at the end of the pier.