“No, not really,” I said.
After the cops left, I decided to do a little detecting on my own. Not any that involved leaving the condo—running into Ortega and Nakamura again in the course of their own investigation might prove awkward—but through a twenty-first-century combination of Internet and old-fashioned land-line telephone.
First I did Google searches on all my old colleagues. Sally, as I expected, produced the most hits. As I already knew, she had joined me in the visual-media world, working as a sideline reporter on college football games. Perfect job for her, always more impressive in person than in print. Rex and Bill were both still at the Chronicle and some of their stories were accessible on the paper’s Web site. Surprisingly, the tribute to the fallen sports editor wasn’t written by either Rex or Bill but by Darren Rademacher, that kid who had gone to Stanford for four years and joined the sports staff when he came back. One paragraph held special interest for me:
“Millard Glass never stopped expanding his horizons as an editor and a man. When I proposed an interview with my fellow Stanford alum Tiger Woods, he said it was the first golf story he had okayed in years. He had never cared for the game until he started to see it as a metaphor for life.”
Now I was sure my first guess had been right: The killer reminded him of Sidney. From there it was easy. What were the characteristics of Sidney Paar the golfer? Steady, reliable, unspectacular, and ultimately a little boring. Sidney could never surprise you. It fit one of my old colleagues like a glove.
The first call I made was to Sally. She was a celebrity now, and if I hadn’t been in TV sports myself, I probably couldn’t have gotten to her. Chances were, the police hadn’t talked to her yet.
“Sally, after I left, did Millard Glass ever mention the name Sidney Paar?”
“One time he did. It was at some party, the only time I ever ran into him away from the office. He was a little drunk, a lot more talkative than normal, and I seemed to be one of the few people there he knew. So he kind of monopolized me. Some of the stuff he said was way off the wall. He looked me up and down—guys do, I’m used to it—and told me if I could get my boobs or my legs into a story for the paper, I’d be sensational.”
“He didn’t say that!”
“He sure did. Sexist pig, huh? I let it slide, but how do you think it affected me?”
“It could have affected you into a sexual-harassment suit.”
“Yeah, I suppose so. Not my style. Weirdly enough, it kept me at the paper a year or two longer than I would have stayed otherwise. If it weren’t for that crack, I would have moved into TV sooner than I did, but I was stubborn. I didn’t want to prove my old sexist editor right! Maybe he’d heard I’d had offers and wanted to keep me, used reverse psychology. That made it a compliment, huh?”
“But what did that have to do with Sidney Paar?”
“Not a thing. But that same evening he confided to me a bunch of stuff about the people on the paper. There was one colleague of ours Millard had always wanted to get rid of. But he could never find an excuse. He was cooperative. He got along with everybody. He always met his deadlines. His work was always accurate. He was a damn good reporter. He could do anything perfectly but write a lively sentence. He did his job by the numbers, no style, no flair, no originality, none of those things Millard admired. He was Sidney Paar.”
“And after these messages, you’ll tell me who that was,” I said playfully.
“Gus, you know who it was. I don’t have to tell you.”
Rex Burbage added to the story. “He finally screwed something up. He attributed an inflammatory quote to a coach that some other coach said. It was embarrassing, and the wronged coach even threatened a libel suit. Millard was livid, wanted his head. I think he was ready to fire him, but he didn’t.”
“Are you sure he didn’t?”
“What do you mean?”
“What did Millard do when he wanted to fire somebody?”
“You should know better than anybody.”
I decided to talk to my third former colleague face-to-face. Bill offered me a drink, and we sat in his den.
“Did you hear about Millard’s supposed dying message — 'Sidney Paar killed me.'?”
“I hope you had an alibi, Gus.”
“Didn’t need one. Sorry to hear about your little problem at the paper.”
“It'll blow over. We printed a retraction. Coach cooled off. Everybody makes mistakes.”
“But you were famous for not making them, Bill. I guess with Millard’s death, they’ll need a new sports editor now, huh?”
“I really hadn’t thought about it.”
“That surprises me. You’d be a natural choice. How's your wife?”
“About the same. Good days, bad days.”
“Did you cover your tracks, Bill? Can they trace the gun to you? Did you expect to get away with killing Millard?”
“I didn’t go there to kill him.”
“But you carried a gun.”
“City streets, late at night. It’s just prudent.”
“You knew what Millard used those late-night meetings for. And even if Frank hadn’t been sick, you had every right to be in the building. If Millard hadn’t told anybody else he intended to fire you, you could probably get away with it. I’ll bet you covered your tracks well. I’ll bet you expect to get away with it even if I tell the police you’re Sidney Paar.”
“I am?”
“Think about it.”
He looked at me sadly. “I’m not Sidney. Not anymore. I got a bogey.”
© 2007 by Jon L. Breen
Over the Edge
by James H. Cobb
Series character Kevin Pulaski has appeared in three previous EQMM stories, and in the novel West on 66, published by St. Martin’s Press (paperback '01). His creator, James H. Cobb, is also a prolific thriller writer, author of several titles in the Amanda Garrett technothriller series from G.P. Putnam, and of The Arctic Event, the latest book in Robert Ludlum’s Covert One series, scheduled for September 2007 release.
The topic was the evolution of the American hot rod, as seen by my friend and automotive mentor, Kevin Pulaski.
“Back in the Midwest when I was a kid, the serious speed hounds all ran roadsters: T-bolts, Model A's, or Deuces. The bad gassers, the souped-up, later-model coupes and two-door sedans, didn’t start taking over until after I’d moved out to the coast in the 'fifties.”
“Why’d it change, Kev?”
“A lot of reasons. More powerful overhead valve engines, better suspension systems. Streamlining started to count, and you had a little more metal around you in a crackup.”
A reminiscent smile crossed his weathered features. “And, man, then there were the backseats, those big ol’ chair car backseats.”
Somewhere a bird twirped sluggishly and you could see the San Gabriel range just outlining against the gray predawn. It was the dying end of a way long night.
We’d parked a block back so the rumble of the '57's beefed-up engine wouldn’t telegraph our approach, and the click of Lisette’s Italian heels counterpointed the scuff of my boots as we hiked in along the access road. I’d tried to send the Princess home in a cab, but she’d bucked over that trace. She’d been there at the start. She’d be there when it finished.
The house was space-age circular, all curved glass and pastel tiling, a flying saucer landed in the Hollywood Hills and spying on the city below. It was the perfect pad for a hip young bachelor in a world full of promise. There was a flagstone patio, a view that would stretch out to the Pacific, a barbeque grill, and a two-car garage. No pool yet, but it was probably coming.