But, reporters’ credo, I must attempt to get both sides of the story. Tek agreed to do the interview, thanks to Franklin’s persuasive skills. As well as the fact that Tek has never met a camera he didn’t like. Tek insisted he would only give a statement re-affirming the government’s position on Dorinda’s guilt, but that won’t stop me from asking other questions. Plus, he doesn’t know that I know that the photo lineup is a fake. If he figured I’d just take the evidence file and go away, that was his first mistake. His second was agreeing to the interview.
Still, I’m facing some unfortunate complications. One: Walt Petrucelli, photographer from hell, was supposed to meet me here. If his camera’s not set up and ready to roll when Tek arrives, in the unwritten but nevertheless inviolable rules of the time-honored game of reporter versus interview subject, Tek gets the upper hand. Because we weren’t ready, he can walk out. No interview, he wins. And I have nothing.
Two: my thin arsenal of ammunition. Tek could just deny the photos are fake. He could say the sweatshirt photo is a mistake, somehow got in there by accident. I’ll know he’s wrong, but I can’t prove it. The only people who know what photos were actually shown are the witnesses, missing, and the bartender. Missing.
As for what I think happened in the archives, he’s already taken the position that I’m a wack job. I’ve got no leverage-or proof-that he’s wrong.
Actually, come to think of it, I’ve got another problem. Even if the photos are fake, it doesn’t prove Dorinda’s innocent. And I have no way of floating my suspicion about Del DeCenzo as murderer to Tek. He’d just repeat the two-word mantra that I’d be thrilled never to hear again: She confessed. It almost makes me wish Walt wouldn’t show up.
And with that, of course, he does. I hear the clanking of Walt’s goofy aluminum pushcart, a ridiculous contraption. He wheels the whole shebang across the carpet. It’s teetering with battered black light kits, a tripod, and a ratty green bag of electrical cords, zipper hanging open and plugs dangling. Balanced atop the whole precarious tower, Walt’s big Sony camera.
“Effing parking,” Walt mutters. Some people say hello. Walt doesn’t bother. He waves an orange piece of paper in the air, then stuffs it into his back pocket. “Got an effing ticket. They can pay it, they want this interview so bad.” He surveys the waiting room, one arm resting on his pile of equipment, his Hawaiian shirt garishly neon against the institutionally drab walls.
“Can’t do the interview in here,” he says, channeling Eeyore. “Air-conditioner noise. Makes a bad hum.” He scans the room, morose, as if it’s been designed to make him unhappy.
“Hi, Walt,” I say. “Can’t help the hum, you know? But we’re doing the interview in the inner-”
“Charlie, I’m so sorry.” Consuela Savio strides through the door, hands fluttering to her watch, her pearls, the glasses atop her swirls of lacquered hair. She stops them on her ample hips and looks at me, shaking her head. “We’ll have to reschedule. Tek-had to go. Again, I’m sorry. But things happen. Call me to resched?”
Well, there’s a score for the good guys. I get to leave, regroup and come back with a few more ducks in my row. I get the upper hand. What’s more, Connie’s hiding something. And not doing a good job of it.
“What happened?” I ask. “Is he all right?”
Connie shakes her head again. “Police matter,” she says. She pauses, seeming to choose her words. “A situation on the North Shore.”
Walt’s already wheeling his cart toward the door, at his happiest now that he’s been granted a reprieve from actually having to do his job. But my reporter alarms are pinging into alert.
“North shore? Situation?” I persist. She owes me one for the canceled interview. “Anything our assignment desk needs to know?”
The PR flack sighs, her cleavage deepening to risky levels. She’s apparently balancing the pros and cons of letting me in on the scoop. She looks at me sideways, calculating. “I suppose it’s a story,” she says. “And you’ll find out eventually. A bar owner? In Swampscott. Found dead. About an hour ago. I don’t have the name. Local police say, all preliminary, signs of foul play, assault.” She smiles, weary with her knowledge and cynicism, adjusting a heavy silver earring that’s fighting a losing battle with gravity.
“I was supposed to wait for Swampscott PD to put out the release. But since you’re here…” She shrugs, then gestures to Walt as she walks toward the door. “But that’s it. And absolutely nothing on camera from this office. You know your way out?”
“Charlie?” Walt’s looking longingly at the doorway. I can’t decide if he’s lusting for Connie or just wants to leave.
“Yeah,” I say. “You can head back. I’ll walk.”
Alone in the waiting room, I reach a hand into my bag, feeling for the white envelope Del DeCenzo had given me just a few hours ago. I rub one finger across it, thinking about the hulk of a bar owner who had unearthed three-year-old paperwork for an inquiring reporter. It might not be him who’s dead, of course. I frown. Why is Tek involved in a Swampscott murder? It’s not his jurisdiction anymore.
“Miss McNally?”
It’s Oscar Ortega. Himself. His elegant bulk fills the office doorway, and he stands, waiting, one hand on the door frame. His white shirt fairly glows with starch, and there’s a glint of coppery thread in his tie. Even his shoes glisten.
“Ms. Savio informed me you were still here,” he says, “which makes this somewhat easier.” Two blue-uniformed ramrods, Kojaked heads, big guns and shoes shinier than Ortega’s materialize behind him.
My brain spins through a catalogue of possibilities but finds no answers. I know he’s determined to stop our Dorinda story. He thinks I’m in league with Oliver Rankin and Will Easterly, his mortal enemies, so he’s threatened my job, attacked my motives and harassed my news director. But what does “makes this somewhat easier” mean?
“Hello, Mr. Ortega,” I begin politely. I dig out my reporter’s notebook and flip it open. “How nice to see you. You certainly know I had an interview set up with Tek Mattheissen this afternoon? He’s not here, though, so perhaps we could sit down with you instead?”
No way he’s going to talk, I know, but best defense is a good offense. Unsettlingly, I’m still curious about why I need a defense.
“I don’t think so, Ms. McNally,” Ortega says. Oz steps out of the doorway and into the room, his lieutenants moving around from behind him. Toward me.
Or maybe they’re just going into the next room.
They’re not. One of them takes me by the arm, then looks inquiringly at Ortega.
These androids have got to be kidding. I yank my arm out of the cop’s grasp and take a step away, glaring at him, then at Oz.
“Mr. Ortega? What’s this all about?” I say. I’m sputtering in indignation. “If this has something to do with the Dorinda Sweeney story, your tactics are beyond unacceptable.” I calculate the distance to the doorway, wondering what would happen if I simply bolted. But this is too ridiculous. This is the attorney general. We’re in a state office building. “So beyond unacceptable that if you don’t let me leave this instant…”
Oz is still smiling, an oily iceberg, as he waves his cops to back off. But he doesn’t budge from the door. He runs a pudgy hand over his head, flashing a ring, just a bit too gaudy, and a pearly cuff link catches the fluorescent light. “You’re wanted for questioning in the death of Delbert DeCenzo,” Oz pronounces. “He was found dead in his bar in Swampscott. Your business card was in his pocket.”
JANELLE ANTOINETTE DUSHANE BARRICADES herself in front of me, prowling like a protective mother lion. One panicked phone call to Kevin O’Bannon resulted in my very own lawyer, name partner in the scrappy but feared DuShane, Cornell and Suisman. She appeared like a one-woman hostage-rescue team to extricate me from the absurd but nonetheless terrifying captivity in the A.G.’s office. I’m silent, on her orders, but fuming.