“Joe,” Tony finally protested, “that’s not going to do us any good in court. And if Dunn found out about it, he’d hit the ceiling.”
I sat down on the table next to him. “I know, but I want to plan ahead for once. If someone is jerking us around, I want to see if we can get a peek at what makes him tick. It’s only going to take a phone call-Megan Goss might be interested. Dunn did say he didn’t want any more surprises-this could be a way to grant his wish. Indulge me, okay?”
Tony smiled. “Indulge you? You’re not even supposed to be in the building.”
“I won’t be. I’m going to a bar.”
Simply leaving the building proved more difficult than I’d thought. The mob outside the door tightened around us, bristling with questions, microphones, and a battery of camera lights. It was a stupefying assault, and a self-defeating one, the combined noise of all the questions being loud enough to override any response.
Near the top of the main stairwell, where the crowd threatened to stall completely, I muttered, “See ya,” into Brandt’s ear and cut away in the opposite direction, where resistance was weakest. There was a momentary hesitation on the part of several reporters on the fringe, who were tempted to go after me. I waved them off and walked briskly to the far end of the hallway, hearing one last “Lieutenant Gunther?” clutch at my heels as I made my way down the narrow back stairs.
Two young men followed me. I stopped at the bottom of the stairs, just outside the selectmen’s meeting room, and turned to face them. They were from out of town, unfamiliar with the building.
“Lieutenant, why did the judge issue a continuance so abruptly?” one of them asked.
I held up my hand and smiled resignedly. “All right. But it’s been a long afternoon. Let me use the men’s room first, and then I’ll give you what I can.” I pretended to look around and then jerked my thumb at the meeting-room door, clearly marked. “They have a private one in here. I’ll be right out.”
I ducked through the double doors, turned left, and as quietly as possible opened the fire-escape door. Below me, the parking lot was empty of people. Keenly feeling the lack of a coat in my weakened and emaciated condition, I slipped outside and went down the broad metal staircase.
Moving in a fast shuffle around the less-frequented front of the building to the parking lot on the south side, I was shivering violently by the time I got to my car. Half bent over, my hand clutched to my stomach, I fumbled for the keys in my pocket, grateful that at least I hadn’t locked the doors.
Grateful, that is, until I got inside.
“Hi, Joe. Slip out the back door?”
Stan Katz sat in the passenger seat, looking smug and terribly pleased with himself. Trust him not to run with the pack.
“Get the fuck out of my car, Stan,” I said through chattering teeth.
He took the keys from my trembling hand and stuck the appropriate one into the ignition. “At least turn on the heater.”
I didn’t argue; but overcome by sudden nausea I had difficulty turning the key. The engine caught, and I tried to sit back, fighting the pain that was doubling me up.
Katz’s expression and attitude changed abruptly. “Jesus, Joe, are you okay?”
He wrestled out of his overcoat and tucked it around me, its warmth having as immediate an effect as the cold preceding it. “Give the motor more rev,” he ordered, sliding the heater control over to high. He watched me carefully. “Should I get some help?”
I shook my head. “I’ll be all right. Just give me a few minutes.”
“What the hell happened?”
“Nothing-you saw the mob. I guess it was the heat, then the cold, then the running. I’m not in too great shape yet.”
He turned the fan on high. The first hints of warmth were beginning to blow from the dash registers. “So, did you guys come up with something exculpatory on Vogel?”
I closed my eyes briefly, letting the growing warmth sink in. “Give it a rest, Stan.”
His voice rose several notches in protest. “Give it a rest? Fuck you. Did I park someone in the hospital hallway after you came out of your coma? Did I have a photographer stake out the farm so we could have shots of you limping around with Gail? No-”
“Fine, I get the point. You’re a saint.” I returned his coat, feeling much restored now that the heater had fully kicked in. “Look, let’s skip this crap. What do you want?”
“Last time we talked, I told you I wanted to turn the paper around-prove to the owners that a tabloid wouldn’t cut it in this town, but that I needed some cooperation.”
“I remember,” I said neutrally.
“Well, I’m not going to let you people read articles about your own department before publication, like you asked, but I can let you and Gail have your privacy and cut down on the titillation.”
I shifted my gaze from the darkened parking lot to his dimly lighted face, surprised at the passion in his voice. He had caught my interest.
I made a point not to show that. “So what?”
“So ask around. You’ve been out of touch the last month or so. The paper’s been hosting forums. It’s expanded the letter box to two full pages. We’ve invited guest columns about rape, and women’s rights, and sexual whiplash, and half-a-dozen other topics. I know damn well Dunn’s going wild up there right now, and that something’s about to turn this town inside out. This is my town, the Reformer’s town, and I don’t want to lose this story to all these fancy bastards from out of town.”
“We can’t give you an exclusive, Stan. That only happens in the movies. And I’m not going to give you anything right now.”
He nodded. “The headlines are common property-I can live with that. I want the inside stuff-the feature material. That’s what’s going to make my owners realize this tabloid angle is bullshit.”
I smiled in the darkness, constantly impressed by the man’s odd combination of energy and ego. Nevertheless, what he’d said had possibilities. “I’ll talk to Tony about it.”
He opened his door, letting in a wash of cold air. “That’s all I ask. So where’re you off to now?”
“Good-bye, Stanley.”
He laughed and slammed the door, walking toward the other end of the lot. Slightly off to one side, I thought I saw a quick flash of light and the sound of a door slamming, just as I had on the Wardsboro Road. Then as now, I waited for the expected roar of an engine and the ignition of a car’s headlights. But nothing happened.
I drove out of the lot, turned right onto Grove Street, and checked my rearview mirror for signs of anyone following. There were none. Of course, Vogel hadn’t known Willy and I were following him either, so many nights ago.
The parking lot of the Barrelhead Bar was as still and vacant as the wasteland it resembled. At seven in the evening, it was still far too early for Ray Saint-Jacques’s regular crowd. Nevertheless, as implied by the anemic neon beer ads in the window, it was open for business-like some time-frozen, Depression-era snapshot, taken by a long-dead artist with an eye for forlorn irony.
Ray Saint-Jacques had testified this morning as part of Dunn’s opening salvo. Never one to start a trial with all the dull, picky, supporting evidence so precious to most prosecutors, James Dunn had an almost Shakespearean flair for presentation. He knew that his jury, like most audiences, would nod off if poorly entertained and end up giving him bad reviews regardless of how many thrills he provided at the end. Ray’s damning description of Bob Vogel’s verbal self-incrimination was perfect relief from such doldrums-like the sound of distant drumbeats, it had perked the jury up and made it attentive to whatever might next appear on Dunn’s theatrical landscape. From what Todd Lefevre had told me, Ray’s had been a muted, low-key, and therefore stellar performance, since everyone in the room knew where it was intended to lead.