“Yes, I do. Don’t interrupt. I went to Mass this morning, and afterwards, I spoke with Mr. Grady-the gentleman you met at the cemetery?”
“Yes, the one who is redesigning the grounds there for your personal comfort.”
“Now, don’t get smart with me or I’ll lose sight of my purpose. Sean-er, Mr. Grady-told me that I was cruel, and he’s right. He told me-well, I didn’t realize you had been so upset. You should have said something. Better yet, I never should have let things come to such a pass. I should have just called and asked for your help. That’s all.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m all right,” I said. “You weren’t trying to hurt me.
“No, but I did, and I wouldn’t for the world. You know that, don’t you?
“Yes, Aunt Mary.”
Frank, who was only hearing my half of the conversation, said, “Invite her over for dinner. There’s plenty.”
I made a face, but issued the invitation.
“Well, thank you,” she said, “but I’m already engaged for the evening.”
“Mr. Grady?” I asked.
“None of your beeswax. But you listen to me. Just enjoy your time with Frank this evening. Forget about all your horrible relatives and take care of him.”
I was happy to obey this directive.
I hadn’t been in the office long on Monday when the intercom line buzzed. John Walters, now the managing editor of the News-Express, commanded me to come into his office. The workload ahead of me was routine stuff-I knew I would be spending most of the day on the phone, trying to track down some out-of-town contributors to a local campaign fund-so I answered his summons with a sense of anticipation. Maybe he had a more exciting story in mind.
He answered my knock with a scowl and waved me in. He now had a slightly bigger office and a bigger desk and chair, but he’s a large man who seems to crowd any room he’s in.
“Shut the door,” he growled, and used his meaty fist to jab his ballpoint pen into his desk blotter.
He was pissed off. Didn’t look like I was in for anything good after all. But his usual level of sweetness is nearly that of a lemon, so the mood itself didn’t faze me. His next words did.
“I thought we agreed that since you insist on bedding a cop, Mark Baker covers crime stories around here.”
“Right,” I snapped, “whom you bed makes a difference around here- although if it’s Wrigley, you still get to write about jackasses. And did anyone question the guy who wrote about the wool-”
“Enough!” He looked away, and if I hadn’t known him for so long, I might not have understood that he was calming himself down. “One of these days, Wrigley’s going to hear what kind of remarks you make about him, and he’ll can your ass.”
I shrugged. “You haven’t always complimented your boss’s judgment. But you didn’t call me in here because I’m making nasty remarks about Wrigley. What have I done to make you accuse me of trying to butt in on Mark Baker’s territory?”
“I got a call this morning,” he said. “A Los Angeles homicide cop. Guy named McCain. Said he just needed to verify your whereabouts on Wednesday the eighteenth. Wouldn’t tell me anything more.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing.”
“John!”
“I told him that without more information from him, I wasn’t ready to talk to the LAPD about what my reporters were up to. I don’t make a habit of telling the police everything I know-unlike some people around here.”
“You have no right to imply that I talk to Frank about what goes on here at the paper.”
He scowled down at his desk, but eventually said, “No, no, I don’t. I’ll give you that.”
But I had already started thinking of the more important implications of what he had said. “God, I wish you had just talked to McCain! Now you’ve probably made things worse.”
“You want to tell me what’s going on?”
“He suspects me…” I discovered it wasn’t so easy to say. “It sounds ridiculous, I know, but he suspects me of murdering my aunt. Or arranging her murder.”
“What?!”
I explained as best I could.
He was silent for a long time, then said, “You have a lawyer?”
“If you had let McCain know I was here that Wednesday morning, I wouldn’t need a lawyer.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Feeling I get about this guy. He isn’t going to give up easily. Seems like he’s not short on dogged determination.”
“Then he’ll learn that I didn’t have anything to do with Briana’s death. Besides, I can’t afford to hire an attorney just because McCain’s asking questions.”
“Frank aware of this situation?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm. I suppose he’ll be able to tell when this guy McCain represents a threat to you. Anyway, I’ll tell Morey to be more cooperative with McCain than I was.”
Until John’s former position could be filled, Morey was our acting news editor. I wasn’t sure that Morey, with his far from forceful personality, would be able to convince McCain of the truth after John had been so evasive.
John and I talked a little longer, then I went back to my desk. I tried to concentrate on finding people who would talk to me about the campaign funding story. I didn’t have much luck, even though I was carrying the holy card of St. Anthony (who’s supposed to help one find that which is lost) in my pocket. The few out-of-area contributors I did locate were either former Las Piernas residents or relatives of the candidate. A few questions to the latter group made it clear that they were completely uninterested in Las Piernas politics. Four hours of phone calls and I had nothing worth putting into print.
But my sense of frustration wasn’t just a result of my problems with the story, or because of John’s reticence to talk to McCain. It increased not long after I left John’s office, during a phone call from Pete.
“Looks like your cousin goes by Maguire,” Pete said.
“You found him!” I said.
“Got an address, anyway.” He read it off-and the balloon popped.
When I didn’t respond right away, he said, “That help?”
“Thanks for trying, Pete, but it’s Briana’s apartment address. As far as I know, Travis never really lived there.”
“Oh.”
“At least I know he’s going by Maguire.”
There was a short silence, then Pete said, “Maybe. If the address checked out, I would have felt a little more certain about that. Better not assume anything yet.”
A couple of friends on the staff asked me to join them for lunch, but I had the feeling they were curious about why (according to a newsroom rumor that quickly made the rounds) an LAPD homicide cop was asking if I had been in on a certain Wednesday morning. So I begged off- told them, quite truthfully, that I was waiting for return calls.
My stomach growled, so I went from desk to desk glancing at take-out menus (more standard on newsroom desks than dictionaries) and found a good one on Stuart Angert’s-a deli that delivers to the Express. I called it and ordered a turkey sandwich.
While I waited for the delivery, I logged on to the computer and went to a program that has replaced our old reverse phone directories. I typed in Briana’s old address, the one she lived at before moving to the apartment, and within seconds the computer came up with a list of names, addresses and phone numbers for some of the residences on the same block. I printed this list, but decided I’d wait until later in the day to actually start phoning. I’d make the calls when people were more likely to be home from work.
I logged off, opened a desk drawer and pulled out McCain’s manila envelope. That morning, before leaving the house, I had added to it, stuffing the envelope full of papers from Briana’s desk; I opened it now and began sorting through them. In a few moments, the papers were stacked in four piles: church bulletins, grocery lists, bills and-the biggest category-flyers and advertisements.