We set out going through all the files on the case, though we've both already been over them at least three times. I start letting my mind roam, not tempering my thoughts with logic. I often find it leads me to places I want to go, though just as often it leads me nowhere.
“What if Denise wasn't just a random victim? What if the killer had a motive?”
“Like …” she prompts.
“I don't know … she was a reporter … maybe she was going to write a story which would hurt the killer. He got rid of her to prevent the story.”
“Why would she write a story about a loser like Willie Miller?”
I challenge her. “Who said the killer is Willie Miller?”
“A jury.”
I'm starting to get frustrated by her pessimism. “Don't you get suspicious when there's all this evidence? Don't you think the prosecution's case might be a little too strong?”
“Actually, no,” she says. “I tend to find evidence convincing. More evidence is more convincing.”
I am about to challenge this logic when there is a knock on the door; it is the Chinese food Laurie has ordered for us. She hadn't asked me what I wanted, but I let it go because I figured she was lashing out at me, culinarily speaking. She also lashes out financially speaking, by signing for a big tip and telling the delivery guy to charge the whole thing to my account.
She starts to unpack the food, so I ask her what she's ordered.
“Steamed broccoli, stir-fried asparagus tips, and broiled seaweed with tofu.”
This is not exactly making my mouth water. “Are you catering a rabbit convention?”
“It's good for you, unlike that greasy poison you always order.” She takes two bites, then looks at her watch. “Are we almost finished here? Because I've got plans.”
Uh, oh. The dreaded plans. I get a pit in my stomach the size of Argentina.
“Plans?”
“Yes, plans,” she says. “Like in, I have a life so I make plans.”
“Okay. I deserve that.”
“No. If I gave you what you deserve, I'd be in the same situation as Willie Miller.”
I'm getting annoyed, and my level of annoyance has always been directly proportional to my level of courage. Actually, it's a theory of mine as well. I believe that all real heroes demonstrated their bravery only when they got angry. You think Nathan Hale liked the guys who put the rope around his neck? You think Davy Crockett considered the Mexicans coming over the Alamo walls his good buddies? I'm no different. Piss me off enough and before you know it they'll be writing songs about me.
Here goes. “Look, we started to get involved. It was nice … really nice … but we never took an oath.”
She's ready for this. “Right. You and Nicole are the ones that took an oath.”
“As a matter of fact, we did. And one of us may wind up breaking that oath, but we won't know that for a while.”
She stands up. “I'm happy for you, but I've got plans. Now what is it you want me to do next?”
I guess she's not going to eat the Chinese food next, leaving it all for me. Yummm. I'll have enough left over to make broiled seaweed sandwiches tomorrow.
“Check out the eyewitness … Cathy Pearl. Maybe we can shake her. Maybe she did it, for Christ's sake.”
“Great idea!” she enthuses. “I'll also ask people I meet at the supermarket if by any chance they killed Denise McGregor. Maybe we can shake someone else into confessing.”
“Aside from our personal situation, what is your problem with this case?”
She looks me straight in the eye, though that is what she always does. She's an inveterate eye looker; I on the other hand look at people's mouths when they talk.
“My problem is that we're defending a brutal murderer, Andy. If we're successful, which we won't be, he goes back on the street.”
“And if he didn't do it, then the guy who did is already out on the street.”
She sighs with resignation, as well as the fact that down deep she knows I'm right. We've been over this ground before. We have a role to play, and if we don't play it to the hilt the system doesn't function.
“Okay. It's a job and we do it. Where are you going to start?”
“With Denise McGregor.”
VINCE SANDERSIS A GRUFF, UNKEMPT, VERY overweight man who has spent one hundred twelve of his fifty-one years working on newspapers up and down the East Coast. He's the type that you think must still be pounding stories out on his old Smith-Corona while all his colleagues are using high-tech computers. When I show up at his office, he is doing research at warp speed on the Internet. Oh, well.
Vince was Denise's boss on the Newark Star-Ledger. I ask him if Denise was working on something at the time she was killed, and he laughs. Not a hah-hah, friendly laugh, but any port in a storm.
“Working on something? Are you kidding me? Denise was always working on something.”
I ask him if he knows what she was working on. He doesn't.
“She wouldn't tell me, but she was really excited. And it must have been good, 'cause she asked me to meet her in here the next day, which was a Saturday. She knew damn well I don't get off my fat ass on Saturdays.”
I laugh, since it seems like I'm supposed to, but he calls me on it. “What the hell are you laughing at?” he asks.
“I was thinking that based on the size of your ass, the reason you don't get off it on Saturdays is because crane operators don't work weekends.”
He looks at me for a few moments, as if deciding whether to kill me. He doesn't have a gun, which means he would have to get that same fat ass out of the chair to get up and strangle me. He seems to decide that it's not worth it.
“You think insulting me is the way to get information?” he asks.
“I'm hoping you'll admire my honesty.”
He shakes his head. “I don't. Besides I'm on a diet. All fish.”
“Yeah,” I say. Try as I might to conceal it, I'm afraid my skepticism shines through, although he doesn't seem to notice.
“You ever notice how all fish tastes alike?” he asks. “I think there's really only one kind of fish in the world, but they use different names to scam the public.”
For the sake of our budding friendship, I think I'll go along with this. “Come to think of it,” I say, “I've never seen a sword-fish and a flounder in a room together.”
“Of course not,” he says. “Nobody has. That's because they're the same damn fish. I'm telling you, it's a fraud on the public.”
I nod. “That's probably where they got the saying, ‘There's something fishy going on.’ ”
“Damn right,” he agrees. Then, “You come here to talk about fish?”
He knows I haven't, so I get back to Denise. “Is it unusual that Denise wouldn't tell you what story she was researching?” I ask.
“Unusual, but it wasn't the first time. I gave her a lot of leeway, because I trusted her.”
“Did she leave any notes?”
He shakes his head, as the memories come flooding back. “That was the weird part; I couldn't find any. And Denise took notes about everything. I mean, you say ‘good morning’ to her, and she jotted it down. You know the type?”
I don't, but I nod anyway. “What about Edward Markham?”
This gets another laugh from Vince, this one a little happier. “Denise brought him to a party. I talked to him for a few minutes, and then I told her he was an arrogant asshole. Boy, did she get pissed.”
“Why?”
“He was standing there when I told her.” He starts laughing again, and I join in. I'm starting to think we're buddies, but the next thing I know, he's looking at me like I'm some slime he just got on his shoes.