“Maybe it slipped his mind,” Mason said. “Or maybe he didn’t think it was important.”
Mulligan pulled the cell phone from his shirt pocket and made a call.
“Andy? It’s Mulligan… No, I haven’t heard anything from Hernandez yet either. Listen, someone just told me that Becky’s car was torched a few months before the murder… You sure?… Okay, thanks.”
Mulligan ended the call and glared at Mason.
“Like I said. It never happened. That should make you wonder what else Diggs has been lying to you about.”
“It does. I’ll try to be more careful.”
“See that you do,” Lomax said. “And Edward?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Next time you talk to Diggs, ask him about Susan Ashcroft. Now get the hell out of my office… Not you, Mulligan. We need to talk.”
As soon as Mason left, Lomax asked Mulligan to close the office door.
“So what do you think?”
“Thanks-Dad wants this story so bad that it’s blinded him to some things,” Mulligan said. “But the kid’s a hell of a reporter. A lot better than I thought. He’s just a couple of sources shy of nailing it.”
“You taught him too damn well,” Lomax said.
“So this is my fault?”
“I didn’t mean it like that.” Lomax removed his glasses, wiped them clean on his shirtsleeve, put them back on, and said, “Aw, shit.”
“You don’t have to print it,” Mulligan said.
“Crossing the publisher’s son might not be the best thing for my job security.”
“Hell, Ed,” Mulligan said, “the way things are going, none of us will be working here much longer.”
Lomax leaned back in his chair and plunked his feet on his desk.
“Three more years is all I need,” he said. “After that, I’m putting in for my pension. Doris has it all figured out. Says we’re gonna sell the house in Cumberland, buy a used RV, and spend our golden years touring the country.”
Mulligan knew Lomax wasn’t going to get those three years. The veteran reporter was sorely tempted to spill what Mason had told him in confidence. Lomax deserved to know.
But all Mulligan said was, “Nice plan.”
“What will you do, Mulligan, when the paper finally goes under?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll invest my meager life savings in a case of Bushmills, hole up somewhere, and try to write the Great American Novel.”
“In other words, you got no fuckin’ idea.”
44
“Citizens of the state of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations, the hour is nigh. Truth, courage, honor, justice, and the American Way have returned once again to the public airwaves. Stay with us now for the singular voice that makes godless liberals and America-hating socialists pee their pants. The voice that makes God-fearing patriots stand up and cheer.”
“Hey, Charlie,” Mulligan said, “would you mind turning the radio up?”
“Really?” the fry cook said. He turned from the grill to glance first at Mulligan and then at Mason, seated side by side at the lunch counter. “You two pinkos care what Iggy has to say?”
“Not usually,” Mulligan said, “but he’s going to be talking about the Dispatch this morning.”
Iggy Rock’s theme music was playing now, a medley that began with a few bars of “Also Sprach Zarathustra,” segued to Jimmy Cagney’s rendition of “You’re a Grand Old Flag,” and concluded with the last verse of Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the USA.”
To Mulligan, that always seemed like enough of an introduction, but Iggy apparently didn’t think so.
“Ladies and gentlemen and children of all ages, hold on to your hats and buckle your seat belts. Get ready for a rollicking three hours of news and commentary from the prince of pundits, the champion of liberty, the voice of conservatism, and the defender of the Republic. The one! The only! Iggy Rock!”
But still no Iggy. First, listeners were treated to Ronan Tynan singing the first verse of “God Bless America,” followed by the opening trumpet blast of the theme from Rocky. Only then did Iggy’s voice boom from the radio speakers.
“Good morning, Row Dyelin! This is your host, Iggy Rock. Today, we’ll expose what the bloodsucking teachers union is doing to bankrupt our cities and towns. But first, a WTOP exclusive report on a shocking plan by the liberal-loving Providence Dispatch to spring serial killer Kwame Diggs from his rightful place in the state prison.
“You remember Diggs, don’t you? In the 1990s, he terrorized the city of Warwick, brutally murdering two young women and three little girls. Since then, he’s been caught with marijuana in his cell and been convicted of beating two prison guards.
“But now, I have learned from unimpeachable sources, the Dispatch is attempting to prove that the state of Rhode Island framed Diggs on those drug and assault charges. For the last several months, the newspaper has been interviewing prison guards, and perhaps others as well, in an irresponsible attempt to impeach the testimony of witnesses who testified for the prosecution in those cases.
“My sources tell me the Dispatch may be only days away from publishing its report. And if the newspaper succeeds in throwing doubt on Diggs’s convictions, Rhode Island could be forced to set this monster loose to roam free among us.
“I know what’s going through your minds. What in the name of God are the editors of the Dispatch thinking? To find out, I invited the newspaper’s managing editor, Ed Lomax, to appear on the show this morning to answer your questions.
“The editor of a newspaper that expects other people to answer its questions ought to be willing to come here and answer a few himself, don’t you think? After all, refusing would be the epitome of hypocrisy. Well, it turns out that Ed Lomax is a hypocrite. He flatly refused to appear on this program. Instead, he sent over this three-sentence prepared statement,” Iggy said, and then read the text.
“So what do you make of that?” he asked. “Yeah, I know. Sounds like bullshit to me, too. So why don’t we give him a call and see if we can drag a little more out of him.”
The touch-tone sound of a telephone being dialed, and then: “Providence Dispatch, Ed Lomax speaking.”
“This is Iggy Rock at WTOP, and you are on the air. The people of Row Dyelin are deeply concerned about your plan to help Kwame Diggs get out of prison so that he can kill again, and we demand that you answer our questions.”
“You have my statement on this matter, Mr. Bardakjian. I have nothing further to say at this time,” Lomax said. And then he hung up.
“Well, there you have it,” Iggy said. “Once again, The Providence Dispatch demonstrates that it has nothing but contempt for the people of Row Dyelin. The board is lit up like a Christmas tree, so let’s take some calls. Sal from North Providence, you are on the air.”
“This is freaking nuts, Iggy. If Diggs gets released, the editors of the Dispatch should be charged with conspiracy to commit murder. Soon as I hang up, I’m calling them up and canceling my subscription.”
“Great idea, Sal. Let’s everybody do that. Show them that we mean business! Natalie from Pawtucket, you are on the air.”
Mulligan finished his coffee, turned to Mason, and said, “Well, that could have gone worse.”
“How do you mean?”
“At least he didn’t give Sal from North Providence and Natalie from Pawtucket your name.”
“Why do you suppose he didn’t?”
“Maybe he didn’t want to put a target on your back,” Mulligan said.
“He didn’t mind putting one on Lomax. Not that it makes much difference, I guess. I’ve got a target on my back already. Here, take a look at this.”