He laughed. "A matinee? Where'd you get that?"
"I don't know. Read it, I guess."
"A matinee," he said again, shaking his head. "How about a late show?"
"Okay with me."
He kissed her again, then hurried down the front steps.
She called, "Was that a real invitation?"
"'Course it was."
"Okay, then."
He opened the door to the cruiser. "Okay, what?"
She looked up and down the street, thinking of the neighbors, then stepped back into the doorway, gave a little bump and grind, and shut the door.
Hallock sat in the car laughing. He was pleased Fran wasn't going to be doing anything public or all-consuming for awhile. He needed her. And when she got deeply involved in one of her causes, she vanished emotionally. And that was especially hard on him because it reminded him of his mother. Marion Hallock had always been distant, like a governess, not a mother.
Well, hell, he didn't want to start thinking about his mother now. He started the car and backed out of the driveway. He couldn't think about his mother or Fran. He had to get his mind on this case. First thing he had to do was see Mark Griffing and make him understand that he had to downplay the murders. Fat chance.
LOOKING BACK-50 YEARS AGO
A certain young local businessman hates to get up in the morning and go down to his store. How he does love his sleep. His friends claim he sleeps better in the morning after the sun comes up. One morning this week it was about 10 o'clock when he reached his store. Hanging on the door was a large wreath made of yellow crepe paper, seaweed, and onion tops, with the words: "Not dead but sleeping." He tore the wreath off the door and threw it in the gutter, then saw a number of his friends laughing heartily across the street. In a moment he joined in the merriment, saying: "Well, the joke's on me."
TWELVE
Colin had decided to wait until after lunch to tackle the story. Now it was after lunch. The story was no closer to being written than it was before lunch. He lit a cigarette. It was his second pack of the day. Mark had told him he wanted the story by three. The clock said ten after one. There was plenty of time. Plenty of time, if he could write it at all.
For the third time that day he considered telling Mark he couldn't write stories about murder-they made him sick. But would he understand? Or would that get Mark thinking, wondering if there was more to it than just a man losing his wife and children through murder, wondering if maybe Colin had done it after all. And why not? He was sure even his mother had had a moment. The year that he'd spent with her, he'd caught her looking at him a number of times, a strange expression on her face. He'd interpreted that look to mean that she was wondering had he or hadn't he? She'd never asked of course. Not Betsy Maguire. No, she'd most likely go to confession and tell the priest she'd had unkind thoughts about her youngest son, then say a bunch of Hail Marys and maybe the Act of Contrition. One time when he'd caught her looking at him that way he asked what she'd been thinking.
Disconcerted, she said, "Just how much you look like your father."
He knew it was a lie but he'd let it ride.
Christ. This wasn't getting him anywhere. Either he was going to write the goddamn story or he was going to tell Mark he couldn't do it. But if he begged off, it might make Mark think he had something to do with the murders here. No, Mark would never think that. Colin knew what he had to do was detach himself, the way he'd been taught, and write the sucker.
"Some guys got real tough jobs," Hallock said.
Colin was startled. "Hey, you scared me, creeping up like that."
"Didn't creep. I walked. You were in a dream world, buddy."
"Yeah, I guess."
"Who is she?"
"Hmmm?"
"Man's dreaming like that, it's gotta be a woman."
"Matter of fact, it wasn't. I was just wondering how to write this story about the murders."
"Funny thing. That's why I'm here."
Colin waited for him to go on.
"We need to play it down."
"I can't do that, Chief. I mean, I have to tell it like it is. A murder's a murder. Especially two. How can I play that down?"
"You know what I mean. Is it going on the front page?"
"Probably." He knew it was.
"See, that's just what I'm talking about. Why do you have to feature it?"
"I think you'd better talk to Mark."
"Will you come with me?"
"If that's what you want."
"That's what I want. I don't expect to win this one, but I've gotta try."
"Okay." Colin buzzed Mark, told him they were coming up.
Hallock followed Colin past the offices and front desk to the stairs. Griffing's office was on the second floor. When they came in Mark shook Hallock's hand.
"Nice to see you. Sit down, make yourself comfortable." He crossed to his tape deck and turned off David Bowie.
The room looked more like a living room than an office. There was a fireplace, two blue easy chairs facing it, and a gray denim couch with colorful throw pillows on the right wall. Griffing's desk was a white parsons table, his chair soft tan leather. He sat on the couch while Colin and Hallock took the chairs.
"What can I do for you, Chief?"
Colin watched Hallock pull on his long nose, stalling. It wouldn't be so easy to tell Mark he wanted to downplay the story.
"Well, the thing of it is, Friday's the start of Memorial Day weekend, and I don't have to tell you what that means."
Griffing looked at him blankly. "Maybe you do, Chief."
Hallock glanced at Colin as if he were asking for advice. Colin felt for him but didn't know how to help.
Hallock continued. "It's the start of the season. Our merchants got twelve weeks to make enough to carry them through the year."
Griffing nodded.
"The real estate people, too," Hallock amplified.
"And?"
"Well, hell, what I'm trying to bring out is that if you go splashing those murders all over the front page on Thursday, it's gonna hurt this town. Real bad."
Griffing ran a hand over his gray hair, then lit a Camel as he assessed Hallock. Colin noted something cold in Mark's brown eyes.
"I'm not saying you should suppress it or anything. I know you can't do that. Just don't make a big deal out of it," Hallock suggested.
Griffing laughed mirthlessly. "But it is a big deal, Chief. You of all people should know that."
"'Course it is. That's not what I meant."
"So what did you mean?" he asked, an edge to his voice.
Hallock pressed his lips together. An aureole of white appeared around his mouth.
"The chief doesn't want it to get front-page coverage," Colin explained.
Mark shifted his gaze to Colin, the baleful look still present. "Really?"
"That's right," Hallock said.
Eyes still on Colin, Griffing inquired drily, "And you agree with this?"
"I didn't say that."
"Well, do you?" The tone was frosty.
As Colin had noticed many times, there was almost a feminine quality to Mark's good looks. The features were small, delicate. But when he was angry or challenged his face took on a hard edge, making him almost ugly. "You know I don't," he answered. For a moment he felt guilty, as though he were betraying Hallock. But he was a newspaperman and certain values were ingrained. You didn't bury a hot story because someone outside the paper wanted you to.
"Thanks, pal," Griffing said sarcastically. He turned back to Hallock. "Two people have been found murdered, Chief. We're not talking about somebody catching a big fish, or winning the annual foot race, or giving some money to the hospital. We're talking about murder. That gets the front page and no two ways about it."
Hallock had begun to sweat. He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket, wiped his neck and forehead. "I don't think you understand what kind of repercussions that story's gonna have."
"Like you losing your job?" Griffing asked.
Colin didn't like the small smile that played around Mark's mouth.