“Cutting out early?” Gilman joked.
“Got a date,” Delaney said. “With a ten-year-old who’s sick in bed. The joys of single-parenting. Oh, Marlee, that column about the prowler was wonderful.”
“Thank you.” He’s got a kid and he’s divorced, Marlee thought. “I guess I should be going.”
Gilman walked Marlee toward the swinging doors. “You know,” the detective said, “we approached Ed Sperl about this and got nowhere.”
“Oh, wrong guy! Ed wasn’t that kind of reporter. Or man.”
“I guess not. The new fellow from the Gazette, the young fellow, is a little easier. More sensitive than Ed.”
“That’s easy. Ed wasn’t sensitive.”
“Yes, well. You knew him much better than I did.”
“I’m not so sure.” For a moment, Marlee thought of telling her about the lunch with Olga. But not wanting to share too much too soon she canceled the thought.
“Awful, what happened with Ed,” Gilman said. “No matter what kind of guy he was.”
“Yes.”
“With all I’ve seen being a cop, maybe because of it, I still find suicide heartbreaking. Had he been depressed?”
“No. No, I don’t think so. He had a couple of broken marriages, and he drank too much. But that was how he was.”
“I knew he was a drinker,” Gilman said. “Couple of times when he came around, I could smell the mints he was sucking on to cover up the beer from the night before. He took up half a morning of our time on something and didn’t give anything back.”
“He took up your time on what?”
“Some old thing he was researching.” Gilman and Marlee were just outside the swinging doors.
“What old thing?”
“Something from way back. Actually, he was talking to Ed Delaney. But since Delaney and I usually work as partners, he was really taking up my time, too.”
“Was it a case Ed Delaney had worked on?”
“Something he had a connection with way back when he was a patrolman.”
Marlee sifted that: she knew Ed Sperl had been most comfortable with the real hard-bitten, old-line detectives. Ed Delaney didn’t seem like that type at all.
“Anyhow, thanks for your time, Marlee. Talk to you soon.”
As she walked to her car, Marlee thought about the puzzling bit of information about Ed Sperl. Memory snippets from the lunch with Olga intruded, along with recollections of Ed Sperl at her party. Then she remembered how Ed had looked in the coffin.
God, it was so depressing, all of it.
She started her car; it coughed a couple of times. Great, Marlee, you still need a tune-up. That’s another thing for your list. But first, go home and jog about three miles and maybe you’ll feel better.
Twenty-three
Grant was working on his shoulder turn, trying to get his whole upper body, not just his arms, into the swing. It was hard work, a whole new body habit to learn, but Doug Barnes had promised him it would be worth it.
Halfway through his second big bucket of golf balls, Grant knew Doug Barnes had been right. Driver, four wood, five iron—whatever club Grant used, he got more distance and straighter shots if he remembered the shoulder turn.
He imagined that the Bessemer Country Club course must be a pretty good one. Even in Bessemer, it figured that a country club would have a better course than the public layouts. He hoped so. Maybe the golf would be the best part of the trip.
He had other things he wanted to do in Bessemer. Thinking about all that made him nervous, even angry, and he swung too hard on his next shot, topping the ball and sending it an anemic forty yards.
“Shame on you, Grant,” Doug Barnes said. “That’s your worst swing of the morning.”
“I know.”
Conscious that Doug was standing nearby, Grant teed up another ball, took a deep breath, and swung as slowly as he could.
“Yes!” Doug Barnes said. “Good shoulders, good weight transfer. You hit that halfway to Little Neck Bay.”
“Damn straight,” Grant said, thrilled.
“You swung a minute ago like your boss was lying there on the mat, holding the ball in his mouth.”
“That’s a nice thought.”
Doug Barnes laughed. “Stop in the pro shop before you leave, okay?”
“Okay.” Grant hurried through the rest of the bucket.
“So when are you leaving for Bessemer?” Doug Barnes asked.
“Couple of weeks.”
“Never been there. I hear it’s a friendly town. Tough winters, though.”
“Yeah, they are.”
Grant waited silently while the pro rang up a sale.
“Listen,” Barnes said when they were alone in the shop, “it’s none of my business, but, you know, I thought you might need some golf clothes to take with you.”
“Uh, yeah. I guess. I was gonna buy some.”
“So I thought I might be able to help you out here.”
“Oh.” Grant felt his face flush. He had been postponing buying golf clothes because he was far from up on style and shy about asking advice.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Doug Barnes said in his friendliest way. “You think the prices here have to be higher than in a cut-rate shop.”
“Well …”
“You’re exactly right, they are, because we’re not primarily a clothing shop. But look at this.” Doug Barnes bent low under the counter, stood up, and held out three brand-new, folded golf jerseys. One was white, the other yellow, the third sky blue.
“Pretty,” Grant said, meaning it.
“These’ll fit you fine. And I have slacks to match. What are you, a thirty-six, thirty-seven waist and, what, a thirty-three inseam?”
“On the nose.”
“Then you’re in luck. We normally sell stuff like this at half price, because each of these garments has a flaw. Here, see this bad stitch …?”
“Right. I see it. Barely.”
“Half price just because of that. But for you, two-thirds off. Can’t beat that anywhere, Grant. All cotton. You like cotton?”
“Sure.”
“Me, too. It wrinkles more, but it keeps you cooler. And so what if it wrinkles a little. Two-thirds off. Interested?”
“I guess. I mean, sure.” But he was puzzled. “How come two-thirds off?”
Doug Barnes smiled. “You’ve spent a lot on lessons and balls. Besides, I’m the pro here and I like you. I like your determination.”
The golf pro reached across the counter and put a hand affectionately on Grant Siebert’s bicep. Grant recoiled slightly, but Doug Barnes seemed not to notice.
“If you’ve got time, why not try them on,” Barnes said.
“Uh, okay. Where …?”
“Dressing room’s there in the corner.”
Grant put on the sky-blue jersey and matching slacks; he felt self-conscious when he emerged from the dressing room and was relieved that no one besides Barnes was in the shop.
“Hey, you look like a golfer anyhow,” Barnes said.
Barnes stood next to him and felt the waistband of Grant’s slacks with the tip of his finger. Then he tugged gently at the back of his collar. Grant stiffened.
“Don’t worry,” Barnes said, chuckling. “I’m not gay. I used to work in a men’s shop.”
“Never can tell.” Grant had tried to sound light, but he knew he had failed, and he felt his face burning.
“Ain’t that the truth. So you’re all set, Grant. These fit you okay, and the others are identical. So you’re in business.”
“Can I pay with a credit card?”
“Whatever you like. If you’re in a hurry today, you can catch me next time.”
Grant went to the dressing room and changed back to his regular clothes, thankful that he would not have to wait the extra few minutes for Doug Barnes to ring up the charge on his credit card. He was still smarting from embarrassment. The golf clothes were better than he could have found at the price anywhere else, but he
felt somehow unworthy of them. He had wondered—only for a moment, but still he had wondered—if Doug Barnes was making a pass at him. Now he felt ashamed for having suspected that.
When Grant came out of the dressing room, Doug Barnes was talking to one of the most beautiful women Grant had ever seen.
“Grant, I’d like you to meet my fiancée …”
The name passed right over his head. He heard himself say, “I’m Grant,” as he grasped the soft, fragrant hand. Blond, green eyes, tan skin, perfect teeth, gracious smile.
“Nice to know you. Grant. You’re a golfer, I take it?”
“Linda’s a teaching pro at a club in Westchester,” Barnes said.
“Ah.” Grant caught her name the second time around. “Well, I’m not much of a player. I’m kind of getting back to it.”
“He’s lying,” Barnes said. “Good, powerful swing. It’ll be like clockwork if he keeps at it. Here’s your duds.” Doug Barnes handed him a bag. “What say to a beer sometime, soon. Grant?”
“Sounds good. Gotta catch a train now. So long.”
Clutching the bag of clothes, Grant burst through the door to the outside, brushing past someone on his way in.
“Grant! Your clubs.” Doug Barnes stood in the door, holding the two woods and the iron. Grant did an about-face, faked a casual, self-deprecating grin, and took the clubs.
“Next week,” Barnes said.
“Right.” Grant hurried away, toward his train.
Twenty-four
Will Shafer heard the soft knock on his office door, looked up, and felt his heart leap. Jenifer Hurley smiled through the glass as Will beckoned her to come in.
“Got a couple minutes?” she said.
“For you, sure. Have a seat.”
“I bet you’re snowed under, having to worry about the reunion as well as the paper.”
“Yeah, it’s a bit much. It gets closer every day. At least I’ve had some help, from Marlee and others, including Lyle.” Will looked into her eyes (could there be any in the universe more luminous?) and waited.
“I, I’m not sure how to begin.”
No, Will thought. Don’t tell me you’re leaving the paper. Please.
“Maybe I should start with a question,” she said finally. “Was—that is, if you can tell me—was Ed Sperl working on something just before he died? An investigation of some kind?”
“No. Not that I knew, anyhow.”
“And you would have known? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound dumb.”
“That’s okay. Yes, I would have known. At least I would have known if the paper had committed itself to something.”
Jenifer Hurley frowned, her eyes no less luminous, no less beautiful in shrewdness.
“Why do you ask, Jenifer?”
“It’s just … I was over at the Public Records Building, a few weeks ago almost, and I ran into Ed.”
“Ah. This would have been not long before he died.”
“Just a few days.” Jenifer Hurley seemed to shiver. “I haven’t known that many people who have died.”
“You get more practice as you get older. I don’t know if you get used to it.” How young you are, he thought.
“Anyhow, I ran into Ed. And it was kind of strange.”
“How so? Police headquarters is right across the street. There’s even a basement connection.”
Jenifer Hurley shook her head, telling him respectfully but definitely that he didn’t know what he was talking about. “That connection was closed last year, when they put up some partitions to create more storage room. See, when they installed the computers in the records building and at police headquarters, they took a lot of old file cabinets and stuck them in the basement.”
“Ah. I see you’re more up-to-date than I am.”
“I became pretty familiar with what was stored in this place and that by researching old real estate documents.”
“That was a terrific story this morning, by the way.”
“Thanks. So I saw Ed, and I asked him what he was doing.”
“And?”
“He mumbled some bullshit answer about old crime statistics. He was being evasive.”
“Mmmm. What do you think he was doing?”
“He was not researching old crime statistics, that’s for sure. I know, because I’ve cultivated some of the clerks in records, and I know my way around. There aren’t any old crime stats in the area where I saw Ed. And even if there had been, I still wouldn’t have believed him.”
“No?”
“No. Ed wasn’t that … serious, as a reporter. He was—God, I know he’s dead, but it’s the plain damn truth—he was an old-fashioned police reporter. No more than that.”
“So what do you think he was looking for?”
“I don’t know. I thought you might. I do know what kind of records are kept where I saw Ed.”
“What?”
“Case folders on crimes from before 1980, when the police department started switching to computerized records.”
“Ah. Are these folders on crimes that are solved or unsolved?”
“Both. The solved ones, at least the major crimes, have pretty thick folders. They contain not only the police paperwork but all the court stuff, from indictment to conviction to appeals. The ones from the late sixties and beyond get real thick because the Miranda ruling affected them.… I’m sorry. I’m running on.”
“That’s all right.” Jenifer, Jenifer, he thought. What a natural you are. The endless curiosity, the way you make connections. I wish I could protect you always.…
“As for the old folders on unsolved cases, a lot of data on the medium-range crimes—thefts and burglaries and such—is being transferred to computer discs. The data is kept mainly for insurance purposes, in case the crimes are ever solved. In other words, there’re fewer and fewer old folders down there as the months go by. And more and more, the folders that are there are on old homicides. Complete with pictures and all. The kind of stuff that’s not so readily transferred to computer discs.”
“I see.”
“So that logically leaves old homicides as the kind of stuff Ed was snooping in. Doesn’t it?”
“But maybe someone is just coming up for parole, and Ed—
Jenifer Hurley smiled patiently and shook her head. “I already checked with the appeals bureau in the district attorney’s office. That’s where a reporter would go for something like that. And that’s really a court story, as opposed to a police story, isn’t it? Way out of Ed’s domain.”
“Yes, I guess it would have been. So what do you think?”
“I don’t know what to think. I thought you might, you know …”
“I don’t know. Haven’t a clue.”
“Hmmm.”
How lovely she is, Will thought. How lovely in her cleverness and intelligence. Her frown, her eyes gleaming as she concentrates.
“You know,” Jenifer said, “not just anybody can roam around back where Ed was. In the old police cases, I mean. That stuff’s not like deeds and assessments. It’s not public record. So Ed had to pull some strings.”
“He had the strings. Ed had the strings.” Will Shafer wanted to say more. Go ahead, he prodded himself; forget you’re the executive editor; be indiscreet. “Jenifer, I do know this much: Ed had a lot of angles, and played them. He had a set of ethics that belonged on the junk heap of journalism.”
She was looking straight into his eyes, with a curiosity and—yes!—a respect, respect for his frankness, a respect he had longed to see. Go on, Will told himself. Go on.
“It’s the truth,” Will said. “The truth doesn’t change just because he’s dead. God rest his soul, if you believe in that, but Ed was, Ed used what he knew to hurt people.” Will felt dizzy, as though he were going way beyond where he ever had before. “A police reporter in a town this size, he’s bound to know things, have the power to hurt.” Stop, Will told himself. Stop! “Anyhow, he’s dead. I’m sorry for his family, or families. Whatever.”
“I do know what you mean. I know about what he did to Jacob Frank. ‘Car littered with empty beer cans,’ for God’s sake.” Jenifer Hurley shook her head in disgust; she was sharing her feelings with him!
“Yes. That was inexcusable. And there were other things.” Now Will could go no further.
“Will,” Jenifer began slowly. “I want to ask something I have no right to ask:”
She was sharing her innermost thought with him! “Go ahead and ask.”
“Is there any, you know, inside story about how Ed died? I mean, I saw him not many days before. I mean, why would he do that?”
“Kill himself? Who can ever know why someone kills himself? Ed was …” Come on, Will. You know the term they use on the South Side, down near the steel plant: a beer-brain. “Ed was a man who drank more than he should. Sometimes a lot more.”
“I know that. Still, I don’t know.” Jenifer Hurley frowned, shook her head, shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Shot to death with his own gun, Jenifer.”
“I know. I know. And we still have no idea what he was snooping for down in records.”
“No.”
“Okay,” she said. “Thanks for your time.”
“You’re welcome. And be careful, Jenifer.”
“Be careful?”
“Don’t, don’t get hurt. I know you’re a hungry reporter, but do be careful. This is a small town in some ways.”
“I will. Thanks again.”
“My pleasure. Go and sin no more.”
Then she was gone, leaving Will Shafer alone with his memories and his yearnings and his worries.
Twenty-five
Marlee was on her way to meet Jean Gilman and Ed Delaney at the YWCA building for a session with rape victims and their husbands. As usual, she was about ten minutes late and feeling harried. Purse, notebook, extra pens, enough money. All set, she thought as she got into her car.
The car would not start. The engine did not even turn over.
“Oh, damn. Why is this happening to me?”
Again she turned the key. Nothing.
“Son of a bitch!” Now she was angry at herself as well as her old car. Jumper cables! One of her neighbors had a set of jumper cables.
Oh, Marlee, suppose it isn’t the battery. All right, all right. Got to get a ride.
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