“That was my fallback. I’ll do it regardless. But if I don’t get anything else from PPD today, I’ll move that to the lead story.”
“You knew the owner, right?”
“Just from the stories I did last year.”
“You know much about his background?”
She shook her head. “He was a veteran himself, that I knew. Army paratrooper. And a widower. No kids. I put a request in to DOD for his records. Maybe there’s something interesting in there.”
“You want help with the others?”
“That would be great, thanks.”
“Dwight Malloy still the primary?”
“Yeah. I’m sure he’s ecstatic about that.”
“He won’t return your calls either?”
Tracy looked up at her. “What do you mean?”
“You two still talk?”
Tracy’s face grew warm. She brushed crouton crumbs from her lap, closed the container, and tucked in the tabs. “Not often. Have you dealt with him much?”
“Just a little.”
“Has he hit on you yet?”
“No. Should I be insulted?”
“He’ll get around to it.”
“Maybe he has an issue with the whole multicultural thing.”
“Wouldn’t make any difference to him. You’re young and hot, that’s all he cares about. He’s a good cop, far as it goes, but he can’t help himself. He’ll want you to think you’re cultivating him as a source. Meanwhile, what he’s trying to cultivate is something steady on the side.”
“Ugh. I know it’s none of my business, but—”
She stopped. Jed Wheeler, the night-desk chief, with perpetual dark circles under his eyes, walked past them to the soda machine. They waited while he fed in bills, pushed buttons. A can rumbled down the chute and thumped into the tray. He pulled it out, went back into the newsroom.
“—but you know how gossip spreads around here.” Her voice lower now. “A newsroom’s full of nosy people to begin with, nature of the beast.”
“There was a thing,” Tracy said. “It was right after Brian. It didn’t last long, and it was a mistake, a big one.”
“Who ended it, you or him?”
“Me. I should have known better to start with. He didn’t see any problem being married, two kids, and lying to his wife about working late, or having to go out of town overnight on a case. I felt guilty all the time. Or at least more than he did.”
“Like I said, not my nevermind.”
“You want to call him, see what he’ll give you?”
“Are you serious?”
“Why not? Maybe you’ll get something I couldn’t.”
“Unlikely.”
“Can’t hurt,” Tracy said. “I’m not sure what I’ve got now will fly at the five o’clock. Not much to update. No survivors and no witnesses, except the two workers that found the bodies. I haven’t been able to talk to them yet.”
She thought about the glimpses she’d gotten inside the bar, the shapes on the floor, the dark patches of blood, the wheelchair on its side.
“If you think it’s worth a try,” Alysha said.
“They won’t dog this one. I’m betting there’s a quick arrest. Last thing the mayor or commissioner wants is an unsolved multiple homicide this early in the year. It’ll screw up their stats so bad they’ll never recover.”
She got up, wedged the Styrofoam container into an already full flip-top trash can.
“Now I feel bad,” Alysha said. “Like I crossed a line.”
“Not at all.” Tracy took her cellphone from her belt. “Take this number.”
Alysha got out her own phone. Tracy scrolled through her contacts, read a number aloud off the screen. Alysha punched it into her phone’s memory.
“Got it. What is it?”
“Dwight Malloy’s private line.”
“That’s not the cell number I have for him.”
“You’ve got the one he uses for police business. The one I just gave you is for other pursuits.”
“Will he be upset if I call him on it?”
“He will,” Tracy said. “But he’ll get over it.”
Back at her cubicle, the desk-phone light was blinking. She dialed into her voice mail, but there was no message. Only a few seconds of silence, then a click as the line was closed.
Hang-ups irritated her, even though she knew they sometimes came from sources who’d lost their nerve at the last minute, or didn’t want to leave a message. She hit the Callback button, saw the number come up on the display. The line buzzed three times, then someone picked up, didn’t speak.
“This is Tracy Quinn from the Philadelphia Daily Observer. I think someone from this number tried to call me.”
More silence, then a man said, “That was me. I was wondering if we could meet, talk.”
“About what?”
“Colin Roarke.”
She pulled a notebook across the desk, flipped to a fresh page, got a pen from her drawer, and clicked it open. “What about him?”
“I’d rather talk in person.”
“We could work that out. Why don’t you come by the office?”
“No. Somewhere else.”
She wrote the phone number in the notebook, circled it. “Like where?”
“Someplace private.”
“I’m willing to meet, but it’ll be a public place, at least the first time,” she said. “No offense, that’s just the way it is. And I’ll likely bring another reporter.”
“Don’t do that. Not yet. Hear what I have to say first.”
“What’s your name?”
“That’s not important right now.”
“Did you know Roarke?”
“I did.”
“How?”
“We served together.”
She wrote “Army?” on the page, underlined it. “You’re a friend of his?”
“I was.”
“Do you have any information about his murder? Have you talked to the police?”
He didn’t answer. She drew another question mark on the page.
“I’m not from around here,” he said. “And I don’t know how long I’ll be staying. I’m in New Jersey, just outside the city. There’s a diner on, wait a minute”—she imagined him looking out a window at a street sign—“Route Thirty.”
“The Ben Franklin?” she said. “Near the bridge?”
“That’s it. You know it?”
“I know where it is, yeah.”
“We can meet there. Say ten p.m. tonight.”
“No. It’ll need to be earlier than that.”
“Then seven. It’ll be dinnertime. A lot of people there, if that’ll make you feel better.”
“What’s your name? How will I know you?”
“I’ll know you,” he said, and hung up.
She replaced the receiver, looked at it. Then she put her heels against the floor, rolled her chair out into the aisle. Alysha was talking to Rick Carr outside his office. Tracy waved to her. Alysha nodded, raised an index finger.
Tracy rolled back to her desk, double-clicked the pen, looking at what she’d written down. After a few moments, Alysha leaned in, said, “What’s up?”
“I just got an anonymous call.” Tracy tossed the pen on the blotter. “Someone who wants to talk to me about Colin Roarke, says they were friends.”
Alysha raised an eyebrow, perched on the edge of the desk. “What else they say?”
“That’s it.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Meet him. Unless I change my mind.”
“I should come.”
“My thought too. I mentioned it. He said no, just me. This time, at least.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
“It’s a diner in Jersey, just over the bridge. He wants to meet at seven. It’ll be busy.”
“I still don’t like it.”
“Not sure I do either. But I don’t want to scare him off until I hear what he’s
selling. I’ll call you right afterward, in case I get something we need to write immediately.”
“This guy could be some kind of nut.”
“That’s not the vibe I got,” Tracy said. “And he specifically said he wanted to talk about Roarke.”
“Who was just murdered, along with five other people. Something you should keep in mind.”
“I am,” Tracy said. “Believe me.”
“We should tell Rick.”
“Hold off. It might turn out to be nothing. If I get something worthwhile, we’ll decide what to do then.”
“I’m on ’til nine, making cop checks. I’ll be waiting for that call, and if I don’t get it…”
“I’ll listen to what our mystery man has to say,” Tracy said. “Then we can take it from there, see what it adds—if anything—to the story.”
“And you need to watch out for your own self.”
“I always do,” Tracy said.
Eighteen
At six-twenty, Devlin pulled the Ranchero into the diner lot, parked in the shadows away from the pole lights, but with a view of the highway and the front door. Through the big windows he could see people at tables inside. Others were at the register, waiting to be seated.
Fifteen minutes later, a light-blue Toyota pulled in, a woman driving, no one else in the car. She parked at the other end of the lot, didn’t get out. She had the same idea, he thought. Get here early, watch and wait.
A few minutes after seven, she left the car, walked up the steps to the entrance. Midthirties, wearing a thigh-length leather coat, hands in her pockets.
Inside, she spoke to the man behind the register, who shook his head. She turned to look around the room, spoke to him again. He took two oversized menus from a rack and led her away, out of Devlin’s sight.
Threshold moment, he thought. You walk through that door and talk to her, and everything changes. It’ll be out of your control then, with no telling where it might lead. Or you can drive away now, forget about her, figure out on your own what to do next.
He started the engine.
“No-show so far,” Tracy said. “I’ll wait a while, see if he turns up.”
She was at a booth by a side window, away from the other diners, with a view of the parking lot.
“Maybe you should just come on back,” Alysha said.
“I’ll give it until seven-thirty, then I’m gone.”
“Call me back, let me know. I’m ten minutes away if you need me.”
She ended the call, left her cell on the table. Feeling uneasy now, exposed. Was he outside somewhere, waiting for her to leave so he could follow? She reached into her right-hand coat pocket, touched the cool metal of the pepper-spray canister.
Maybe you need to question your own motives, she thought. Are you taking an unnecessary risk just to prove yourself to your bosses? To stave off what might be coming?
She didn’t hear footsteps, only felt a presence. When she looked up from her menu, a man stood there. Fifties, she guessed, tanned. Dark hair going to gray. A faint line of scars over his left eye.
“Tracy Quinn?” he said.
She nodded, and he slid into the booth across from her. “My name’s Ray Devlin.”
“I thought you weren’t coming.”
“I almost didn’t. I was out there trying to decide whether to come in or not. I saw you park.”
“Why didn’t you beep your horn, flash your headlights or something? Let me know you were there.”
“I wanted to make sure you weren’t followed.”
“By whom?”
“Anyone,” he said.
She picked up her cell. Before she left the office, she’d entered his number into her phone. Now she scrolled down to it, hit the Call button. Two seconds later, a phone buzzed in his jacket pocket.
“Yeah,” he said. “Same guy.”
She ended the call. “What made up your mind?”
He looked at her.
“To come inside,” she said.
“I guess I had no place else to go.”
A waitress came toward them.
“Probably look better if we get something,” he said. “Coffee, at least.”
Tracy ordered coffee and an herbal tea. When the waitress left, she said, “You wanted to talk about Colin Roarke?”
“Yes.”
“Just to be clear,” she said. “I have to call my office in fifteen minutes. If they don’t hear from me by then, they’re sending the police here. So let’s cut to the chase.” Looking at him, wondering if he believed her.
“You wrote a story about a body in a vacant house.”
“What about it?”
“Colin showed it to me. He knew the victim. A day later, Colin was dead.”
“You think those two things are connected? Police say Dugan’s was a robbery.”
“That’s what they say.”
“But you don’t?”
“I think there might be something else going on.”
“Like what?”
The waitress came back, put the tea in front of Tracy without asking. She smiled at Devlin, left his coffee.
“Like what?” Tracy said again.
“I can’t tell yet. Colin said he knew you, from another story you did a while ago. Said he trusted you.”
“When did he tell you that?”
“The other day. I was staying with him.”
“The day before he was killed?”
He nodded.
“Do the police know this?”
“Yes, they questioned me. A Detective…” Trying to remember the name.
“Malloy?” she said.
“That’s it. And another one, Mendoza.”
She reached into her jacket, drew out the pocket digital recorder, set it on the table. “This is just for my purposes.” She switched it on. The recording light glowed green.
“No,” he said, and reached for it. She moved it away before he could touch it.
“I only use it for notes,” she said. “My memory’s not what it used to be. You know how it is.” She tried to smile, relax him. He shook his head.
“Okay,” she said. “If you’re more comfortable without it…” She switched off the recorder, but left it on the table, took out a notebook.
“I’m starting to think I made a mistake,” he said.
Worried about losing him now, having him walk out without giving her anything. “I work better from notes.”
“Can’t we just talk right now? Leave that for later?”
“All right,” she said. “No problem.” It would have to do for now. She set the notebook aside. “You knew Roarke from the Army?”
“That and other things. I hadn’t seen him in a while, but we were friends.”
“What other things?” Trying to keep her tone casual. She squeezed a lemon slice into her tea.
“I need to know we’re off the record here.”
“You haven’t told me anything worth going on the record for yet,” she said. “I’m not even sure who you are.”
He pulled a wallet from his back pocket, opened it, and took out a driver’s license. He slid it across to her. “Just so we’re on equal footing.”
She looked at it, saw his picture, the name Raymond Devlin, and a Florida address.
“Okay,” she said. “You’re you. That still doesn’t tell me anything.” She would run the name when she got back to the office.
He replaced the license in his wallet, nodded at her phone. “Isn’t it about time?”
“In a minute. We’re not getting very far here. I’m starting to wonder if I’m the one made the mistake.”
He nodded out the window. “I’m staying at that motel right across the road. It might be better to talk there privately.”
“Here’s fine.”
The waitress reappeared. “How are we doing?”
“We’re good,” Tracy said. “Thanks.”
She looked at the recorder, went away.
“I don’t think
Colin was killed in a robbery,” he said. “I think he was targeted.”
“Why? By who?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You have any evidence to back that up?”
“Not yet. That’s why I wasn’t sure if talking to you was the right thing or not. At first, I didn’t think it was.”
“What changed your mind?”
“I still don’t understand it all. But I think whoever killed Colin might be after me next.”
She sat back. “Why?” Let him tell it, she thought. Don’t push.
“I don’t know yet. It may be because of something we were involved in years ago.”
He took a business card from his wallet, handed it to her. She read it, said, “Who’s Eldon Daniels?”
“His real name’s Aaron Bell. He was a friend of Colin’s and mine, once upon a time. Have you ever heard of that company?”
She ran her thumb over the card’s embossed surface. “Core-Tech Security? No, I don’t think so. What’s this about?”
“I only know pieces of it myself.”
“You tell any of this to Detective Malloy?”
“No. There isn’t much to tell anyway. At least nothing that makes sense. You know as much as I do right now.”
“Somehow, I don’t think that’s true.”
He sipped coffee.
“How’s this related to the body in the rowhouse?”
“Emilio Mata,” he said. “Alias Esteban Marota. Colin knew him.”
“He told you that?”
“He did. He helped him get settled here.”
“From San Marcos?”
“Colin and I both did some work there years ago. That’s how he knew Mata.”
“What kind of work?”
He didn’t answer.
“I’m not quite sure what you want here,” she said. “I’m a reporter. I work for a newspaper. I write stories for that newspaper. If you’re telling me there’s something going on here that ties into the Dugan’s homicides, and I can prove it, I’m going to write about it.”
“You have resources I don’t. You can find out things I can’t. Maybe we can help each other.”
“Maybe not. My agenda is to do my job. I’m still not sure what yours is. And this off-the-record deep-background stuff only works if I get something on the record to back it up. You want me to get involved, you’re going to have to give me something worth chasing.”
Some Die Nameless Page 12