The Violence Beat

by JoAnna Carl

  Hammond did mention the Salvation Army uniform, and that caused some more excitement among the press.

  “We have definitely—I repeat, definitely—established that no officer assigned to the Grantham Salvation Army unit is concerned in this matter,” Hammond said. “That’s firm. No Salvation Army officer is a susp—a witness.”

  And that ended the briefing. J.B. hung around to get the artist’s drawing. Mike was surrounded by fellow officers. We exchanged a long look, but there was no way we could talk there. I headed for the office.

  Ace Anderson followed me down the terraced front steps of the Central Station. “Nell, who told you that somebody got in to see Bo?”

  I kept walking. “Nobody, Ace.”

  “Then how’d you know?”

  “I figured it out, Ace. I’m sure the city ed will send my story to the AP as soon our state edition is off the press. Then you can read it.” I walked on.

  It makes me feel good to score that jerk off. He is the lamest excuse for a newsman who ever sat down at a VDT.

  The AP generally has pretty good reporters, though they’re handicapped by the general assignment way they’re often forced to work. Or at least I think it works better if a reporter is assigned to a beat—city hall, education, health, or even violence. Then we can really get to know the background, the personalities, the ins and outs of our subject. But a local AP bureau, like Grantham’s, doesn’t have enough staff to do that. They only have four or five full-time reporters. So each reporter covers what’s happening day by day—weather one day, a bank robbery the next, a strike the day after. It means they’re always walking in on the middle of the story. The big, national AP offices have reporters assigned to specific beats. But a city the size of Grantham is barely big enough to have a bureau. A few reporters have to do it all, covering a third of the state.

  Most AP reporters are highly professional. But the system allows a few showoffs like Ace-the-Ass to keep their jobs by snowing the bosses. They cover one story for a few days, and before they’ve written enough to reveal their complete ignorance of the whole topic, they’re off to a new assignment. It may be years before anybody in authority notices they can’t report a darn thing.

  I put Ace out of my mind and went back to the Gazette office to turn out my own story. I was home in time to watch the six o’clock news on Channel Four, cursing them for stealing my scoop and for embellishing it with a pious little moral at the end. “Until the truth about Bo Jenkins’s death is known, the Grantham Mental Health Center and the Grantham Police Department will be under the eye of public opinion.”

  That’s the kind of thing my grandmother always called “cornball.” And it’s also an editorial comment. And it’s unprofessional. The facts ought to speak for themselves in a hard news story. “As long as television personalities sum up every report with a little editorial, they will be considered the news equivalent of an emetic,” I said aloud.

  After I’d tortured myself with the television news, I ate a handful of cheese crackers and walked around the house, feeling uneasy. I didn’t understand just what was worrying me. About seven o’clock, the phone rang, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  It’s Mike, I thought.

  It wasn’t Mike. Just Martha’s mother, and Martha wasn’t home. But my reaction told me why I was uneasy. I had been waiting for Mike to call.

  And now I realized something so important I said it out loud. “Hell’s bells,” I said, “he didn’t even ask for my phone number.”

  And my phone number was unlisted. He wasn’t going to call.

  I stalked into the living room, where Rocky was watching a movie, and angrily fell into an easy chair. It’s hard to kick yourself when you’re all sprawled out, but I managed it.

  Idiot, I told myself. You’re just another pickup to Mike Svenson.

  Well, that’s what you wanted, myself answered. No strings. I remember you thinking that.

  Yes, I snarled. But I wanted to suggest it myself. Idiot. I should have guessed Mike’s modus operandi by how good he is at sex.

  Calm down, dear, myself answered. Men who pick women up and drop them may get a lot of practice at sex, but they’re exploitive. They don’t offer quality performances—the kind that satisfy both parties. Mike makes love as if he cares about his partner. He said he didn’t pick girls up in bars. I believe him.

  Then you’re a fool, I answered. He may not pick girls up in bars, but how about at parties, at swimming pools, in blankety-blank libraries? He’s probably spending the evening calling his friends to brag that the Gazette reporter, the one who won’t date cops, practically dragged him into bed.

  Well, dearie, if you’re so eager to talk, why don’t you call him?

  No, I pouted. I want him to call me.

  But, sugarbabe, you just pointed out that he doesn’t have your number.

  I rolled that around in my imagination for a while, then went into the kitchen and got out the phone book. Grantham does not have a large Scandinavian population. There were only a half dozen Svensons in the residential section, and two of the listings were Mike’s mom. She’d somehow gotten her real estate office in the residential listings. I eliminated the other listings pretty quick, too. None of them were on Mike’s street, or even in his neighborhood.

  Mike had an unlisted number, too.

  If he were simply a news source, I’d call the central police dispatcher and ask him or her to have Mike call me. I thought about it. I could do that—I could pretend I was working on a story. No. I stuffed the phone book back on the kitchen shelf angrily. If word got around the PD that I was ga-ga over Mike, so be it. But I didn’t want to let the word out myself.

  I would not call him! I practically pounded my fist on the kitchen cabinet. Then I went back into the living room and threw myself down in the easy chair again. I would not chase him, I told myself. If it was a one-night stand, it was a one-night stand. I can accept the fact that I’ve been a slut. The night before I had been high on euphoria—and maybe gratitude. The guy had saved my life. He took advantage of a case of temporary insanity. If I killed him, it’d be justifiable homi—

  A bowl of crackers was suddenly thrust under my nose. “Here,” Rocky said. “If you’re going to gnash your teeth, put something between them. And don’t panic, sweetie. He’ll call.”

  I was not amused. Sometimes I don’t want to be understood. I glared at Rocky. “I’m going to take a shower,” I said. I would wash any trace of Mike’s soap off my body, wash any lint from his robe out of my navel.

  I was halfway up the stairs when the doorbell rang. I turned around, but Rocky already had his hand on the knob.

  “Jamie said he might drop by,” he told me.

  I started back up the stairs as Rocky clicked the dead bolt back. “Oh, hello,” he said. I knew that voice. It meant a good-looking guy was at the door. Must be Jamie.

  “Sorry,” a voice answered, “I must have the wrong address.”

  “Mike!” I whirled around and yelped his name out like a high schooler who was desperate for a date to the homecoming dance. Then I took a deep breath and tried to walk calmly down the stairs.

  “Hi,” I said. “Come on in.”

  Mike came in, but he looked dubiously at Rocky, who was beaming at us. I introduced them.

  Rocky went into his host mode. “Have you kiddos had dinner?”

  “Well, no,” Mike said. “I’d said something to Nell about going out—”

  I shook my head. “I can’t do that—”

  “Don’t want to be seen in public with me, huh?”

  “Mike—!”

  Rocky gestured. “Children, don’t quarrel! Go in the living room, and I’ll call you when supper is ready.”

  Mike still looked dubious, but I laughed. “That’s the best offer we’re going to get, Mike.” I led him into the living room and turned off th
e television set. Mike leaned over and muttered in my ear, “Who’s this guy?”

  “Mickey didn’t report on him?”

  “I don’t talk to Mickey all that much.”

  “Rocky is my landlord,” I answered. “He has the downstairs bedroom and bath, and three of us have an all-girl upstairs. All four of us share the living room and kitchen.”

  “Oh.” Mike was still frowning.

  “It was an all-girl house originally. Then one got married, and we were looking for a fourth. Rocky was a waiter in a restaurant where we ate a lot. We knew him pretty well, and I guess we felt a little sorry for him. He wanted a place in this neighborhood, because his longtime housemate had entered the AIDS hostel two streets over.”

  Mike hissed at me. “This guy has AIDS?”

  I could hear Rocky’s Cuizinart begin to buzz. “Actually, Rocky’s been tested and he’s not HIV-positive. But it wouldn’t matter much. None of us uses his toothbrush. Or anything.”

  Mike frowned.

  “When Rocky’s housemate died, he left his estate to Rocky. His family threatened to sue, so Rocky immediately put everything into heavily mortgaged real estate, figuring that would keep them from pushing too hard. He bought this house, and he bought into the Blue Flamingo on Parker Street.”

  “The Flamingo? Oh.”

  The Blue Flamingo, of course, is a gay bar. It’s the most respectable gay bar Grantham has, or so I’m told by the vice cops. No loud music, no naked dancers, no sex at the tables. I’d checked Rocky out before Martha, Brenda, and I let him move in, and I checked the Flamingo out when he bought into it.

  Mike was still frowning slightly as Rocky came in with two glasses of white wine. “I’m fixing carbonara,” he said. “I had to open a bottle of wine for the fourth of a cup that goes in it. You two might as well drink up the rest.”

  “We get this treatment from our landlord only on Sunday and Monday nights,” I told Mike. “He tends bar at the Flamingo every other evening.”

  “Spaghetti à la carbonara in fifteen minutes,” Rocky said. He went back into the kitchen.

  Mike and I sipped wine, and a long silence fell.

  “I had a hard time finding you,” Mike said.

  “It occurred to me tonight that you didn’t have my number, and you didn’t know how it was listed.”

  “I ran out to the car to ask for it, but I lost my nerve, in front of Mickey.”

  “That would have been a little embarrassing. I mean, I’m a liberated woman and all. I don’t care much what people think of me.” I couldn’t believe I was saying that, after the teeth-gnashing that had been going on ten minutes earlier. “But I don’t much like people knowing my business, either.” I sipped again. “I did try to call you, but you’re not in the book either. How’d you find me?”

  “I went by the station and ran a records check on your driver’s license. You don’t make things easy. Did you know this state believes your first name is Mary?”

  “Mary Nell. That’s the name my mother picked out for me.”

  “And when you got that license, you had a different street address.”

  “Shelter Hills Apartments. Martha and I lived there three months. Before we found this place. But how’d you find out where I’d moved? The post office—”

  “I wouldn’t be able to get anything from the post office. I checked the city directory from last year and found Martha Henry and you listed at the same apartment in Shelter Hills. In the new book she’s listed at this address. And luckily, you’re still roommates.”

  I laughed. “Why didn’t you call the Gazette office? They won’t give our numbers, but they’d call me and tell me to call you.”

  “I wasn’t sure you wanted me to do that.”

  I sipped my wine and looked away. Time to change the subject. “How’s the case going?” I asked.

  “Don’t you know? You got way ahead there for a while.”

  “Just a fluke. Who killed Bo?”

  “Maybe nobody. We won’t know a cause of death until noon tomorrow. Maybe not for a couple of weeks.”

  “Lashing Jack Sheridan refused to give up his weekend to do the autopsy, huh?”

  Mike laughed. “That’s about it. I guess all doctors are arrogant, and pathologists take it to the nth degree. Of course, I don’t really know anything. I was called in this morning only because I’d talked to Bo a long time yesterday. I’m not part of the investigation.”

  “Officially.”

  “At all.” His voice sounded firm. “Hammond got enough heat when I worked on the Coffee Cup case. I’m not doing that again while I’m a patrolman.”

  “So you’re not going to tell me anything about the case.”

  “I don’t know anything to tell.”

  “Did the guy in the Salvation Army uniform give Bo anything to eat? It sounds as if he might have been poisoned.”

  Mike looked at his wineglass very casually. “I really couldn’t say.”

  Ha. He’d evaded my question. The Salvation Army imposter really had given Bo something to eat.

  Mike spoke again. “Or it could be Bo just keeled over with a heart attack. Or a stroke. But it’s my turn to ask you something. How did your interview with the detectives go?”

  “You were there for it. All I got out of Hammond was the press briefing.”

  “I don’t mean your interview of him. I mean his interview of you.”

  I must have looked completely blank, because Mike spoke again.

  “You’re a witness, too, besides being a reporter. Didn’t Hammond ask you about Bo?”

  “About Bo?”

  “Yeah. About what Bo said to you Saturday. You know, at the end. When he grabbed you as all the guys ran in.”

  “Oh. No, Hammond didn’t ask about that. I’d forgotten it completely. I guess Hammond has, too.”

  Mike sipped his wine. “Well, he shouldn’t forget. I’ll remind him. Tactfully. What did Bo say, anyway?”

  “Oh, just some sort of drivel. It didn’t make sense. He claimed somebody was covering something up.”

  “Do you remember it exactly? Hammond will want to know.”

  I thought about it. “Well, at first I couldn’t understand just what Bo was trying to tell me. Then he got real close to my ear, and he said, ‘They killed’—somebody. Oh, I remember. He said, ‘They killed Eric. They made me cover it up.’”

  The effect of this on Mike was electrifying. He sat on the couch, completely immobile, with his wineglass halfway to his mouth. He looked as if he’d been turned into a redheaded fence post.

  His reaction frightened me. I put my hand on his knee. “Mike! What’s wrong?”

  He put the wineglass down, then grabbed me by both arms and whispered urgently.

  “Don’t tell Hammond that! Don’t tell anybody that! Whatever you do, don’t tell anybody what Bo said!”

  Chapter 10

  I was amazed beyond words. One minute Mike had been urging me to tell Hammond all. The next he was ordering me, pleading with me not to tell Hammond something that I now saw could be important.

  My face must have betrayed my shock, because Mike spoke again, more quietly, and eased his grip on my arms. “Please,” he said, “don’t say anything.”

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t you don’t know who Eric was? I thought you knew everything about everything about the Grantham Police Department.”

  “Well, I don’t know that. I figured it was a prisoner who died in custody or something. There are always questions about cases like that, but the department has strict rules for investigating the causes of death, and I didn’t see anything suspicious about either of the deaths that I covered during the past eighteen months. I thought Bo simply had something crosswise in that drugged-up mind of his. So, who was Eric?”

  Instead of answering, Mike got up, wa
lked across the room and tapped his toe against the unlit gas logs in our phony fireplace.

  “Who was Eric?”

  “It’s too crazy,” he said.

  “Who was Eric?”

  He shook his head. “Bo definitely had it wrong.”

  “Who was Eric?”

  “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Mike! Who was Eric?”

  He finally looked at me. “You really don’t know.”

  “No! Who was he?”

  “‘Eric’ was a code name the TAC team used.”

  “A code name? Who for?”

  He looked down and kicked the gas logs again. “It was a kind of a joke. ‘Eric the Red.’”

  “A joke?”

  “Yes. It was their code name for my dad.”

  Mike’s dad, Carl “Irish” Svenson, Grantham chief of police.

  “Eric the Red” would have been a better nickname than “Irish” for the man whose picture was on display in the entrance hall of the Central Station. Sure, he’d looked Irish if you saw only the open face and red hair. But those racial characteristics apply to Scandinavians as much as they do to the Irish. Once you knew his name, Carl Svenson looked as if he should be standing at the prow of a longboat, wearing a horned helmet. He’d been an Americanized version of a big Swede.

  Bo had said, “They killed Eric. They made me cover it up.” What did that mean?

  Irish Svenson had been killed in a car wreck. Of course, it’s possible to sabotage a car and cause a wreck. But I couldn’t believe Irish’s accident hadn’t been thoroughly investigated. He’d had a very high profile in law enforcement circles, after all.

  But Bo had been a mechanic. A mechanic for the Grantham City-County Maintenance System. He had worked on police and sheriff’s vehicles. The implication finally hit me.