The Violence Beat

by JoAnna Carl

  I’d been well taken care of by my grandparents, true. I’d never lacked for food or clothing, or for love. But the love hadn’t come from my father. He had never cared enough to see me.

  And sometimes I’m eight years old again and remember telling my dad, “Just leave me alone!” Not knowing that he’d leave me alone for the rest of my life.

  My emotional storm lasted only a minute. Then I regained control. But it lasted long enough that my nose started running. I pulled back, but Mike held me tightly.

  “If you don’t let me go, you’re going to have a shirt pocket full of snot,” I told his chest.

  He laughed and eased his grip, and I pulled a paper napkin from the holder in the center of the table. “Sorry,” I said. Then I blew my nose. “Sorry to be so stupid. Those of us from nonfunctional families have trouble handling functional ones. That’s a nice story you told.”

  “It doesn’t usually get that big a reaction. In fact, I don’t think I ever told it to anybody before.”

  “It’s a winner.”

  Mike rested his cheek on the top of my head. “Listen, Nell,” he said. “When I was a sixteen-year-old smartass, I thought my parents were really dumb. Now I see that they had it right. Affection. Respect. And responsibility. I think I handle those three. As long as they’re all mutual. I may be sneaky, but I don’t think I’m mean.”

  Damn him. He was an expert at saying exactly the right thing. I guess I would have simply melted into a heap at his feet, but just as my knees were beginning to buckle, the telephone rang. I leaned against Mike, letting it ring until Martha answered upstairs, but it was no use. She hollered down the stairs. “It’s for you, Nell!”

  I blew my nose on another napkin, cleared my throat, and picked up the kitchen extension.

  “Nell!” It was Ace.

  “Yes.”

  “Can you get down here? I finally got hold of my source this afternoon. He was cagey, but I got the evidence out of him.”

  “Great, Ace,” I lied. “What did he give you?”

  “He’s handed over the evidence that will hang Irish Svenson. And it’s irrefutable. Straight from the IRS.”

  I’ll always hope my face didn’t show Mike the conflicting emotions that were racing around in my confused heart as it sank toward my tennies.

  First, I couldn’t believe Ace actually had what he said he had.

  Second, I wanted to tell Mike about it. Share the responsibility.

  Third, I knew I couldn’t tell Mike about it. Yet.

  Fourth, I knew that Mike’s sneakiness was nothing. Nothing compared with the deal I was pulling on him. Making love with him one minute and plotting to ruin his father’s memory the next.

  Fifth, I knew that if Ace printed material damaging to his dad, Mike would never forgive me. I wouldn’t have to worry about sorting out my feelings toward him, because he’d spit every time he heard my name for the rest of his life.

  “I’ll come right down,” I told Ace. I hung up.

  Mike frowned. “I hoped I could talk you into an early dinner,” he said. “I’ve got someplace to go later.”

  “I’ve got to go back to work,” I answered. “I may be there all evening.”

  He carried our mugs over to the sink. “Call me when you get through. I told the Grantham Central coach I’d speak to the C-Club tonight. The athletes. But I ought to be home by nine or so.”

  “Listen, Mike,” I said. “Maybe we’d better let things cool for a few days. This special deal Jake’s got me working on—I can’t drop it.”

  “Big scandal?”

  “I hope not.”

  Mike laughed. “Some reporter you are! Big scandals are supposed to be meat and drink to reporters.”

  “Guess I’m losing my instinct to go for the jugular.” My stomach was churning again, but this time it was fright, not sexual excitement. What if Ace really did have the goods on Irish Svenson? What if Grantham’s fabled honest police chief really had been up to something crooked? What if he had been as sneaky as his son—but had been mean, along with it?

  I practically shoved Mike out of the house, then I headed for the office, wearing Lee’s plastic raincoat. I used my electronic card to get in the back door. My feet were like lead as I went up the stairs to the newsroom.

  The area was almost empty. The day crew had gone home, and the night crew was probably at dinner. Ruth Borah was alone at the city desk, holding down the phone until the rest of the editors got back. Ace was alone in the cop reporters’ pod of desks, sitting at my VDT, reading my computer screen.

  His face lit up when he saw me. “Hey, Nell! We got ’im!”

  “Calm down, Ace. Just what do you have?”

  “This!” Ace’s gloated. He picked up a sheet of paper from the desktop and waved it back and forth like a flag.

  I had to snatch it away from him. I saw that it was a photocopy of a federal tax form. 1099-MISC, was printed in the top left corner. The form identified “Balew Brothers Construction” as “payer.” Below the “Payer’s Federal identification number” and the “Recipient’s identification number” was the name of the “recipient.”

  “Carl J. Svenson,” it read.

  Balew Brothers had gotten the contract for turning the old Grantham High School building into the Central Station, headquarters of the Grantham Police Department. Irish Svenson had recommended that they get the contract, despite previous problems they’d had with city projects.

  The form reported a payment to “Carl J. Svenson.”

  The amount of money was about a tenth of the total cost of turning the Grantham Central High School building into the Grantham Police Department Headquarters and Central District Station.

  It would have been enough to provide Irish Svenson with a very comfortable retirement, even if he went to another country and took a girlfriend with him.

  Chapter 18

  Ace was chortling, of course.

  “You didn’t believe me, did you?” He laughed. “You’d bought into the Honest Irish Svenson myth entirely.”

  “I never met Irish Svenson.” My answer was automatic. I was reading the photocopy of the IRS form more thoroughly. It still said the same thing. “Where did you get this?”

  “A usually reliable source.”

  “Come on, Ace! I can’t believe this unless I know where you got it.”

  “I’m not tellin’. But it’s the real item. Now we’ve got a story.” He rubbed his hands together gleefully.

  “Has Jake seen this?” I asked.

  “No, he’s still out at that meeting in Oklahoma City. He wasn’t planning to come back to the office. But when I call him about this, he’ll come in.”

  “No. Don’t call Jake.”

  “Nell, he’ll have a hissy fit if we print this without telling him about it first.”

  “Print this? What do you mean? You can’t print this.”

  Ace puffed up like a rooster. “Not print it? Why the hell not?”

  “We haven’t established its authenticity. This is just a photocopy of a supposed tax form.”

  “A dammed incriminating tax form!”

  He was right about that. If Balew Brothers had paid Irish Svenson major bucks as a “consultation fee” after the chief recommended that the company get the big construction contract, it would have been conflict of interest and illegal as all get out. But I had a naive idea that a news story ought to include both sides of a question, that someone accused in print ought to be given the chance to explain or deny—in the same issue of the paper in which his actions were questioned.

  I believed it should be done that way all the time, even when the accused person wasn’t the father of my boyfriend. Or ex-boyfriend. Or two-night stand. Or person who saved me from a madman with a gun. Or whatever Mike was to me.

  Besides there was an element of stupidity to
the form.

  “Look, Ace,” I said. “I never heard of anybody making an illegal payment—what amounts to a bribe—by check. Then turning in a record of it to the IRS. That’s the dumbest thing they could do. If I were taking a bribe, I’d demand cash. And I’d take a cruise to the Caymans, and nobody would ever know a thing about it.”

  “That’s part of the story. It was supposedly handled incorrectly by the accounting department at Balew Brothers. Now they’re trying to cover it up. I tell you! It’s the real item!”

  “Well, I don’t believe it,” I said. “Besides, before we can print a thing, we’ll have to talk to Irish Svenson’s family. Find out if they know anything about this. If there was any record of it when his estate was settled.”

  “Irish is dead,” Ace said. “You can’t libel a dead man.”

  “Balew Brothers isn’t dead,” I said. “It would be as illegal for them to pay this as it would be for Irish Svenson to accept it. And Balew Brothers has good lawyers.”

  Ace opened and shut his yap a couple of times, but he didn’t have an answer to that.

  I pressed my point. “I suggest that we wait until morning and talk to Jake before we do anything else,” I said. “He’ll want to keep a close eye on a story this hot. And if we talk to Mrs. Svenson before we talk to him, and she reacts by calling down here and raising hell—well, Jake needs to know what she’s talking about when she calls.”

  Ace wasn’t happy, but he had to agree I was right. He kept arguing, just to be annoying, until J.B. came in. I turned my back on him then and leaned on the top of J.B.’s VDT. Ace gave up and began writing something, using my VDT.

  I was curious about the investigation into the death of Bo Jenkins, especially since Mike had let the source of the poison slip.

  “Did Hammond have anything new to say about the death of Bo Jenkins this afternoon?” I asked J.B.

  “What about?”

  “The poison that was used.”

  “No. In fact, he said he still didn’t have a final report from the ME.”

  I drummed my fingers on the top of the VDT.

  “What’d you hear?” J.B. leaned toward me, giving me that boyish look that wins over his news sources. I keep reminding myself that he’s older than I am. He makes me feel as if I’m his mother. “What’s Hammond up to?” he asked.

  I didn’t know what to tell him. If Hammond was passing information around, it was going to get out soon. But J.B. might not hear it as quickly as I would have. I’m not necessarily a better reporter than he is, but I’ve been around the Grantham PD a year longer, and I simply know more people. He might not know the questions to ask. And he was now officially the reporter covering the death of Bo Jenkins.

  I glanced at Ace, who was tapping away at my VDT. He wasn’t paying any attention to us. Then I lowered my voice. “I heard there’s a chance the poison that did Bo in came from a very interesting source.”

  “Where?”

  “I can’t tell you.” I glanced at Ace. He was still typing, apparently ignoring us. “But if my information is right, it would be very hot. Better keep on Hammond.”

  “What did you hear? Who told you?” J.B.’s voice was excited.

  “I got it from a usually reliable source,” I said, mocking Ace’s portentous tone. “But it’s strictly unconfirmed. I’m only tipping you because I know you’ll keep your mouth shut. But keep after Hammond. Or Coy-the-Cop.”

  “Okay. Source of poison important.” J.B. tapped his forehead. “Saved to active file.”

  “Good.” J.B. would tell me if it turned out that Bo Jenkins’s death was linked to the cop shop. Of course, Mike and I felt confident that was true. But our unofficial investigation had focused on his father’s death, not on Bo’s. Mike was being punctilious about leaving that up to Hammond and regular channels.

  But if Hammond would confirm that the poison came from the evidence room, the case would break wide open, so to speak. The evidence room was not open to just anyone, even to just any cop. They had to sign in and sign out, and they had to have a reason to be in it.

  Yet things like that did happen. A few years ago a law officer in another state was surprised while stealing drugs from an evidence room. He tried to shoot his way out and killed two fellow officers.

  “You might give Hammond a ring,” I said. “Just ask him if he’s got confirmation on the type of poison used. Then just casually ask if he knows the source.”

  J.B. nodded.

  I walked around the pod of crime reporters’s desks and stared at Ace. “How come you’re hanging around?”

  “I’m just making a few printouts,” he said. “I’m going to leave in a minute. Do you need your desk? I can do the same thing somewhere else.”

  “No. I’m leaving.”

  I didn’t want to cook anything, so I walked down to Goldman’s in the rain. Goldman’s isn’t too crowded at night, since the courthouse and downtown financial services crowd goes home at five-thirty. The deli menu doesn’t offer steaks or fried chicken, but if your dinner preferences run to a bowl of chili and a hunk of cornbread, it’s great. The night crew from the Gazette goes there a lot.

  I picked up my chili, cornbread, and iced tea at the counter, carried the tray into the small dining room at the back and hid behind a low-hanging pot of ferns. I opened my notebook and put it on the table, but I tried not to read it. I just wanted something to pretend to stare at. Somebody I knew was sure to show up at Goldman’s, and I didn’t want to talk. I needed to think.

  Because I didn’t know what to do. Call Mike? Or not call Mike?

  How could I fail to tip Mike off to the scandal which was likely to involve his father? But a news story had to be developed in an orderly manner. It would throw the whole thing off if Mike knew about the tax form before Ace, Jake, and I were ready. I didn’t see how I could tell him.

  I ate chili and kept my eyes on the notebook, staring beyond it at my quandary, until a hulking figure sat down opposite me. Hell’s bells! I didn’t want to see anybody.

  I looked up and was relieved to see that it was only Bear Bennington, nobody I had to be nice to. Bear and I work together so much that we just growl along.

  “Hi,” I said. “You working tonight?”

  “Yeah. I can use the overtime. You look like you’re on a big story.”

  “Just hiding out, actually.”

  Bear picked up the dijon mustard and spread a massive amount on his hamburger bun. “I’ve been wanting to ask you a question,” he said.

  “Shoot.”

  “Who is this guy who hangs around with the cop reporters?”

  “What does he look like?”

  Bear looked at me in amazement. “Guy. You know what he looks like. I’ve seen you talking to him. That guy that hangs around. Guy.”

  The light broke. “Oh! You mean his name is Guy.”

  “Yeah.” Bear grinned. “Only guy I ever met named Guy.”

  “That’s Guy Unitas. He’s business manager for the Affiliated Police Brotherhood.”

  “How come he hangs around with reporters?”

  “He used to be a cop reporter, twenty years ago. Got so interested in the job he sold out and joined the force. Or at least Grantham PD hired him as PIO. I don’t think he was ever in uniform. Then, about the time Irish Svenson took over as chief, he left. That’s when Coy-the-Cop became PIO. And Guy took the union job.”

  Bear nodded and gulped down a bite of his hamburger. I watched to see if the mustard sent smoke out his ears.

  “He’s the nosiest guy—man—I ever met,” Bear said.

  “Yeah. He knows everything about every cop on the force, and he tells it all. He’s the biggest gossip in Grantham. A character flaw I frequently find quite useful.”

  “Well, you might not like it this time. He’s gossiping about you. Tried to pump me about who you were
dating.”

  I thought about that a minute. If anybody in Grantham could worm the information out that I was seeing Mike Svenson, it would be Guy Unitas. He probably knew more about our affair than I did.

  I must have frowned, because Bear made reassuring noises. “Heck, Nell, I don’t know anything about your social life. I couldn’t tell him anything, even if I wanted to.”

  I decided to laugh Guy off, so I chuckled. “If he finds something out, it’ll be old news. What social life I have seems to be in a continual state of upset. Don’t worry about it. Guy passes gossip on to the press, so he expects to be paid off in the same coin. I make sure I give him a tidbit or two. I think we all do.”

  Bear swallowed another giant bite. “I guess that’s why he was hanging out with Ace.”

  “Ace? That’s a little odd. Guy usually confines his reporter acquaintances to cop reporters. Ace doesn’t usually cover crime. But Ace sucks up to anybody, of course.”

  “Well, they were having a drink together this afternoon.”

  Guy and Ace had had a drink together? That afternoon? A dim light began to glow on the horizon.

  “I had to shoot a grip-and-grin in the Plaza ballroom,” Bear said. “Those two were in the back booth in the lobby bar.”

  I mentally translated Bear’s statement. He’d gone to Grantham’s biggest hotel, the Grantham Plaza, to take a presentation picture—called a “grip-and-grin” because of the shake-hands-and-smile pose these pictures require. And as he’d walked into the hotel, he’d seen Ace-the-Ass and Guy Unitas in the bar off the lobby.

  That bar was not a Grantham hangout. Too expensive for locals like Ace and Guy. It usually drew hotel guests. The clear implication was that Guy and Ace were having a private meeting.