The Violence Beat

by JoAnna Carl

  I laughed. I now knew the identity of Ace’s “usually reliable source.”

  Bear looked curious. “I didn’t realize it was funny for Ace and Guy to have a drink together.”

  “You just gave me a hot tip,” I said. “Thanks! And please don’t mention this to anybody else.”

  Bear and I ate in a companionable silence for a few minutes.

  Bear’s an enormous guy. Cameras look like toys in his giant hands. But he handles them gently. They’re his babies.

  Bear has the two physical abilities I think are vital to a good photographer. He has the eye to see the key moment, the moment that captures the action and tells the story, and he has the muscle coordination to hit the camera’s shutter at exactly the right nanosecond to catch that moment.

  But Bear has another physical characteristic that lifts him to the absolutely top rank news photographer. He can smile.

  The smile broadens his talents beyond action shots. He can take routine shots, too. He’s a master of grip-and-grin and “death-at-dawn”—also known as the “up against the wall and shoot’em.” Editors and photographers hate these posed shots, but they have to use them sometimes—to publicize the Junior League’s fashion show, maybe, or to honor the city’s Man of the Year. Bear can line up the amateur models or the awardees neatly, and just when they look so stiff they might break, he gives his special smile. Everybody smiles back, and the shot looks pretty close to natural.

  The editors and reporters love Bear, because we can count on him for a great shot in any situation. The question is, how soon will he get an offer he can’t refuse from the Associated Press or some slick magazine? Then he’ll be off to parts unknown, and the Gazette will be back to dud photos.

  Bear’s big personal problem is that girls tend to consider him a brother. He thinks of them in different terms. So his romantic life is either frustrating or nil. He began to tell me about his latest disappointment, and my mind began to wander to my own romantic quandary. Mike and I had only half made up after our big fight the night before. And now this stuff came up about his father’s taxes. Was our affair over anyway? Should I simply forget my personal concerns and skewer Irish Svenson’s reputation?

  I pondered this, giving the occasional nod of agreement to Bear, since I make it a firm rule not to give anybody else advice on their love life. Mentally, I was still deep in my own problems when Bear’s portable phone rang. That brought me back to reality.

  “Bear here.” He listened. “Yeah. Tell J.B. I’ll pick him up in front of the building in five minutes.”

  He closed the phone, stood up, and began putting on the windbreaker he’d hung on the back of his chair.

  “Another fight at the Lone Wolf Club,” he said. “Probably can’t get anything, but we’ll run on it. Thanks for listening to my troubles.”

  “Thanks to you for the tip on Ace and Guy Unitas. That’s a big help to me.”

  “Yeah. I see you’ve been working on something about Guy.”

  I laughed. “What makes you think that? I hadn’t given him a thought until you gave me that special little piece of gossip, showing that he was mixed up with Ace.”

  Bear shoved his arm through his jacket’s sleeve, then reached out a giant hand and used a finger the size of a bratwurst to tap on my notebook, the open notebook I’d left lying on the table.

  “I’ve been around newspapers enough to read upside down,” he said. Then he waved and walked away, leaving me staring at the notebook.

  I hadn’t given Guy Unitas a thought in days. I hadn’t spoken to him since the night of the celebration at The Fifth Precinct. He’d been at both press conferences I’d covered, but our paths hadn’t crossed. He’d been a constant presence on the periphery of my work, but of no concern to me.

  So why was his name the last thing written in my notebook?

  I stared at the page. “Guy Unitas.” That’s definitely what it said. But it wasn’t written in my handwriting.

  Had I gotten hold of someone else’s notebook? I picked the thing up and studied it. It was the kind of notebook I always use—seven-and-three-quarters-inches tall and five inches wide. Small enough to fit in a purse. Big enough to write several sentences on each page. It had a stiff cardboard cover, so I could write in it while I was standing up. It had a ring binder down the left-hand side, so that I could ruffle through it like a book. Everybody else at the Gazette uses an ordinary steno pad. I’m the only one who likes a notebook that opens like a book. I paged back a few pages. Yes, that was my writing, detailing the notes from Monday’s press briefing.

  This was definitely my notebook. But who had written in it? And why had that person written the name of Guy Unitas? And some numbers. Above Guy’s name were some numbers. And a phrase in quotes. It sounded like a resort.

  The entry was on five lines. “Guy Unitas—NO!” was on the first line. “San Simeon Beach” was on the next. Then “347809021.” Then “PUPID—A.P.B. president only” on the third line. The “only” was underlined. “Sorry to run out,” the next line read/1 have to protect Andy.”

  Andy? Who the heck was Andy?

  I puzzled over it some more. Ace. If Ace was getting information from Guy, could he have picked up my notebook by mistake and written in it?

  No, this wasn’t Ace’s writing.

  When had I last used the notebook? That morning I’d taken a few notes when I got a phone call. I’d put it in my purse and taken it along when I met the elusive Lee, who’d teased me with hints and then fled without telling me anything. I’d gotten it out when we ran into the Blue Flamingo, because the card with Mike’s phone number was paperclipped inside the front cover. I’d had it in my hand when I went into the ladies’ room. And I’d put it on the counter over the sink when I went into the stall. Then Lee had fled, Mike and I had chased her. When Mike had brought me back to the Flamingo, I’d gone in the ladies’ room and picked up my knee socks, my purse, and my notebook. I’d flipped the notebook shut and stuck it in my purse. And I hadn’t taken it out until I sat down to eat dinner.

  So the last time the notebook had been open was in the ladies’ room of the Flamingo. It had been lying open on the counter when Lee made her escape.

  “Hell’s bells!” I yelped it out as I understood the implications. Then I whispered under my breath. “Lee. Lee left a clue when she ran away. She wrote this.”

  I shoved my chair back and jumped up. I had to show the notebook to Mike right away.

  Chapter 19

  I was driving out of the Gazette parking garage before I remembered Mike wasn’t home. He’d told me he had to go somewhere. Where? The high school. Grantham Central High School. He was speaking to a club. “The athletes,” he’d said. Must be the lettermen’s club.

  I couldn’t wait until he got home, I decided. As a former star football player for Grantham Central, he was likely to run into some old buddies among the sports crowd. They might go for coffee. I drove to the high school.

  Today’s Grantham Central replaced the old building which had been turned into the Central Police Headquarters. It was around twenty-five-years old. I knew Mike had graduated from Central, because people kept telling me he had quarterbacked their football team to a state championship.

  Central is a sprawling structure of buff brick. The building, along with its playing fields, gymnasiums and parking lots, covers eight city blocks a half mile from the old school. The building’s only unusual architectural feature is some special brickwork. Altogether undistinguished, I thought. It must have been an artistic blow to move from the old building—inconvenient, but beautifully detailed and proportioned—to Plain Jane High, isolated amid a sea of parking lots.

  Those lots were semifull on a Tuesday evening, since Grantham high schools offer lots of adult-ed classes. I took a guess at where the C-Club would meet and headed for the gymnasium wing. Mike’s black pickup, complete with camper shell, was
in the row nearest the building. I had to park two rows back. The rain had stopped, but I leaped a few puddles. No one was in sight, so even the well-lit parking lot seemed a bit spooky as I walked toward the building. The hall inside was bright, and to my dismay, someone I knew was walking toward me.

  Coy-the-Cop.

  “Nell?” he said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Duh,” I answered, employing my usual quick wit. But associating with the sneaky Mike Svenson had changed my character; I came up with a lie. “I heard Mike Svenson was speaking. I thought that it might fit in with the feature we’re looking at. On community policing.” We do a feature on community policing three or four times a year, so that was probably a good enough excuse. “What are you doing here?”

  “I always try to check in whenever any of our guys is speaking,” Coy said. “But Mike doesn’t need me. I was just leaving. See you later.”

  He went out, and I walked down the hall until I came to an open door. Inside, in a sort of lecture room which held seventy-five or a hundred kids, Mike was standing at a podium. He looked up when the door opened, and he saw me come in. He smiled slightly. My insides squeezed tight. Hell’s bells! My hormones were rampaging around in response to a mere smile, and I was finding the sensation scary. Until Mike Svenson took over my life, I’d had everything under control.

  I slid into a school desk in the back row while a tall thin girl with “basketball” written all over her asked Mike why he became a policeman.

  “I always swore I wouldn’t go into law enforcement,” he said. “I knew my dad had found it satisfying, though there were a lot of things he didn’t like about being chief. Especially the time he had to ask his best friend to resign. But I always said it didn’t appeal to me. I used to claim that hassling people wasn’t my style, even though I knew that wasn’t a very good description of what law enforcement really is. The truth is, I was afraid I wouldn’t have the nerve to be a law officer.

  “Then, the summer after my freshman year in college, I got a security job. It was nothing special. Gate man at an apartment complex. I definitely was not called on to carry a gun!

  “The third day I was on duty, one of the women tenants called the gate and said she had filed a protective order against her ex-boyfriend. I was to let the locksmith in to change her locks. She ended up, ‘For God’s sake, don’t let anybody in a silver BMW in. The jerk beat me to a pulp last night, and he says he’s coming back with a gun today.’

  “Well, the jerk in the silver BMW showed up before the locksmith. I felt pretty sure it was him, because a pistol was lying on the floor of the front seat. I don’t think he knew I could see it, but I was sitting up high, looking down into the car. I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I wasn’t going to let him in that gate. So I told him the gate was broken. Then I called the manager and told him to call 911. He didn’t believe me. He came out to see why this stupid kid, brand-new on the job, couldn’t open the gate.”

  That got a laugh from the teenagers.

  “It turned into a Keystone Kops’ deal, with the manager in a panic. But I’d been around police work a lot, so I knew that talking is usually more useful than a pistol.” Mike grinned. “And I was a pretty good talker, even then. So I kept talking to the guy. The girl in the office had the sense to call the cops. They showed up, luckily without sirens. The patrol officers were able to walk up to the car without spooking the guy. And the whole thing ended peacefully.”

  Mike leaned on the podium. “But I found out something about myself. I might have been shaking like a leaf when they took the guy away, but I hadn’t panicked while it was going on. And I had to admit that I’d enjoyed the whole episode. I enjoyed it for the same reasons I liked playing football. You practice and practice, and it’s just drudgery. Then Friday night comes and you’re on the field, and you’re playing for keeps. And you’re almost surprised to find out that all that preparation pays off. Whatever you do goes in the record book.

  “You have the satisfaction of knowing that you stayed in the pocket and threw the pass, just the way the coach drew off the play, and the team made a touchdown. Or that you stopped a car that ran a red light and you walked up to it cautiously, just the way department procedure says you should, and you collared an armed robber. And because you followed the rules about searching the car and reading the guy his rights, it’s a good collar. The DA gets a conviction. It goes in the record book, just the way a touchdown would. That’s very satisfying.

  “Anyway, that fall I changed my major to criminal justice, and I’ve never regretted my career choice.”

  Mike answered a few more questions. I sat waiting for him to finish. I clutched the notebook to my bosom. The knowledge of what Lee had written made the cardboard feel as though it were about to burst into flames, or as though the book were glowing with neon lights. I started to hide it in my purse, but I couldn’t stand to put it down. I had to keep hold of it, as if it might float away if it wasn’t in my hot little hand.

  Finally, Mike finished with, “Thanks to Coach King for asking me to come tonight. And Ho! Ho! Go! Central!” He received a nice round of applause and a chorus of “Ho! Ho! Go!” in response, even though the Central cheerleaders did not seem to be in attendance. I admit, however, that quite a few girl athletes were present.

  Then Mike had to shake hands with all the coaches, who hung around until most of the kids had left. He kept edging up the aisle toward me, but the oldest coach—a bald guy—stuck right at his heels. As they drew near, Mike was saying, “Sorry, Coach. I’ve got another commitment tonight.” He gestured at me. “Have you met Nell Matthews, from the Gazette? We’re working on a project, and I promised her that after this meeting we could get together to go over some things.”

  Mike had been right the night before, when he pointed out that we were both liars. I’d lied to Coy as I came in, and he was lying to his former high school coach as we went out. And we’d both done an excellent job of it. Made it look really casual and truthful. Was he destroying my character or making me face the truth about myself?

  I shook hands with the coach, but I didn’t stand up. Mike said, “Are you ready to go?”

  “I wanted to show you something. Can we stay here, under the lights, for a minute?”

  The coach told us we had ten or fifteen minutes before the custodian would be in to close up, and Mike squeezed into the school desk beside me.

  I flipped the notebook open and showed it to him. “Mike, I didn’t write this.” I was surprised to hear my own voice. I was almost whispering. “I think Lee must have written it, right before she ran off.”

  He frowned as he read the entry. Then he whistled softly. “Guy Unitas? How could Guy fit into this?”

  “I don’t know. Of course, Guy knows everything about everybody in the Grantham PD. Is there something Lee wants us to ask him?”

  Mike shook his head. “I wouldn’t assume that, unless she told you something you haven’t mentioned.”

  It was my turn to shake my head.

  Then we both sat there and stared at the notebook. “San Simeon Beach. Guy Unitas. PUPID? What can that mean? President only. And a bunch of numbers,” Mike said. “Maybe the first thing to do is get some information on Guy. Maybe I can beg, bribe or blackmail Shelly into looking at his records from back when he was a PD employee.” He looked at his watch. “It’s nearly nine o’clock. I can call her tomorrow at her office.”

  I had an inspiration. “We can get some information on him tonight. The Gazette files. I can pull up what’s been printed about him since the Gazette went to this library system. That’s about ten years.”

  We waved at the custodian, who was coming down the hall as we left, and went into the parking lot. Mike walked me to my Dodge and agreed to follow me to the Gazette.

  “This time of night there’ll be plenty of room,” I said. “Just don’t park next to the building. Those spots go
to the circulation crew. And the pressroom parks at the back.”

  It was nine o’clock by the time we pulled into the first floor of the Gazette’s parking lot. The dim lights cast their usual weird shadows.

  I took Mike in the front door, so the security guard would know I’d brought him in. He didn’t have to have a pass or anything, but the guard gets curious if you bring people in the back and he only gets a glimpse of them on the closed-circuit television. We took the elevator to the third floor. I waved at Ruth Borah as we headed to the back of the building, to the door with the sign reading LIBRARY.

  “I thought old newspapers were filed in a morgue,” Mike said.

  “Not since the computer age arrived. Another bit of colorful tradition gone.” I opened the door and turned on the lights. Three video display terminals and three bookshelves full of old and new phone books, encyclopedias, yearbooks, and atlases just about filled the room. I pointed to a door at the back. “Through there—that’s the old morgue. That’s where the bound newspapers and the microfilm and the filing cabinets full of clippings are.”

  Mike waved at the VDTs. “Can you work these?” “Sure. Most of the staff can. That’s why it’s open at night, even though there’s no librarian on duty. Actually, we usually access it without leaving our desks.” I sat down at the nearest VDT and opened the system. “Shall we start with the latest year?”

  “Sure.”

  I told the system I wanted everything on Guy Unitas for the current year. It wasn’t more than a dozen stories. “No big negotiations this year,” I said. “Guy’s hardly made the news.”

  Mike looked over my shoulder, making me uncomfortably aware of his presence, and we scanned the stories on the screen. Everything looked routine—APB Christmas drive for underprivileged kids, the APB annual fishing derby—until a long list of names appeared on the screen.

  “What’s that?” Mike asked.