The Violence Beat

by JoAnna Carl

  Beginning with his girlfriend, the woman Wilda swore he admitted he was seeing.

  Who could this alleged girlfriend have been? Irish had been pretty busy the last few years of his life. He’d been running a large police department, dealing with city councilmen, and campaigning for a new Central Station. He hadn’t had a lot of time to be running around on his wife. Or even for getting out and meeting women to run around with.

  Well, the classic affair was a man and his secretary. And Irish’s secretary had been Shelly Marcum Smith, the former high school girlfriend of his son. An attractive woman with a jealous husband.

  I thought about Shelly and Rowdy. Hmmm. That was a definite possibility. Or, at least Rowdy was. And if he was an electrician, we could assume he was reasonably mechanical. He’d probably know how to sabotage a car, how to cause a wreck. I suppose he could have called Irish, asked to meet him at the Panorama.

  And, of course, the first suspect in any killing is the victim’s spouse. Wilda? It didn’t seem likely, but who knew?

  Or how about the spouse’s boyfriend? Mickey and Wilda said they hadn’t been seeing each other before Irish died. I believed them—I thought. But considering that Mickey already had a grievance against Irish, possibly quite a legitimate grievance—well, it was interesting.

  I looked back at the printout of subscribers, and another address made me catch my breath, an action which made me grab my ribs and groan. It was a newsstand. Some Tulsa newsstand got a half dozen copies of the Gazette every day. What if Lee dropped by and bought one of them? Then her name wouldn’t be on the subscription list. And the Oklahoma City and Tulsa public libraries both received copies of the Gazette. If she read it in either of those places, we might never figure out who she was.

  Hell’s bells. I scanned through the list, marking places where the public would have access to Gazettes. When I got to the Dallas list, a name caught my eye. “Lovers Lane Newsstand.” Why did that ring a bell?

  I haven’t hung out in Dallas all that much, but I’ve been there a few times, and I knew that Lovers Lane—despite its frivolous name—is a major east-west artery. And I’d heard that name recently. I was sure “Lovers Lane” had come up in conversation during the past few days. But who had mentioned it? When? What, where, why, or how? What in heaven’s name—

  “Church,” I said out loud. “Lovers Lane Presbyterian.”

  Mike had said the former pastor of the Grantham First Presbyterian—a friend of his father’s—was now minister of Lovers Lane Presbyterian Church in Dallas. And Mickey had told us that particular minister had called Irish the day before Irish was killed. My adrenaline began to surge.

  Don’t get excited, I told myself. Lovers Lane runs clear across Dallas. The church and the newsstand may be miles apart. And even if they’re across the street, it doesn’t mean there’s any connection.

  But I got up, groaning, and went back to the library for a Dallas phone book. The church and the newsstand were about five blocks apart. Bingo! This could be it.

  I made a note of the phone numbers for each. Back at my desk, I called the newsstand. “Hi,” I said, “I’m with the Grantham Gazette, and we’re running a check on our mail subscribers.” Another lie. Since Mike had complimented me on how well I lied, I’d been noticing how often I did it.

  “I see that your business receives two copies of the Gazette daily.”

  “That’s right. I usually manage to sell both of them, but I don’t need any more.”

  I laughed lightly. “Oh, I’m not trying to increase mail subscriptions. We’re simply trying to figure out what demographic group our publication appeals to. Are these papers purchased by former Grantham residents?”

  “Well, one is. He’s a salesman. He always stops for breakfast at the restaurant next door. Drops in here to buy a cigar. And he always asks for ‘the hometown paper.’ Kinda laughs.”

  I kinda laughed, too. “And the second purchaser?”

  “I don’t know much about her. Pretty young woman. Works around here someplace. I don’t know why she doesn’t take the paper at home. But she asked me to order her a copy, so I do. But she didn’t come in this morning.”

  I got his name, because a reporter learns always to make a record of who she talked to. Always. Then I thanked him and hung up.

  His words had excited and scared me. Lee could definitely be called a “pretty young woman.” It sounded as if I’d struck pay dirt. But why hadn’t she picked up her paper that morning? And what could be the connection with the minister Irish had known? Or was there one?

  The phone rang, and I jumped sky high. It was the librarian, telling me the clippings from the old files were ready. I went back and picked up three file folders of material on Guy Unitas and the Amalgamated Police Brotherhood. When I went back to the newsroom, the police reporters’ pod of desks was still deserted.

  “Where is that guy?” I said aloud.

  “Who?” Ruth Borah asked the question as she walked toward the city desk.

  “J.B. or Chuck. I’m dying to know the latest on the death of Guy Unitas, and neither of them has showed up. Not even Ace the Ass is here.”

  “He won’t be either,” Ruth said. “Jake called the AP bureau chief about Ace. I don’t think he’ll be changing any more stories for the Gazette without mentioning it to the editors.”

  “Hurrah! Is he being transferred?”

  “He may be transferred right out of the news business.” Ruth gestured at the newsroom clock. “It’s time for Channel Four’s midafternoon update. Would you mind catching it?”

  “Sure.” All news media keep an eye on each other. The television stations subscribe to the Gazette and listen to the radio. The radio stations read our stories straight out of the paper, without changing a word. Police reporters keep one ear tuned to the radio stations. Some staff member is assigned to listen to the news on Channel Four at three-thirty, at six, and at ten p.m. We summarize their stories and give the list to the city editor. But we’d never run anything we got off the radio or television without checking it with the source.

  So I walked over to the television set mounted on the wall behind the city desk and punched it on. The first item on the news was Guy Unitas’s death at the Grantham International Airport. They had a sound bite from Jim Hammond, and I caught a glimpse of Mike in one long shot. J.B. was covering that.

  It was the next item that really got my attention.

  “Grantham Police are asking the public for help in identifying the body of a young woman who was found dead on Bridge Road around ten o’clock this morning,” the daytime anchor said in his usual unctuous tones. “She was the apparent victim of a hit and run accident, but no identification has been found. Police said she had been knocked into a ditch. Her body might not have been found for weeks, but a city mowing crew happened to visit the area today for routine maintenance.

  “This young woman is believed to be in her middle to late twenties, about five feet, five inches tall, with light brown hair and gray eyes,” the voice went on. “She was wearing a blue suit, off-white blouse, and high-heeled pumps. Police artists will have a drawing of her later today.”

  I was staring at the screen and feeling my stomach sink to my toes. “Lee,” I said. “Damn. Damn, damn, damn.”

  I turned to Ruth Borah. Her eyes were narrow and watchful.

  “They got her,” I said. “Oh, Ruth! She came to me for help, and somehow it led her into a trap. They’ve killed her.”

  Chapter 23

  “I’ll have to go to the police,” I said. “Ruth, I’m sure this had some connection with the death of Guy Unitas. And that’s going to be a big story.”

  “It sounds as if Guy killed this girl, then was trying to get away,” Ruth said. “I hope you won’t have to go to the morgue. But you’d better go on over and see if you can ID her.”

  “I may recognize her as Lee,” I s
aid. “But I don’t know her name. Maybe this newsstand in Dallas will be a lead.”

  I scooped up the printout and my notebook from my desk. God, I hoped the dead woman wasn’t Lee.

  I automatically started on the usual route I took to walk to the Central Station. I went down the backstairs to the first-floor break room, then out the door that led to the loading dock and maintenance garage. I was opening the door to the street when the intercom boomed out, right over my head.

  “Nell Matthews! Nell Matthews! Where are you going? Call the main security desk immediately!”

  I nearly had a heart attack. It was as if God had found out my sins and was singling me out for retribution.

  I gasped, grabbed my sore ribs, and remembered. I’d promised Mike I wouldn’t leave the building, and he’d given Bill Martin the job of keeping an eye on me.

  I looked up at the security camera over my head. I’d always suspected the guards didn’t ever look at the images those closed-circuit television cameras broadcast to their desk at the front entrance. Now I knew better.

  I might have flouted Mike’s instructions, but I wanted to get along with Bill Martin. So I went back to the break room and called him.

  “Sorry, Bill,” I said. “I forgot I’m not supposed to leave. But I have to go over to the PD. It’s really important.”

  “Just a minute.” Bill put me on hold, but in a minute he was back. “Nell, Holman will take the desk. I’ll drive you over to the PD. Stay at the loading dock. I’ll sign out a car and pick you up.”

  As we drove into the parking lot of the Central Station, Bill Martin repeated his instructions from Mike. “I’m not supposed to let you go wandering off.”

  “If there’s any place in Grantham where I’ll be safe, it’s police headquarters,” I said. “Just let me out at the side door, the one to the PD staff parking lot. I won’t go any place but Hammond’s office.”

  “Just don’t go sneaking off, okay?”

  I patted his arm. “I’ll go straight to Hammond’s office. I’ll stay there. I promise.”

  He let me out at the side door, and I went into the detective division office. It was almost empty. No detectives interviewing suspects. No tired-looking women pleading for their men. No young toughs in handcuffs.

  Nobody was there but Peaches Atkinson, the famous clerk of the detective division, who had terrorized Mike on the phone earlier. In thirty-five years with the Grantham PD, Peaches had proved she could dominate the good guys and the bad guys. Both the crooks and the detectives were terrified of her. She was six feet tall and two-hundred-pounds wide, sixty years old, and tougher than the average boot heel. Her rattrap of a face was topped off by limp white hair that always reminded me of the angel hair used to trim Christmas trees, and a phone was permanently installed between her left ear and her shoulder. She was speaking into that receiver, and the room echoed with the sound of two more phones ringing.

  “Yes, I have your number,” she said. “I’ll have a detective call you as soon as I have one available.”

  She punched a disconnect button, but the noise level in the room went up, since the phone immediately began to ring again. Peaches ignored all three lines. Telephones didn’t boss Peaches around any more than Jim Hammond did.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked me. “I thought you’d be out at the airport with the rest of the press.”

  “No. I’m not on the police beat today. I’m here as a citizen. I think I know who Jane Doe is.”

  Peaches rolled her eyes. “That’s the least of our worries now,” she said. “She’s not going anyplace.” She punched at the phone. “Detective Division.”

  I waited until Peaches dispatched another caller.

  “Is Hammond still out at the airport?”

  She nodded.

  “What about Mike Svenson?”

  “With Captain Hammond,” she said shortly. She tapped a phone button again. “Detective Division.”

  What now? I decided I’d better wait, at least until somebody came in to spell Peaches on the phone, so she could explain what was going on. Or maybe, with any luck, Jim Hammond and Mike would come back.

  Anyway, I’d promised to wait there until Bill Martin parked the car and came in. I sat down near the door to the hallway and began looking at the computer printout I had grabbed as I left my desk. Whoops! Under it was a file folder from the Gazette library. That folder wasn’t supposed to leave the building. I’d have to keep close guard on it and make sure it got back.

  Waiting, I idly leafed through the folder, which contained the information on the A.P.B., the background that was too old to be in the computer files. It was mostly clippings—Guy as a union steward officer getting some award from the state Labor Department, Guy testifying on public employees’ unions before the state legislature, and lots more. There was also a typed resumé dated fifteen years back.

  I was still reading it when a movement outside the door caught my eye. Someone had flashed by. Had it been Coy?

  Maybe he could tell me what was going on, where all the detectives were.

  It took me a few seconds to make sure all the clippings were in the file folder. Then I jumped up and looked out the door. Coy was walking quickly down the hall, headed toward his own office.

  “Coy!” I called.

  All in one motion Coy whirled, crouched, and reached his hand under his suit coat, toward his back. This was quite a trick, because he was carrying a blue bundle over his left shoulder, almost as if it were a baby.

  After his flurry of whirling, crouching, and reaching, he stood immobile, knees bent, looking at me intently. His right hand was still behind him, under his suit coat. He didn’t smile or even speak.

  “Good night, Coy!” I said. “I thought you were going to draw on me.”

  Coy straightened up and pulled his hand from behind his coat. “What are you doing here?” he said. “I thought you were in the hospital and out of my hair.”

  “They didn’t keep me. I’ve come over to do my duty as a citizen, to tell the detectives what I know about that Jane Doe. If she’s the same person.”

  Coy took a step toward me. “Just what do you know about Jane Doe?”

  “Maybe nothing. But she could be an anonymous news source.”

  “Anonymous?”

  “Yes. She called several times and I met her once, but she never told me her name.”

  “I see.” A smile flitted over Coy’s face.

  I gestured toward the detective office with my thumb. “I’m trying to be a good citizen, but there’s not a single detective here. Peaches says everybody’s still out at the airport.”

  Coy laughed harshly. “Hell, Nell, I can’t stop to discuss it with you. I’ve got to take care of a couple of things.” He pivoted and started on down the hall. “Get lost!”

  I stood there, gaping. Coy had just snapped at me.

  Coy. The reporter’s friend. Mr. Let-me-do-you-a-favor. The best pal I had in the cop shop. The person my job absolutely required that I get along with.

  “Coy!” I scurried along behind him. “Hey! What’s going on? What’d I do?”

  He ignored me, striding along with his blue burden bouncing on his shoulder. I tried to run, to catch up with him, but my ribs hurt too badly. I gave a few ineffective bleeps—“Coy! Hey, guy!”—but he didn’t stop. By the time he passed under the circular steps and turned into the main foyer, the one where Bo Jenkins had held a gun to my head, I was still twelve or fifteen feet behind. He stalked into his office, nextdoor to Jameson’s, and slammed the door in my face. The smoked-glass window in it rattled and quivered.

  I barely hesitated before I opened the door and marched in behind him. “Listen, Coy,” I said, “we need to get along. If you’re mad at me, tell me why.”

  Coy’s office is one of the few in the Central Station which has a couch. The couch s
its with its back to the door. I’ve always hated the darn thing, because you have to walk around it to get close to Coy’s desk. And as seating, it’s useless. It’s miserably soft. Once you’re down in it, you can’t get out without a ladder. And it’s impossible to take notes sitting on it. When Coy gives a briefing in his office, I always come early and grab a straight chair.

  When I faced Coy in his office, he was standing on the other side of that couch. He had apparently put his blue bundle, the object he’d been carrying over his shoulder like a baby, down on the couch, and he was straightening up as I closed the door.

  “Coy, what’s going on?” I said.

  He glared at me. “You honestly don’t know, do you?”

  “No. Tell me.”

  “You little shit! You ruin a plan that took four years to bring off. And you don’t even know what you’ve done!”

  “A plan? What plan? Some undercover deal? You know the Gazette will cooperate—”

  “Cooperate!” Coy laughed harshly. He turned away and went around his desk, dropping heavily into his chair. He turned sideways and opened the bottom drawer.

  “Coy, you’ve got me completely confused.”

  I rested my notebook and the file folder from the Gazette library on the back of the couch. “I didn’t get hurt on purpose, if that’s what you’re referring to.”

  Coy laughed again, but there was no humor in the sound. He pulled a small metal lock box out of his drawer and stood up. “Get out!”

  I finally decided I’d better take the hint. “Okay! Okay!” I said. “But we’ll have to settle this some time.”

  I reached for the pile of papers balanced on the back of the couch, but I missed. The whole pile dumped onto the floor.

  I dropped to my knees, groaned, and started pawing them together.

  “Get out!” Coy yelled louder.

  “I’m getting! But I’ve got to pick up these files!” I scrambled the clippings and the typed resume back into a file folder without concern for their order. “This is from the Gazette library, and I’ll be in permanent hot water if anything happens to them. And my ribs are killing me.”