Murder in the Dog Days (Maggie Ryan)

by P. M. Carlson

  “And his greatest weakness?”

  “Same thing, really.” He poked at the used foam coffee cups on his desk, arranging them in a military row as though in unconscious homage to Dale Colby. “He’d hold on too long. Fairfax scooped us several times because Dale was checking something in his last paragraph and didn’t get the story in. Most of us prefer to get it out fast even if we have to cut the last paragraph.”

  “Did he usually tell you what he was checking?”

  “If it was hot stuff. Or if I asked why the hell he hadn’t filed the story yet.”

  “Do you know what he was checking yesterday?”

  “No, damn it.” He picked up one of the foam cups and began to pinch off the rim in tiny fragments. “He was working on the plane crash story. We’d printed his update yesterday and I had the feeling he was using that piece in part to rattle cages. Certainly Moffatt and Mrs. Resler called in about it.”

  “You think one of them might be upset enough to be involved with his death?”

  “Hell, I don’t know.” The foam cup had been destroyed. Edgerton began to pick up the pieces and drop them into another of the cups. “I keep asking myself who would benefit. He had a first wife, you know, a tough blonde—”

  “Yes, Felicia Colby. Do you know her?”

  “Just acquainted. She came here once years ago, claimed he owed money.”

  “Do you know what she was doing yesterday?”

  “No. Oh, hell.” Edgerton gave Holly a grim smile. “I apologize. In this business we’re all a little paranoid, you know. All sure that someone will become furious about the story we just wrote and pop by with a sawed-off shotgun. It really doesn’t happen often. But something like this raises our own fears. I’d love to have it turn out to be a domestic squabble.”

  “I understand.” It was one of the small hurdles of detective work: witnesses who were eager to prove that the victim had shown bad judgment in a way that they never would, so that they could continue to feel invulnerable to crime and death. Whoopee we’re all gonna die: a deep truth much avoided here in Disney World. Well, give Edgerton credit, Schreiner, he has a little insight. At least he realized he was harping on the unknown Felicia Colby because the alternative was admitting that newspaper work, his own work, might be dangerous.

  Holly said gently, “But in case it’s not domestic, maybe you could just fill me in on his work situation.”

  “Well, that’s the other thing,” Edgerton said. He began to stack the surviving foam cups, nesting them inside one another. “He was doing so much work at home these days. Oh, he’d stop by the office occasionally, or he’d go out for a really important interview, but he really was feeling lousy so he cut down on the activity.”

  “Didn’t that interfere with his work?”

  “God, I really admired him. Yes, of course it interfered, but he drove himself hard and kept producing the stories. He’s never liked our Virginia summers, and on top of that he had all the nausea from the drug—well, I don’t know how he did it. But the stories were good.”

  “You’re the one who assigns the stories, is that correct?”

  “Yes. And I did what I could.” He added the ninth and final cup to the tower he’d built, then dropped the entire construction into his wastebasket. “He had his long-term assignments like the plane crash and the extension of the Metro into Virginia. I tried to give him stories without a lot of legwork—follow-ups, rewrites. But things where you had to get out and talk to a lot of locals I’d give to Nate or one of the others. Like preparations for the Bicentennial or the effects of the heat wave.” He glanced out the interior window, eyes roving over the scene in the big room. “But all that might have changed soon.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he was having the attacks of nausea, of course. But this new drug was really miraculous. This spring he was slow and shuffly at times. Sometimes not fit for face-to-face interviews, and on the phone he often sounded, well, stupid. The publisher and I had actually talked about giving him medical leave, but we knew it would break his heart. Then came the L-dopa. It improved his walking and his speech. Wonderful to see him so much better. As soon as his stomach adapted, he’d be ready for anything again.”

  So Colby should have been feeling optimistic overall, despite the temporary unpleasantness of adapting to the medication. Holly tried another tack. “Did he have any conflicts with his coworkers?”

  “No. I mean, what can I say? He wasn’t the most popular, he wasn’t the least popular. Last spring a few people avoided him, they couldn’t cope with the funny speech and wooden expression. But it wasn’t anger or hate, just discomfort. Besides, he was very work-oriented. Didn’t stand around gabbing a lot. I don’t think he had time to make enemies.”

  “He’d been here quite a few years. He was senior reporter?”

  “Yeah. He and Nate Rosen were the two old-timers in the newsroom. Earned as much as some of the editors.”

  “What would his next career step be?”

  Edgerton reached for the foam cups, discovered he’d thrown them all away, and picked up a stray paper clip instead. Staring at it instead of Holly, he said, “Managing editor.”

  Aha. Check this out, Schreiner. “Your job,” she said neutrally.

  “Yeah.”

  “Who chooses the managing editor?”

  “The publisher. Schanfield.”

  “What was Schanfield’s opinion of Colby?”

  Edgerton propped his fingertips against each other, pursed his lips at them, and said, “Oh, hell, there’s no reason to make a big secret of it. Seven years ago the old managing editor left. Mueller.”

  “Okay.”

  “Colby was appointed the new managing editor.”

  “Colby was? Not you?”

  “Right. Nate, Dale, me, and a couple of outside guys were in the running. Schanfield liked the solidity of Dale’s work. We didn’t know about the Parkinson’s yet, it hadn’t advanced much. Anyway, Colby was chosen.”

  “And?”

  “Turned out Dale was a lousy manager. He was just as compulsive as ever and wanted everyone to write stories exactly the way he would. Freaked out if someone followed up a lead he hadn’t known about first. So after two months of rages and people threatening to resign Schanfield demoted him again.”

  “And promoted you.”

  He gave a small shrug.

  “Wasn’t Colby unhappy about it?”

  “Maybe. Half relieved, though. He couldn’t have thought he was doing well. We made up a face-saving story, said he was the only one with the background to cover a government scandal at the time. I gave him the two biggest stories that came up next. He was civil, turned in the stuff. We worked together okay. He was a damn good reporter.”

  A suspiciously harmonious changeover. If Dale Colby had inspired resignation threats seven years ago he might still have enemies despite Edgerton’s protests. And Colby couldn’t have felt kindly toward the man who’d replaced him, whatever Edgerton claimed. Dig into that a little with the other reporters. Holly turned the page. “Do you know if he’d received any threats recently? About something he was working on?”

  “Only story he was working on with that potential would be the plane crash. Just a second.” He stepped around his desk to the door and yelled, “Hey, Nate! Come here a minute!”

  A man who was listening to tapes in one of the cubicles glanced at Edgerton and punched the machine off. He removed his earphones, stuck the entire apparatus into a drawer, and walked toward them: five ten, thinning dark hair, dark eyes, slim build. His eyes had a sad cast, like a basset hound’s. Holly shook his hand as Edgerton introduced them.

  “Glad to meet you, Mr. Rosen.”

  “Call me Nate. Terrible thing about poor Dale.”

  “Yes. We hope you can help us.”

  Edgerton explained. “She was just asking about that damn plane crash story. Wondering if he’d had any threats. I don’t know of any but I thought maybe you’d heard somet
hing.”

  Nate shook his head slowly. “Moffatt yesterday was the closest to a threat, and you know more than I do about that.”

  “He was peeved,” Edgerton told Holly. “Thought Dale’s story was delaying the settlement of his father’s estate.”

  “But it doesn’t make a lot of sense,” Nate said. “Because Dale was getting most of his stuff from the congressman’s investigation, right? He wasn’t out sifting clues himself much. So why would anybody think Dale was the only one who knew something?”

  “That’s true,” said Edgerton. “And even suppose he was the only one. If it was important he’d file a story so quick the world would know about it the next day.”

  “You’re saying that if he knew something incriminating, he’d learned it very recently because he hadn’t reported to you yet?” Holly asked.

  “Right,” Edgerton confirmed.

  “And I’m saying that even if he did know something, it’s not likely that he was the only investigator to know whatever it was, with all the people the congressman had working on it,” Nate explained.

  “We’ll check on it,” said Holly. “I’d like to know exactly what Mr. Moffatt said.”

  Edgerton shrugged. “I didn’t take it that seriously. But yeah, he said ‘I’m gonna kill you guys. I’m gonna sue you for every penny you’ve got.’ I talked to him a few minutes and he simmered down and left, asking me to tell Colby to ease off.”

  “I see.”

  “So I figured it was just talk. Maybe I was wrong.”

  “Right. We’re checking his alibi. Now, one of the victims was a young woman named Ann Kauffmann.”

  “Yeah.” Nate Rosen nodded.

  “I understand her father was very upset, said her reputation had been ruined.”

  Edgerton looked inquiringly at Nate, who shrugged. “Dale mentioned it once. But he never published anything because he couldn’t verify it. He said the guy was broken up and lashing out at Knox. Dale said he could understand, if it was his daughter he might go crazy too.”

  “Yeah. So he hadn’t published anything detrimental to Miss Kauffmann’s reputation?” asked Holly.

  “Nothing.”

  “But if he had received some sort of verification yesterday—”

  Nate nodded in mournful confirmation. “Anything’s possible.”

  “There’s Mrs. Resler. I understand she was concerned about the latest story too.”

  “Concerned about her husband’s reputation,” Nate explained. “She’s setting up a foundation to help ex-cons. Jumpy about it being misinterpreted.”

  “Olivia Kerr’s just been talking to her,” Edgerton said. “She’d have the latest.”

  “Yes, I want to see her,” Holly agreed. “I have a note that she called earlier today. Asked me to get in touch with her here. Is she around now?”

  Edgerton glanced at his watch. “She was due back twenty minutes ago to talk to me, so she should be around somewhere.” He leaned out the door again and bellowed, “Liv! Hey, has anyone seen Kerr?”

  A general shaking of heads. Edgerton shrugged as he turned back to her. “Probably got delayed. You know how the investigation business goes.”

  “Yeah. Okay, something else I have to ask. Where were you yesterday afternoon?”

  “God,” said Edgerton. “Well, I was here until two, then went to talk to Schanfield at the Montmartre Restaurant. Back here at four.”

  “I was out interviewing for the heat-wave story.” Nate tapped the newspaper on Edgerton’s desk. Front page weather story. “Got back at four-thirty to write this up.”

  Holly noted it down. “Thanks. Well, if you have nothing to add now, maybe I could go through Colby’s files here.”

  “Sure thing. Liv’ll be here in a minute, I’m sure. Nate, why don’t you show her where Colby’s stuff is? Of course most of the current stuff is at his home.”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  As Nate led her toward one of the cubicles, Holly said, “Colby was managing editor for a short time, I understand.”

  “Yeah. Few years ago.”

  “What happened?”

  “Drove us all crazy. He’d assign a story and then we’d find out he was calling up behind our backs to find out if the person really said what we reported. Don’t know when the guy slept, he was trying to do the whole damn thing single-handed.”

  “Lots of bad feelings?”

  Nate looked at her mournfully. “Sure, back then. But if nobody clobbered him during that two months, there’s no reason to do it now.”

  They had reached one of the cubicles and Nate stopped. Holly asked, “Did Dale get along with Mr. Edgerton?”

  “They weren’t buddies. But they worked together well enough.”

  “It just seems that Edgerton replacing him might have bothered Colby,” Holly pursued.

  Nate shrugged. “If so he kept it to himself. But then, what else could he do? Sorry I can’t help on that.”

  Holly studied him a moment. If there was any friction between Edgerton and Colby, she wouldn’t hear about it from this man. She said, “Okay. Thanks.”

  Nate gestured at the desk. “This is where Dale worked when he was in.”

  “Yeah. Thanks, I’ll just look through it.”

  Colby’s files were not enlightening. Well-organized, yes, but most of the material related to months-old stories. The recent material had been in the house files she’d seen already. After twenty minutes Holly closed the drawers and leaned back in the desk chair. Colby had posted lists of phone numbers and schedules neatly in front of his desk. They seemed to be the same lists she’d seen next to the phone at his home. The sloppy stacks of papers on top of this desk, Nate had said, were not Colby’s. “Overflow from the rest of us,” he’d admitted shamefacedly. “Any of us go on vacation, we find everybody’s extra crud on top of our desk if we’re dumb enough to clear it before we leave.”

  So, Schreiner, you’ve found what there is to find here. On to the next task. She’d put off Donna Colby long enough. Donna should be back at her home now, maybe in better shape to talk about her husband’s last few days. Maybe Holly could talk to the children too, though she doubted that they’d know any more than Donna.

  She stopped by Nate Rosen’s desk. He was on the phone but when he saw Holly he said into the receiver, “Look, let me get back to you, okay?” and turned promptly to Holly as he hung up. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  “Has Olivia Kerr come in?”

  “Haven’t seen her yet.” His mournful eyes skimmed the room, searching, then he glanced at his watch. “Strange. She said she was going to talk to Mrs. Resler. Shouldn’t take her this long.”

  “Well, I’ll have to see her later. Tell her to leave a message at the station house about where I can reach her.”

  “Okay. You got any statements for the press?”

  “You’ve got the thing about the man in the blue Ford we want to talk to?” In the neighborhood canvass that morning, Gabe reported, a lot of people had been away at work, but a retired man at the end of the block had confirmed Bo Morgan’s story that a man in a blue Ford had left the Colby house around four o’clock.

  Nate rolled his pencil in his fingers. “Yeah, we’ve got that. Also that you’re following up a number of leads.”

  “That sums it up, then,” Holly said.

  “Can’t you say who looks most likely?”

  She let a grin twitch at her mouth. “Sure. You can say that we’re especially interested in the movements of Dale Colby’s colleagues at the Sun-Dispatch.”

  “Touché.” Nate smiled back weakly.

  She started for the door. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  She checked back with Gabe at the station house. A couple of things had come in, he said. Most notably, a detective named Lugano in New York wanted her to call. She dialed the number at Gabe’s phone, half-sitting on the edge of his desk.

  “What’ve you got on this Ryan woman?” Lugano demanded.

  “Nothing,”
Holly admitted. “We’ve got a homicide, she was first on the scene. She’s also got four witnesses putting her miles away at the time it probably happened. What’ve you got?”

  “The same. Nothing,” Lugano said. “She was a witness in a kidnapping here. Kid got back safely but the ransom disappeared. What can I say? We’ve been watching the Ryan woman and her husband because I have a gut feeling they know more than they’re telling. But they sure as hell don’t act like they got any cash out of it. Had high hopes once, she bought a Camaro. But it turned out to be used, and she’d got a big government contract at her business. So I’m left with a gut feeling.”

  “Yeah, same here. Well, if anything shows up, I’ll let you know.”

  “Ditto.”

  Holly hung up and turned back to Gabe. “Damn. Nothing there. Any word from Doc Craine on time of death?’

  Gabe rolled eloquent eyes toward the ceiling. “He’s getting mulish. ‘No one, including me, will ever know if you keep pestering me every ten minutes.’” His imitation of the irascible doctor was clumsy but recognizable.

  “Yeah, I know that mood,” Holly said glumly. “Well, let’s concentrate on the guy Bo Morgan saw. Have the photos come in?”

  “We’ve got Bates already, standard mug shot. I sent Driscoll to Maryland to pick up Moffatt’s. He should be back soon.”

  “Fine. Moffatt’s is from quite a few years ago, he was only in college. But maybe it’ll do. Listen, I’m going over to Colby’s now to talk to Donna. Maybe I’ll pick up Bo Morgan and bring him back afterwards to look at the photos. You dig out a few others for a lineup, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not on Colby. On the painting—you remember that stolen painting? Colonel Mosby on the battlefield?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, Winks and a couple of Manassas detectives searched the whole tour bus. Nothing. And then old Taynton called back. Said it wasn’t the picture he’d reported missing after all. They found that one, fallen behind the chest where it’s hung.”