by Gerry Boyle
“The truth. I told them we had a drink.”
“Did they believe you? They have to believe you,” Roxanne said. “You’re not lying.”
“Why would they think I was lying?”
“Well, my God, Jack. The TV, they’re saying, ‘He may not have been alone.’”
“He wasn’t alone. He was having a beer with me.”
“No, I mean—”
“I know what they mean. It’s insane. The truth will come out.”
“Oh, Jack.”
“I know.”
“Then how can they just say these things? I know how they can, but I don’t know. They put your name right out there on CNN. CBS. They said you were being questioned by police.”
“I was. That’s what they do.”
“Did you get a lawyer?”
“No. It was me who called them.”
“But the way they said it on the news, it was like you were a suspect. Is that what they think?”
“I don’t think so. They just asked a lot of questions and I answered them.”
“All day?”
“Couple of hours. I’m sure I’ll have to go through it again and again.”
“Where are you?”
“The Meridien. There are reporters in the halls, TV on the sidewalk. I’m stuck.”
“Did you know they’ve been calling Prosperity?”
“Calling who?”
“The store. The selectmen. Any name they can find. Sam at the store told Clair one of these guys said they were flying a film crew up.”
“And land where? Route 3?”
“I don’t know,” Roxanne said. “Belfast, maybe. Rockland. Oh, this is just crazy. When are you coming home?”
“I don’t think they want me to leave right away.”
“So you just sit in that hotel room all by yourself?”
I glanced over at Christina, engrossed by the TV. Fiore was boasting that New York was the safest large city in the country, every word dripping with irony. I turned toward the bathroom, tried not to whisper.
“Well, I’m not alone at the moment.”
“The police?”
“No, but they’ve assigned two detectives to babysit me, who knows how many more to follow me around.”
“Did the Times editor come over?”
“No, he’s just been calling all day.”
“I wish I was with you,” Roxanne said.
“I know.”
“So who is it?”
“Who’s what?”
“Who’s with you?”
I paused. Roxanne did, too.
“Oh, it’s an old friend stopped by. I guess she saw me on TV and thought I might need some, I don’t know, moral support. You’ve seen me on there?”
“Attacking a photographer.”
“I didn’t attack him.”
“Well, that’s what it looks like,” Roxanne said. “They show it over and over, so after a while it seems like there was a riot.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t put a gun in my hand.”
“There you are,” Christina blurted from the bed, then looked at me and caught herself, put a hand over her mouth. “Oh, sorry.”
“Who was that?”
“That was Christina. I guess they just showed me on there again.”
“Christina . . .”
“Christina Mansell. I’ve talked about her.”
“Oh, yeah. The artist. The woman you lived with.”
I grimaced.
“Briefly.”
“Wasn’t it like six months or something?” Roxanne pressed.
“Or something.”
“Well. That’s nice of her to stop. How’d she know where you were?”
“Ellen at the Times. They’re friends.”
“Oh. Small world, New York.”
“But it’s been on TV, I’m sure. The name of the hotel and everything.”
“They don’t just let people march right up to your room, do they?”
“No, but there are other people here. Other rooms. I think they rented a room down the hall. A reporter comes down and asks for an interview through the peephole in the door.”
“That’s creepy,” Roxanne said.
“It’s bizarre. I feel like I stepped from my life into a movie or something. And I can’t get back.”
“I’m sorry, Jack. I’m . . . I’m just so sorry. I wish I could be there.”
I looked at Christina, who was playing with her hair, swinging her leg.
“Just the two of us, I mean,” Roxanne said. “If I had come, at least it would be us, and not just you. And probably you wouldn’t have gone out with Butch.”
“It’s done, Rox,” I said. “You can’t think of it that way.”
“They’re saying he stabbed him in the bathroom.”
“Who’s saying that?”
“The TV. CBS seems to have more about it than anybody else.”
“Who do they attribute that to?”
“I don’t know. Sources or something,” Roxanne said. “You haven’t been watching? What have you been doing?”
Was there an edge to the question, or was it me?
I reminded Roxanne about the police.
“Come to Portland,” Roxanne said. “They don’t know about me.”
“Not yet. But they will.”
“How?”
“There’s nothing you can hide from them. These people—listen to me, I was one of them—they’re very good at what they do. And what they do is find out things.”
“Well, what if they call? You think I should talk to them?”
“That’s up to you.”
“I’ll just tell them you’re an innocent bystander.”
“That’s not what they want to hear.”
“But they won’t have any choice,” Roxanne said.
“You’d be amazed.”
“I wish I could just hold you, Jack,” Roxanne said. “I wish I could just hold you right now.”
I looked at Christina and shielded the phone.
“I know. Me too.”
“I love you.”
“I know,” I said quietly. “I love you, too.”
“Call me tomorrow. Or later tonight. Or whenever you can,” Roxanne said.
“I will.”
“And take care.”
“You, too.”
“And say hello to your friend for me.”
“She’s—”
I almost said that Christina wasn’t my friend, that she was, what? My former lover?
“Watching the TV,” I said.
12
WNYC had reactions from the city: testimonials from somber city officials, shots of city employees crying at their desks. The police commissioner, Robert Kiley, pledged to investigate the case to the utmost of the department’s ability. The governor pledged state and federal assistance.
The camera switched to a blonde young woman with intense dark eyes. She was outside police headquarters at Centre Street. My friend, Stephanie Cooper.
“Steph, what’s the latest?”
“Dave, investigators have been closeted here for most of the day. They’ve revealed some of the details. That the mayor was stabbed, though they’re not saying how many times. That they have not found the murder weapon, but that evidence collected at the scene led them directly to former New York City police detective Butch Casey. But police remain tight-lipped about the possible involvement of this man—”
There I was. Walking. Scowling. Giving the photographer a shove.
“—Jack McMorrow, who was here earlier today. WNYC has learned McMorrow is a former New York Times reporter who left the newspaper under a cloud about eight years ago.”
“A cloud?” Christina said.
“Now sources have told me that McMorrow is a longtime friend of Casey, and that Casey fed the reporter confidential information about police investigations when McMorrow was with the Times.”
“Fed?” I said. “Those are called tips.”
Steph noted Leslie’s murder, the arrest and release.
“McMorrow, sources say, was dismissed by the Times after he reportedly colluded with Casey as he covered a story for the Times. He has been living in Maine since then, but has never worked for another newspaper.”
“What? Sure I have. Small ones.”
“She’s got somebody inside the Times,” Christina said.
Stephanie paused for emphasis.
“What about that night?” Dave said. “What can you tell us about that, Steph?”
“Well, Dave, both men had drinks at a Times Square bar, the Bull and Thistle. Witnesses next saw Casey outside the Algonquin on West Forty-Fourth Street, where the mayor was attending a fund-raiser. Casey reportedly went into the Algonquin, but the bar was full and he wasn’t served, as far as we know. He allegedly waited outside the function room where the Fiore fund-raiser was held, apparently slipping into the men’s room, where he lay in wait.”
She paused. Gathered herself up for her big finish.
“Was this the act of a single man, or the culmination of a conspiracy? Police aren’t saying, but WNYC has learned that McMorrow left the Times after a disagreement with his editors over stories he wrote that were critical of Mayor John Fiore, and supported his friend, Detective Butch Casey.”
She took a breath.
“The investigation continues. From New York Police Department headquarters, this is Stephanie Cooper reporting.”
Dave thanked Stephanie. I cursed her under my breath. Dave said the continuing coverage of the death of Johnny Fiore, “beloved mayor of New York City,” would continue after a commercial break. The commercial was for Diet Coke.
“Can you sue them?” Christina asked.
“Nah, what good would that do? It’s said. It’s done.”
She patted my arm.
“Sorry,” she said. “But I think your side should get out there. They can’t just make this stuff up, can they?”
“They just did,” I said, and I went to the phone. I went down the list of scrawled messages and found the one number I’d taken down for Ellen Jones. I dialed it. This time she answered.
“It’s me,” I said.
“Jack.”
“I’ll talk to the Times. To D. Robert. To anybody you want.”
“Okay. Good. That’s great.”
I could feel the excitement in her voice, sense her mind leaping ahead to what had to be done.
“We’ll send a car. Which side?”
“Fifty-sixth. Look for Christina, and then I’ll come out.”
And then, before I hung up, I heard Ellen Jones shout, “We got him. We got McMorrow.”
I checked out via the television. The key went on the dresser. My receipt would come by mail. At 2:05, the phone rang and Christina answered it. I prayed it wasn’t Roxanne and was rewarded. It was Ellen. They were coming down 56th Street, would be at the hotel in two minutes. My bag was packed, Butch’s envelope was zipped inside. I wore my glasses and hat. The car would be a black Lincoln.
We stood by the door and listened. Heard nothing and opened it slowly. Christina peeked into the hallway first.
No one in sight.
“The stairs,” I said, and we went out the door, to the left. Christina went first, into the stairwell and down, her sandals tapping on the treads. Leggy as a model, she took the stairs two at a time, and I followed, the duffel over my shoulder. After six flights, we went back into the hallway, down the corridor, and waited at the elevator.
It opened. It was empty.
We stepped in. The door closed. We plummeted downward.
In a moment we were at the lobby.
“Out and to the right,” I said. “They’ll be at Fifty-Sixth.”
“Then I’ll see you later,” Christina said.
“Where you going?”
“Home, I guess. We could . . . I was going to say we could grab a bite, but that might be a little tough. We could order something, maybe. From my place.”
I hesitated.
“So where else can you go, McMorrow?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe the Times will put me up.”
“Not like I can,” Christina said.
The door opened. The lobby was bustling with elegant people. Christina gave me a half-smile as we stepped out. This time, the women behind the desk looked up and stared. We turned the corner, started through the glittering lobby. Turned left, past the coat check, and started for the doors. Christina was a step ahead of me, moving with a quick New Yorker stride.
“Mr. McMorrow?” a man’s voice called.
“Keep going,” I said.
“Mr. McMorrow?” the voice said, behind me, and I heard the sound of someone breaking into a trot. Christina pushed through the doors. As I reached them, a hand touched my shoulder. I shrugged it off and turned.
“No comment,” I snarled.
He was small, bald, wearing a suit. I saw horn-rimmed glasses and chubby unshaven cheeks.
“I’m not a reporter,” the man said.
“I don’t care what you are,” I said.
And he hit me.
The back of the head. Once. Twice. My face hit the door. He was kicking the back of my legs, flailing at my neck and shoulders.
“You son of a bitch. You son of a bitch,” he muttered over and over.
He stood on my heels, stomped at my feet. My duffel fell off my shoulder and I turned, stumbling on it. I got him by the jacket, tried to duck his punches. Pulled him to me and whirled him around. Started to throw him backward, and he hit me in the nose. Blood. A glint of a ring on his hand.
“Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch,” he panted.
Blood spattered. People stared. I took two more steps and flung the man away, and he fell and rolled on the tile floor.
“I worked for Johnny Fiore, you bastard,” he screamed. “I hope you burn in hell. I hope—”
Christina came back through the door, said, “Oh, my God.” Lunging for my bag, I pushed her back out onto the street. Blood was running out of my nose, down my chin, onto my shirt. I wiped it with the back of my hand, leaving dark smears. Christina grabbed my hand and pulled me along, and I saw strobes flash and then heard the pounding of feet, calling of my name.
“McMorrow . . . McMorrow . . .”
The door of the car was open and Christina dived in first, her knees on the seat, underpants showing. She scrabbled inside and I followed, but there was a photographer down low, shooting up at me, and then someone picked him up under the arms and spun him away.
He cursed. The car door closed. I heard myself panting, saw Ellen and D. Robert looking incredulous, a photographer digging for his gear. Gerard, the Times security guard, heaved himself into the driver’s seat, threw the car in gear, and drove.
“Hope that wasn’t one of ours,” he said.
My nose was still bleeding, the droplets hanging from my chin. D. Robert, in the front seat, handed me a handkerchief. Next to him was a young guy I didn’t know. He lifted a camera and pointed.
“You take me like this and the deal’s off,” I said.
Ellen looked at the photographer and shook her head. He lowered the camera. She dug in her bag and found a package of tissues. Handed them to Christina, who took a couple and handed them to me. I jammed a wad against my nose and pinched.
“You okay?” Ellen said.
“Fine. Just got bumped.”
“Scratched,” Christina said, peering at me.
“Guy had a goddamn ring on.”
In the front seat, D. Robert already was scribbling madly in his notebook, recording the scene.
“Who was that guy?” he said.
“Said he worked for Fiore.”
“Distraught city employee?” D. Robert asked.
I shrugged.
“Did he say anything?”
“That he hopes I burn in hell.”
D. Robert wrote that down, too.
On the ride, he went over background, mostly bio stuff
about me. Where I grew up. Where I worked, before and after the Times. When he asked me where I lived, I said, “Maine.” When he asked me where in Maine, I shook my head.
“We already know it’s a town called Prosperity, Jack,” D. Robert said. “In Waldo County, twenty miles west of Belfast.”
“What else do you know?”
“That people in the town won’t talk about you.”
“They don’t like big-city reporters snooping around.”
“Have they snooped there before?”
“No, it’s instinctual. They protect their own.”
“And you’re one of their own?”
“I guess so.”
D. Robert smiled.
“So, you live alone?”
“That’s off limits.”
His eyebrows flickered with annoyance, and he turned toward Christina.
“And what is your name, ma’am?”
“That’s off limits, too,” I said.
“This is a joke,” D. Robert said. “Am I writing this story or is he?”
“We’ll just have to set some parameters,” Ellen said.
“Or we get out right here,” I said.
“No,” Ellen said. “We can work out the details.”
And we did, question by question, sitting in a conference room on the third floor of the Times Building. It was a replay of the police interview, with fewer interruptions and some sandwiches. My duffel bag was on the floor beside me. Around the table were Ellen Jones, D. Robert, a City Hall reporter and a national correspondent, two deputy editors, and the new editor of the New York Times, Roger Epstein. The photographer from the car roamed the room, shooting me as I spoke, with blood on my shirt but not on my nose. He left to get the processing under way, and shortly after that, the correspondent peeled away, too, starting the story for the online and national editions. The interview went on for another hour and then broke up as abruptly as it had begun.
D. Robert shook my hand and apologized for his outburst, trying to soften me up for next time. The reporters and editors huddled on their way to their desks. I picked up my bag, and Ellen Jones took me by the arm and escorted me to the waiting area, where Christina was sitting in a chair reading that day’s Times.
“Gerard’s waiting with the car,” Ellen said. “Where do you want to go?”
She looked at Christina. Christina glanced up, then looked back at the paper.
“Well, how ’bout this?” Ellen said. “You can stay at my place. I’ve got tons of space and nobody will bother you. The phone’s unlisted and the doorman’s a bulldog. He’d kill for me.”