Yesterday's News

by Jeremiah Healy

  I already knew that argument. “I understand that the cop supposedly on the take from Coyne’s employer is tied into the hierarchy down here?”

  “Nasharbor is technically a city in the geopolitical sense, given its population and form of municipal government. But in many ways it is a very small town, and nepotism in city services is one such way.”

  “Assuming I understand the principle, care to provide the relevant illustration?”

  “Careful, Sancho. You converse with me long enough, you’ll begin to affect my prolix patterns of speech.” He sucked down another two shots of booze. “Now, where were … yes, yes the social register of our constabulary. First, the current chief is a figurehead, the first Porto to hold that place, thanks to some clever maneuvering a few years back by our state representative.”

  “What kind of maneuvering?”

  “I’m not a lawyer by training, but I understand the statutory framework to be that one becomes chief through various civil service standards and tests.”

  “And?”

  “And our current chief, bless him, would have trouble signing his name in a legible fashion. However, the aforementioned state rep had the crucial vote in committee on somebody’s pet pork barrel as the legislative session clock approached midnight, and the trade was our vote on the pork barrel in exchange for a special statute exempting the position of chief of Nasharbor from any civil service requirements.”

  “New one on me.”

  “Yes. Rather shakes one’s faith in the democratic process, doesn’t it? In any case, however, the current chief is nearing retirement, with two potential successors vying in the wings.”

  “Namely?”

  “A second Porto, Joseph Hogueira, the captain of uniforms here. And Cornelius, or Neil, Hagan, the captain of detectives.”

  “Jane mentioned Hagan.”

  “As well she might. Hagan took personal charge of Coyne’s death. And the cop allegedly, and I stress allegedly, on the take from Gotbaum, Coyne’s nefarious employer, was one Mark Schonstein, son of Hagan’s former partner when Hagan was in uniform.”

  “And Jane figured that Hagan would bury a murder as a favor to an old partner’s kid?”

  “Well, it does go a bit deeper than that.”

  “How do you mean?”

  As he spoke, Peete regarded the remaining four fingers of vodka with renewed respect. “There was an incident, oh perhaps fifteen years ago. Way before my time, so I’ve heard only the retellings. But basically, Hagan and Schonsy—that’s what everyone called the elder Schonstein, Schonsy—Hagan and Schonsy are on patrol when they pick up a local punk on some kind of charge. Perhaps ‘Failure to Give a Good Account of Himself.’ That was a wonderful catchall when I worked in New Jersey. Anyway, there’s a row in or near the cruiser, and when they get to the hospital, Schonsy is covered with his own blood, and the kid is dead of a broken neck.”

  “Schonsy killed the kid in a struggle?”

  Peete shook his head. “The way the story goes, the kid attacked Schonsy, and Hagan hit the kid to get him off his partner, but the impact was at just the wrong angle, causing the fatal spinal injury.”

  Maybe Jane wasn’t entirely off the track after all. “You see it that way?”

  “I’ve covered the police in ten different cities over a checkered thirty years. I’ve yet to see a cop not back up his partner.”

  “You also think Hagan buried Coyne’s death as a payback?”

  “Please, good sir. Be serious. After all this time, Hagan is going to risk hurling his promotion to chief into the toilet to do another favor for an old partner whose life he already saved once?”

  “If that’s the way it happened, no.”

  Peete started waving toward the bartender, and I got up to leave before he had another. Bottle, not drink, that is.

  Five

  WALKING PAST THE receptionist, I said, “Arbuckle is expecting me.”

  Down the corridor and back inside the city room, I was struck again by the din. If Jane Rust did have a confidential source, Coyne or anybody else, I couldn’t see her trying to talk by telephone over the noise in the air.

  Holding a sheaf of papers and a red Flair pen, Arbuckle came out a door, mumbling to himself. Through the opening and to his rear, I could see a conference table and six or eight people rising around it. I was moving toward Arbuckle when she appeared behind him and looked at me full flush.

  “Beth!” The word was out of my mouth before I could think better of it.

  The woman smiled. The hair and the eyes were identical, but the neck was too long, the teeth too big …

  She said, “Close but no cigar, friend. It’s Liz, Liz Rendall. Do I know you?”

  “No. You just remind me of someone. Sorry.”

  Arbuckle said, “Liz, moonstruck here is the private eye from Boston. He gets today, no more, then he’s gone. Got it?”

  Instead of acknowledging him, Rendall said to me, “Had lunch yet?”

  “No.”

  “Come on.” She put the papers she was carrying on a desk near Peete’s and threw a sweater around her shoulders, shawl-style.

  “Don’t ask me why they call it the Village Inn, since there’s no place for sleeping over and Nasharbor hasn’t been a village since before the Civil War, but the menu will remind you of Mom’s own cooking.”

  The place had plate-glass windows, Formica tables, and vinyl booths. There was a soda fountain on one side and Andy Williams coming over the tinny stereo system. I ordered Today’s Special: a cup of soup, grilled tomato and cheese sandwich, and an iced tea. I decided not to commit to the Indian pudding just yet. Aside from Liz Rendall and me, the only person in the place under sixty was our waitress.

  “Why so many senior citizens?”

  Rendall sipped her water. “Because the owner here offers them a special two o’clock to five o’clock discount. And because fifty cents off means they can ride the transit bus down and back and have a meal out for the price of the meal alone.” She looked around the restaurant. “A lot of these people are close to the line. I like to frequent a place that gives them a break.” She took another sip and asked her question through the glass. “So who do I remind you of?”

  I thought about passing it off, but instead said, “My wife.”

  She glanced down at my hands. “A guy like you should wear a ring.”

  “My wife died.”

  She set down the glass. “Oh. Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “I am, too. For leading you into it like that. It wasn’t intentional.”

  Rendall looked at me a little more closely. “No. No, I don’t think it was. Intentional, I mean. I can see why Jane must have trusted you.”

  “Did she trust you?”

  “About her source, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not exactly. She told me about having one, sort of seeking my advice about what to do. But she didn’t tell me his name until after … after he was dead.”

  “Jane implied to me that she’d revealed Coyne to more than one person. If you weren’t one of them, who might have been?”

  She grew thoughtful. “Hard to say. You just met Jane that once?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know how she struck you, but I interviewed her when she applied here. On first impression she seemed serious, diligent, willing to dredge up the mundane stuff that keeps a paper from printing mistakes.”

  “What about on second impression?”

  “Well, after you got to know her, or better, tried to get to know her, you realized that she created her own little world in which she was the center. Kind of a messiah complex.”

  “That she’d be the one to save the situation?”

  “Right. And anybody who tried to rein her became part of the conspiracy.”

  “Do you think there was some conspiracy regarding Coyne’s death?”

  Rendall laughed. “Have you met Neil Hagan yet?”

  “No. Given Arbuckle’s time limit on me, I thoug
ht I’d start at the paper.”

  “Well, when the present chief retires, one of two captains will replace him. Hagan is new school, smart, professional, the kind of man who as chief will move this city into the twenty-first century.”

  “And Hogueira?”

  She nodded. “Done some homework, I see.”

  “Some.”

  “Extending the metaphor, Hogueira leads us from 1890 to 1892.”

  “Hagan’s conscientious?”

  “And then some. I don’t know how Jane could have thought he’d be involved in sweeping Coyne’s death under the rug.”

  “Maybe because of Schonsy, Junior being both Coyne’s target and the son of Hagan’s old partner?”

  “Your homework consists of talking with Mal Peete, right?”

  “Mainly.”

  “Peete’s a drunk, Mr. Cuddy. And about as screwed up in his perceptions of reality as Jane was.”

  “How’re you at perceiving reality?”

  “I may not be the best there is, but I’m probably the best you’ve got. Shoot.”

  “A couple of people have mentioned some real estate developer named Dykestra.”

  “Little Richard.”

  “Who?”

  “That’s what I call him. Richie Dykestra comes in at maybe five-five. Petty, I know, but he inspires that kind of thinking about him.”

  “If Coyne’s death happened as reported, but Jane’s death wasn’t an accident or suicide, could Dykestra have been involved?”

  “Boy.” She paused, chewing. “He’s into some shady stuff. And I’m not sure which way Bruce Fetch goes on that one.”

  “Who’s Fetch?”

  “Jane didn’t … no, of course she wouldn’t. Bruce and Jane were dating.”

  “Serious?”

  “He was. And three months ago, I would have said she was, too. But lately, I think the fire was mainly at his end.”

  “Fetch works for Dykestra?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Seems a little out of character, Jane dating a guy who works for the target she’s investigating.”

  “You haven’t quite got it. The local redevelopment authority floated Dykestra through this condo project he’s doing.”

  “Dykestra has a debt problem?”

  “Are you kidding? His file at the bank is probably thicker than Argentina’s.”

  “And the Nasharbor Redevelopment Authority bailed him out?”

  “That’s right. And guess who’s executive director of the honorable NRA?”

  “Fetch.”

  “Gold star.”

  “You pick that up from Arbuckle?”

  “What?”

  “That expression, gold star.”

  Rendall smiled. “He picked it up from me. Know why he suggested you talk to me?”

  “Because he wanted me off his back.”

  “Partly. But he’s also afraid of me, and therefore he’d love to see me step in the shit some time soon.”

  “Why is he afraid of you?”

  “Because he thinks I’m after his job.”

  “Are you?”

  “You bet. With the right managing editor, that little printing press could be a real force in this town, not a dull, safe tabloid that keeps everybody looking rosy to the readers.”

  “Now you sound like Jane Rust.”

  “With one major difference. I know what I want and how to get it. Speaking of which, how about dinner at my place?”

  She threw me off a little. “I … I’m seeing somebody in Boston now.”

  “Exclusively?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  If Rendall was disappointed, she didn’t show it. “Does that mean you’re driving back tonight?”

  “No, I plan to stay down here for a while.”

  “Why?”

  “Jane paid me for three days’ worth. Still two to go.”

  “And if two more’s not enough?”

  “This is my slow season, anyway.”

  Rendall put her fork on the table. “In that case, at least let me help you.”

  “How?”

  “You’re the investigator. You tell me.”

  “What do you think the chances are of Arbuckle letting me see the paper’s morgue?”

  “Slim and none. Why?”

  “I’d like to read some of Jane’s stories, especially on Coyne and the development angle. I also want to read about some trouble Hagan had fifteen years ago.”

  She squinted. “What trouble?”

  I told her what Peete told me.

  Rendall thought about it. “I can look all that up in the morgue, which by the way the Beacon calls its ‘library.’ The recent stuff on Coyne and Dykestra I can Xerox, but the old stuff would be on the micro. It can’t literally be copied, but I’ll take some notes for you.”

  “I’d appreciate it. Witnesses, other information, follow-ups.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Maybe. Jane said she wrote a story on the police corruption angle, but it never got published.”

  “I remember that from story conference. Arbuckle got all bent out of shape and basically impounded Jane’s draft of it.”

  “Would Jane have any preliminary notes?”

  “Don’t know. I’ll check her desk at the Beacon.”

  I finished my iced tea. “Do you know who’s taking care of the funeral arrangements?”

  “For Jane?”

  “Right.”

  She inhaled deeply. “I guess I am. I’m executor—or executrix, I think they call it—under her will.”

  “You are?”

  “Just after Jane got here, somebody in her college class died in an auto accident. Jane insisted on having a will, and she felt she knew me better than anyone else in town.”

  “Any relatives?”

  “An aunt in Kansas. I called her this morning. She’ll come in when I can give her the details.”

  “I don’t envy you.”

  Rendall nodded. “Where are you going to stay?”

  “I don’t know. Any suggestions?”

  “There’s only one non-fleabag. The Crestview, just southeast of downtown on Crestview Road. Get the picture?”

  “Restaurants?”

  “After one night here, you’ll find they’re terrible. That’s where I’ll come in.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “My place for dinner, remember?” She motioned to our waitress for the check.

  Six

  AFTER LEAVING Liz Rendall, I thought I should get to the Crestview before it filled up. I needn’t have rushed.

  Granted, it was at the crest of the road, and it did have a view of the harbor, if you could sort of block out the auto salvage yard and Sal’s Sub Shoppe across the street and downslope toward the water. The motel itself was one long string of gray units with green doors and window trimmings, lying on a diverging parallel from the road itself, as though the architect’s square was a bit off. The signs in front of the elliptical drive read, respectively:

  CRESTVIEW MOTEL, COLOR TV, WATER BEDS, NO CREDIT CARDS ACCEPTED, and VACANCY, apparently without any space allocated for a NO to accompany the last message. The signs looked as though they were commissioned about ten years apart from painters who didn’t agree on the proper formation of most letters of the alphabet.

  Each parking space was marked in faded yellow to correspond with its unit number. Counting cars, it appeared three of the roughly twenty rooms were occupied. I pulled into the unmarked area next to an awning that said OFFICE.

  As I pushed in the door, a man looked up from the book he was reading behind the counter. He was in his fifties, wearing his hair in the still short but slightly unkempt look service lifers often assume once they muster out. His ears were large, his eyes sharp and not particularly friendly. He also had the most outlandish Fu Manchu mustache I’d seen this side of 1972.

  “Help you?”

  “Yes, I’d like a room for a couple of days.”

  “Be twenty-six doll
ars per night, plus tax.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “About what?”

  “The rate.”

  Fu scowled. “You’re government employee, it’s 10 percent off, except for current, active-duty military, then it’s 20 percent off. But you don’t look active to me, and Reserve or National Guard don’t cut it here.”

  “I didn’t mean it seemed too high. I meant it seemed awfully reasonable.”

  “Wait’ll you see the room.”

  He slapped a registration card in front of me, followed by a Bic pen. Writing, I said, “I didn’t see a sign out front for telephones.”

  “Why do you suppose that might be?”

  “I’m going to be some inconvenienced by not being able to make and receive calls.”

  “You’ll be more inconvenienced by having to drive twelve miles inland to get a phone in your room.”

  I picked up a dusty business card from the front of a plastic holder on the counter. The ones behind it were a little whiter.

  “This still the number here?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t take no messages. I’m not a goddam switchboard operator, you know.”

  “I’ll bet you’ve never been in Public Relations, either.”

  “I was a master sergeant. Know what that is?”

  “It’s been a while, but I remember.” I extended my hand. “John Cuddy.”

  He ignored my offer. “I’m Jones. You won’t be here long enough to need my first name.” He scanned the registration card. “That’ll be cash in advance.”

  I gave him three twenties. “If I’m going to be staying a third night, I’ll notify the concierge.”

  Jones fished a key off a rack somewhere under his side of the counter, making a jingling noise. “Unit 18. The Honeymoon Suite.”

  “Honeymoon Suite?”

  “Yeah. You look like the kinda pervert would get off being in a waterbed by himself.”

  I closed the door of Unit 18 behind me. In addition to containing the promised liquid mattress and color TV, it wore a cake-icing shade of pink on every surface that would take paint. I hung up the sports jacket and khaki slacks on the open-air closet pole next to the bathroom and put my clean shirts, underwear, and jogging gear into the bureau. Brushing my teeth under a flickering light, I tried to decide whether the damage to the tiles in the tub behind me came from destructive children or industrious insects.