Their eyes met. Maybe they hadn't seen each other in fifteen years, he thought, but he could still read Felicia Farwell like a cue card. That had been her problem as an aspiring actress. No subtlety. Always too obvious, too on the nose. He'd never told her that. He'd been careful not to bite the hand that fed him. He certainly wasn't going to tell her now.
"Maybe we should cut to the chase,” he said.
"You've got a problem, Jack. Problems need solutions."
He finally had a reason to smile again, for real this time. “How much would it take to make my problem go away?"
"You mean get the body out of here, dispose of it, and help you cover your tracks? Make sure there's no connection to this room or to you?"
Ryan's voice rose with expectation. “Can you do that?"
"Shouldn't be that difficult, seeing as how I run the department."
"How much?"
"Exactly what you paid for that script—a million dollars."
"A million dollars?"
"There's that echo again.” The uniformed cop stuck his balding head through the bathroom doorway.
"Jack and I were just discussing a possible business deal,” Felicia said.
"I guess he's used to making deals, being a famous Hollywood actor and all."
"A million dollars is serious money,” Ryan said.
She glanced at the dead girl in the shower. Her voice was grim, her eyes unforgiving. “Homicide is a serious matter, Jack."
He spread his hands plaintively. “Still, a million bucks—"
"Your beach house in Malibu is worth ten times that."
"How would you know?"
"Entertainment Tonight. We may be out in the sticks, but we still get satellite.” She smiled at his discomfort before pressing on. “To make a movie, you must have millions at your disposal. I'm sure you can find a way to cover it as a production expense. Don't the studios do that kind of creative accounting all the time?"
"You always were smart about money, Felicia. I'll give you that."
Her voice was flat, all business. “Do we have a deal, or not?"
He laughed bitterly. “That's what you meant when you asked me how much a life was worth, wasn't it? You weren't talking about the girl. You were talking about me."
"You taught me a few things, Jack. Most of all, how to take care of Number One."
"I didn't realize I'd hurt you so badly, making you so hard like this.” He glanced regretfully at her left hand, looking for a ring. “I see you never married."
"I'm tired of the chitchat, Jack. We need to close the deal. Or else I read you your rights, and take you in."
He sighed deeply, like a broken man who realized he'd destroyed not one life but two, and had some atoning to do. “I'll get on the phone while you're getting rid of the body. I should have the bank transfer taken care of before noon."
Felicia nodded toward the uniformed cop. “Jack, meet Charlie. He's been on the force longer than I have. He's got a daughter the same age as Rebecca."
"The wife and I would like to set up a college fund for her,” Charlie said affably. “College costs an awful lot these days."
"I can take care of that,” Ryan said.
"She needs braces, too."
Ryan stared at him with exasperation. “Fine, braces. Let me know how much, I'll write a check."
"I was thinking an even million,” Charlie said. “In addition to the million the chief's getting."
Ryan looked at him like he was crazy.
"And another million to spread around if we need to,” Felicia said. “In case the witness or anyone else threatens to raise troublesome questions. That would be three million altogether. You can put it all in one check. We'll handle it from there."
Ryan grimaced incredulously. “Three million!"
"There's that darned echo again,” Charlie said.
* * * *
Two days later, with local shooting completed, the cast and crew of Passing Through packed up its cameras and other gear and moved on to the next location.
At that point, Felicia informed Ryan, the mayor's daughter was officially listed as a runaway. The locals were concerned but not that surprised, Felicia added, since the girl wouldn't be the first teenager to flee Pine Haven for a more exciting life elsewhere. Charlie reassured Ryan that he'd dug a sufficiently deep hole for the body, twenty miles out of town on private land he owned that wouldn't be disturbed for decades, if ever. The months would pass, Felicia said, and then the years, and eventually the girl named Rebecca would be forgotten by everyone except her family. By then, Charlie and Felicia would have retired and moved far away, and the missing-person case would be filed deep in a drawer somewhere, unlikely to ever be reactivated.
"I won't forget her,” Ryan said, his eyes troubled.
He looked drawn and haggard. His concentration was shot and his performance the past two days had been second-rate. He couldn't remember his lines, and his delivery was inconsistent, off the mark. Rumors were circulating among the cast and crew that he must be on drugs. Only this morning, his director had warned him that if he didn't shape up fast, Passing Through would go straight to cable and DVD, without a theatrical release. Simply put, his life had become hell.
"Her face haunts me,” he added pitifully. “Especially when I try to sleep."
"I'd suggest you count your blessings,” Felicia said curtly, as they completed their business transaction in his room at the Pine Haven Motel. “At least you won't be facing justice. I'd also advise you to stay away from drugs, as well as young women. It's time to grow up, Jack. Let this be a wake-up call."
He nodded morosely and handed over the cashier's check he'd promised them. Awkwardly, without quite meeting their eyes, he thanked them for their help and grabbed his bags. Then he scurried down the stairs to a private helicopter waiting for him in the empty motel parking lot, like a rat running for its life.
As the chopper disappeared into a cloudless sky, Felicia and Charlie drove back to their motel cabin a few miles up the road, where they paid their bill and checked out. They climbed into the white Crown Victoria they'd rented in Boston and took off for the long trek back to Provincetown. Charlie took the wheel for the first leg of the trip, remarking on what a fine day it was for a drive. Rebecca, his eighteen-year-old daughter from his first marriage, was asleep in the backseat, and they were careful not to wake her. As they left the little town behind, Felicia unfastened the bun at the back of her head and shook her hair loose, the way Charlie liked it. Then she slipped on her wedding ring. It felt good having it back where it belonged; she'd missed it the last few days.
"Drive safely,” she said. “We wouldn't want to get pulled over by a member of the Pine Haven Police Department."
Charlie chuckled. “I don't imagine Pine Haven is big enough to have its own police force, dear."
"Or even a mayor,” Felicia added, giving him a wink.
"Three million,” Charlie said, whistling softly. “That's a lot of money."
"Certainly enough to build our playhouse,” Felicia said, “and fund our theater group for many years to come. With enough left over to put Beck through just about any drama school she wants to attend. I guess all those years I spent with Jack Gluck weren't wasted after all."
Charlie glanced lovingly at his wife. “You were very good as the police chief, sweetie. Wonderful improvisation when it was needed. Not that I expected anything less.” He imitated her voice and look, getting the hardness and cynicism just right. “'Homicide is a serious matter, Jack.'” Charlie grinned. “All in all, I'd say it was the performance of a lifetime."
"You weren't exactly chopped liver as the cop.” Felicia glanced back at her sleeping stepdaughter. “And Beck had her part down cold."
"So to speak,” Charlie said, and they both laughed. “Still, it was your excellent planning that made it all possible. You mapped out every twist and turn beautifully, and wrote some great lines."
She leaned over and pecked him on the cheek. “
It's like Jack said, honey."
"What's that, baby?"
Felicia smiled contentedly, gazing out the windshield at the road ahead as it led them home. “It all starts with the script."
(c)2007 by John Morgan Wilson
[Back to Table of Contents]
THE SAGA OF SIDNEY PAAR by Jon L. Breen
"Jon L. Breen is so important as a reviewer that we forget how good a novelist he is,” writer and critic Ed Gorman said of Mr. Breen's latest novel Eye of God (Five Star/Sep-tember, 2006). We can also easily forget how good a short-story writer he is in the years that usually pass between his short-story submissions to this magazine. This year EQMM has three Breen stories—one still to come in the autumn.
"Are you Gus Twining?"
"Yes,” I said.
"May we come in? We'd like to ask you a few questions."
As soon as I heard the first news reports about the murder of my old sports editor, I knew the police might come calling, but I was surprised to find them at the door of my beachfront condo that same day. They were a male-female team, Detectives Nakamura and Ortega. Neither one could have met the departmental height requirement in the old days. They both looked trim and formidable, though, not likely to be the butt of many donut jokes, and in well-cut business suits they were better dressed than the plainclothes stereotype.
I showed them into my study and invited them to sit down. They obviously liked the room. Nakamura, the guy, appreciated the wood grain on the paneling and furniture and the wide-angle ocean view. Ortega was drawn to the pictures lining the walls, showing me with people like Tiger Woods, Phil Mickelson, and Annika Sörenstam, them with golf clubs in their hands, me with a microphone. I had my dust jackets framed, too, with pride of place to the bestseller that had paid for the condo and the view.
"You have a beautiful place,” Nakamura said.
"Thanks. Wish I were here more. I travel a lot."
"I enjoy your work on TV, Mr. Twining,” Ortega said with an almost subliminal smile.
"They say I bring a unique perspective to golf coverage.” I winked, one of my TV trademarks. “I never played the game professionally or even well."
"Millard Glass was your editor when you worked for the Chronicle?” Nakamura asked.
"Yeah. It was years ago."
"You heard what happened to him, I guess?"
"It was on the news. Not many details, though. Shot in his office at the paper after hours, late Monday night, right?"
"Yes."
"Nobody around when he was shot?"
Ortega glanced at her partner. “Somebody was around."
"Have you found the weapon?"
"I think we'll ask the questions, Mr. Twining,” Nakamura said.
"Sure. Shoot. I mean, go ahead.” I smiled. They didn't. I must have seemed nervous, but I had no reason to be.
"Can you account for your movements on Monday night?"
"Yes, sure, I mean, sort of.” I tried to gather my thoughts. “I can tell you where I was and what I was doing, but it's not precisely an ironclad alibi."
"You think you need an alibi, Mr. Twining?” Nakamura said.
"I didn't think so until just now. Are you saying I'm a suspect?"
"Should you be a suspect?” Ortega said, poker-faced as her partner. Oh, they were quite a team.
"No, I shouldn't."
Nakamura said, “We have to ask a lot of questions of a lot of people on any murder investigation, but it's just routine. You're not a suspect, Mr. Twining.” The “yet” hung in the air unspoken.
The journalist in me wanted to ask precisely what cops meant by the word suspect—use it too loosely and it becomes a synonym for the guy who did it, even if he has no face and no name. But rather than question their semantics, I gave them a quick account of my Monday night. I'd never married and lived alone, so it was nothing anybody could vouch for.
Finally I blurted out, “Why would you suspect me? I haven't worked for Glass in ten years and I haven't even seen the guy in five. I had no reason to kill him."
"He fired you,” Nakamura pointed out.
"Yeah, he fired me. Everybody gets fired at some point. Haven't you ever been fired? No, I guess not.” God, I was babbling. It's unnerving to be a not-yet suspect, even when you know they have nothing on you. “Look, losing that job he fired me from put me on a course that led to all this. I couldn't have afforded this condo writing for the Chronicle."
"We understand you were pretty angry at the time,” Ortega said.
"Sure I was. I didn't know what was in my future. All I knew was I was out of work. Looking back, Glass did me a favor. By a month after he fired me, I wasn't mad anymore. Look, if you'll tell me a little more, maybe I can help you figure out who really offed him."
The pair looked at each other and apparently agreed on a course of action through some kind of cop telepathy.
"Glass didn't die right away,” Nakamura said. “He managed to call nine-one-one, in fact, and he told the dispatcher something very interesting. He said, ‘Sidney Paar killed me.’ Then he spelled it: ‘P-a-a-r.’ Dispatcher said he kind of laughed, like it was ironic. By the time the paramedics got to him, he was dead, with his head on the desk and the phone still in his hand."
"Who else was in the building at the time?"
"A few people scattered around, but nobody close to Glass's office."
"Didn't they hear the shot?"
"Sure, but they didn't know what it was or exactly where it came from. The insulation's pretty good in that building."
"When I worked there, you had to sign in with a security man in the lobby when you entered after hours."
"You still do. The watchman, old guy named Frank, didn't sign in anybody we haven't accounted for, but he was away from the lobby a few times. Stomach flu, he said. People told us he's usually very reliable."
"He was when I was there, but he must be getting on. Anyway, couldn't the killer have been somebody in the building who did sign in?"
"If so, they did a good job of losing the gun."
"And I gather Sidney Paar hadn't signed in,” I said, trying to be as poker-faced as they were.
"No, and he wasn't on the roster of Chronicle employees or in the phone book either,” Ortega said. “But then some people there told us Sidney Paar could only refer to you."
I shrugged. “I see their point. Okay, I'll tell you the whole story."
* * * *
When Millard Glass took me on at the Chronicle, it was a big step up for me. After working on a series of small-town weeklies, a medium-sized city daily looked like the New York Times. He was a fierce-looking little guy, usually soft-spoken but intimidating, with a reputation for periodic tantrums. For the first few weeks, he didn't have a lot to say to me; then one day he called me into his office. Dominating the room on the wall behind his desk was a huge poster of four long-ago Notre Dame football players on horseback, with the famous Grantland Rice line below the photo: “Outlined against a blue-gray October sky, the Four Horsemen rode again...” Amid the clutter on the desk, I saw books by Jim Murray and Damon Runyon.
"Gus,” he said, “you do good work. I like to see a writer with a sense of style for a change. That's how sports writing is supposed to be. Accurate's important, sure, but so's colorful. I don't say you're Red Smith reincarnated just yet, but you have a touch of the poet to you, know what I mean?"
"I had no idea I was so touched, but thanks, Mr. Glass."
"Now that you've been here awhile, what do you think of our sports department?"
Awkward question. How frank did he want me to be? A fair amount of the sports page came from the wire services, and some of the local stuff was the work of stringers, often high-school and college journalism students. I had only three full-time colleagues.
Lead columnist Rex Burbage was old, fat, and lazy and had been there since the year one; rumor was he had something on the publisher and couldn't be fired. Rex wrote a pretty good story when his heart was in it, but he was pr
one to careless mistakes. He drank a bit and liked to feature that particular reporter stereotype, but his inherent indolence went deeper than that. As a columnist, he wrote about everything, but he favored horse racing, boxing, and football.
Sally Ashe was small, cute, up for anything (at least in the journalism line), and so energetic she made you tired just watching her dart around the newsroom. A decent writer and good at breaking stories, Sally could exploit the advantages and accept the disadvantages of being an attractive young woman in a profession dominated by middle-aged, beer-bellied men. The newsroom hadn't freed itself of a long tradition of sexism, and I think even those who practiced it most constantly admired her ability to take it in stride. Her main beats were hockey, basketball, and tennis.
Bill Toolmaker was about my age, thirty, but he seemed older and not just because of the thinning hairline. His wife had some kind of degenerative disease and caring for her told on him. Bill was already a veteran on the Chronicle and became my closest friend there. Thanks to him, I knew where the extra office supplies were hidden, whom to call for accurate information (the university athletic director's secretary was especially good at providing deep background), and what red flags to keep off my expense account in the unlikely event I got sent out of town to cover a World Series or Super Bowl or Breeders’ Cup. Bill's main beat was baseball, the local minor-league team close up, the majors at a respectful distance.
I gave a diplomatic, guarded answer to Glass's question about the Chronicle's sports operation, letting him know I had my eyes open without blatantly asking why Rex was kept on. When I praised Sally's investigative talents, Glass just said, “Nice ass, huh?” When I told him Bill was clearly his best reporter, he grunted under his breath, “No style.” He didn't seem that enthusiastic about anybody, apart from Darren Rademacher, a high-school stringer we were going to lose to Stanford the following fall. ("Kid can write. I'd hire him full-time right now. Who needs college?") He asked me what sports I would like to specialize in, where I saw the sports section going in the future, and other general questions, all very friendly and calm until I mentioned golf.
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