by Jan Burke
“Why couldn’t they send your husband?” she asked me.
“He isn’t allowed to work any case that his friends or relatives are involved in,” I said. “But even if I hadn’t been here, Detectives Thompson and Cardenas would have been the next ones called. Frank was already on another case.”
“Mrs. Watterson,” Thompson said, “you do understand that this woman is a newspaper reporter?”
Claire lifted a brow. “Why, Detective Thompson! I had forgotten all about that.”
She reached over to the end table nearest her side of the couch and picked up the phone, then handed the receiver to me. “You probably need to call the paper about what has happened here,” she said. “What’s the number of the newsroom at the Express?”
For a moment, I was too stunned to give it to her.
“Go ahead,” she said, then added quietly, “It’s not as if this is something I can hide from the world.”
I gave her the number, and she repeated it as she punched each digit. She gave Thompson a look that said What are you going to do about it?
He just kept swinging his foot, but his neck turned red.
ALANA ARRIVED JUST BEFORE the police showed Claire the note. Alana was slightly taller than Claire, but it was clear that they were sisters.
The note had been found on a desk in the study, beneath a small desk lamp. Apparently, when we arrived, that was the only lamp that was on inside the house. We hadn’t seen the light from outside — the drapes in the study were closed.
Cardenas showed the note to Claire. She had to read it through a plastic cover. It said:
Claire —
Forgive me for not telling you. There is no cure. This has nothing to do with you, my love. I simply choose to avoid days of pain.
Ben
Claire broke down when she read it. “I thought he might be ill,” she said, “but not so ill that he… why didn’t he tell me?” Her sister embraced her and asked the detectives if they could have a moment alone.
I reached for my purse, thinking that I should probably leave, too. It was at about that time that I looked up to see Frank walking into the room. It was an awkward moment to give an introduction, but he managed without me. He nodded to Thompson and Cardenas, then walked toward us. He’s tall, but he lowered his big frame so that he was eye level with us. He took my hand, gave it a quick squeeze, then said to Claire, “Mrs. Watterson? I’m Frank Harriman. I’m Irene’s husband. I’m so sorry we had to meet under these circumstances.”
The words themselves weren’t extraordinary, but something in his manner or his tone must have soothed her. She stopped sobbing. Tears still ran down her face, but she quieted.
“Thank you,” she said. “Irene has been very good to me tonight, but I think she should probably go home now. It’s been — it’s been a long night. Alana will stay with me.” She looked at me and said, “I won’t ever forget all you’ve done for me, Irene.”
I wished her good night, and we left.
“You okay to drive home?” Frank asked when we reached the driveway.
I nodded.
“I’ll see you there, then.” He gave me a hug. He looked tired.
I had a bad moment when I first got into my car and saw the blood on my car window. I looked up into the rearview mirror and saw the headlights of Frank’s car, and calmed myself. I don’t always appreciate his protectiveness, but there are times when it feels good to have him watching over me. This was one of those times.
When we were on the road near the golf course, I saw Mark Baker, a friend and fellow reporter, drive past me going the other way. He gave me a puzzled look and honked, but I kept on going. I spent most of the trip home praying that Claire would be all right, and that she would forget every smart-alecky remark I had made about Frank’s job.
5
JOHN WALTERS, my news editor, called a meeting at the Express the next morning. The paper had already gone to bed when I had discovered Ben Watterson’s body the night before, but it was looking like tomorrow’s paper was in danger of becoming the Ben Watterson Memorial Edition.
John had gathered any of us who had interviewed or covered Ben Watterson in the past. Nobody had anything scandalous to say about him; he was credited with being a major force in Las Piernas’s growth and development. He had known some opposition from antigrowth groups, but even among his opponents he was highly respected. To others, he was all but a god. The Bank of Las Piernas had financed many local businesses.
Lydia Ames, who works on the city desk, was at the meeting. She had been dating Guy St. Germain, one of the bank’s vice presidents, for eight or nine months. Because she socialized with people in the bank’s higher echelons, she had been able to talk to a number of people that might have remained closemouthed otherwise. John asked her to give us an update.
“Several of the executives say that during the past week Watterson seemed agitated. Some of them are pretty upset. They feel they should have seen this coming.”
“Why?” John asked. “Did Watterson drop hints, talk to any of them about killing himself?”
“No, but his activities in recent days fit those of someone who was suicidal. Watterson was settling unfinished business, tying up loose ends in his personal estate, destroying sensitive office files, talking to board members about naming his successor.”
“He tell anyone he was sick?” John asked.
“No. He told several board members that he had decided to retire,” Lydia said. “But now, in hindsight, they see some of the things he said and did as warning signs they didn’t heed. He gave away personal items. He gave one man some archival photographs, saying BLP might want to use some of them in a history one day. The guy now feels as if Watterson was saying good-bye.”
John turned to me. “You were with the widow — right, Kelly?”
“Yes.”
“At some kind of party?”
“A fund-raiser for the battered women’s shelter.”
He paused for a moment. “So the widow is out on the town while her husband is committing suicide?”
“You’re off base, John. I was there. She took it very hard. Last night, on the ride home, she was worried about him, wondered why he suddenly wanted to retire, said she had noticed that he seemed unhappy. But she didn’t even hint at being concerned that he might be suicidal.”
John was thoughtful for a moment, then started barking out orders. “Got lots of angles to cover. Business section will be looking at the financial picture, including real estate.” He listed reporters’ names, assigning an aspect of the story to each. “Baker,” he concluded, calling on our crime reporter, “try to get more out of the grieving widow.”
John’s bad moods are so perpetual that we usually find ourselves afraid of him when he’s cheerful. We’ve all suffered his temper, so his moods allow the often competitive reporters of the newsroom to band together in defense. But today no one complained about him. The suicide of Ben Watterson was one of those stories that made everyone want to do a little more digging. We all knew there was more to the story.
No one had any real reason to believe that, but no one had any doubt about it, either.
WHEN I GOT BACK TO MY DESK, a light was blinking on my new phone. The Express had just invested in a voice-mail system, and the light meant that I had a message. I entered the required codes and eventually got to my section of this glorified answering machine. “You have one new message,” the overly pleasant voice of the system said. “Sent today at 9:37 A.M.” What followed was a series of telephone tones, as if someone were dialing in my ear. I didn’t mind — they played “Goodnight, Irene,” a signal from one of my city hall contacts.
I called Nina Howell, a secretary who works in the Zoning Department. She calls me whenever she has one of those days when she feels like she’s working for a crook. This means she calls me on a fairly regular basis.
“Zoning Department,” she answered. “This is Ms. Howell. May I help you?”
“I sure ho
pe so. You called?”
“Yes. Moffett is leaving. He resigned this morning.”
“Allan Moffett, the city manager?” There weren’t any other Allan Moffetts running around city hall, but the idea that the most powerful employee in the city government was resigning wasn’t easy to grasp.
“Yes. Word is, he’s running scared.” There was noise in the background, and she hesitated for a few moments before saying, “Yes, that’s right. This is the Zoning Department, and I’m afraid there’s no one here by that name.”
“I take it this means your boss is back in the room?”
“Yes, well,” she went on, “if you spell the name for me, perhaps I can look it up in your directory.”
“Okay. I’ve just spelled the name of someone who might be able to help me out. You’re stalling?”
“Exactly.”
“Can we meet for lunch?” I asked.
“I don’t seem to be finding that one here, but perhaps you should try our main switchboard. Would you like for me to transfer you to the operator?”
“Whatever you need to do.”
“Please hold the line,” she said.
No choice but to wait and see what happened. There was a click, and then a new voice came on the line.
“Charlotte Brady,” a strained voice answered.
Allan Moffett’s secretary. Trying not to sound too surprised, I said, “Hello, Charlotte. It’s Irene Kelly.”
“Irene Kelly?”
I waited for her to snub me or to harangue me about calling her on what she probably thought of as one of the saddest days in Las Piernas history. Charlotte Brady was fiercely protective of her boss. Nineteen years as Moffett’s secretary had ingrained certain ideas about me into Charlotte’s loyal mind, most of which identified me under one heading: The Enemy.
“Irene Kelly…,” she said slowly, as if weighing my name on a scale.
“Uh, Charlotte, are you all right?”
“Am I all right?” she shouted. “Hell, no. What would make you think I would be all right?”
I was stunned into silence. Charlotte is usually so calm and controlled, you could say “Charlotte, your clothing is on fire,” and even as she did a drop and roll, she’d smile and reply that she couldn’t confirm or deny anything without Mr. Moffett’s say-so.
“Do you know what that son of a bitch said to me this morning?”
“No,” I said, not even sure she meant Moffett.
“He said, ‘Charlotte, you’ve been wonderful. Thanks for all you’ve done. I talked to Glen, and you can keep that desk set if you like.’”
“Mr. Moffett asked the mayor if you could keep the desk set?”
“Yes! I sat here for about thirty minutes, just… just in shock I suppose. But I got over that stage about an hour ago. Guess which stage I’m at now?”
“Well—”
“Anger. That’s where I’m at now. I’m the angriest I’ve ever been in my life. Wouldn’t you be?”
“I imagine I would.”
“Nineteen years of loyalty. Not one day out sick. Nineteen years of organizing that man’s life, putting up with his moods, serving him his morning coffee in a white china cup, addressing his Christmas cards for Godsakes! A desk set! Nineteen years, and his big damned favor to me is a desk set!” She drew in a deep breath and let it out on a long sigh, then laughed. “Well, Irene Kelly, after practically hanging up in your ear several times a month for the last ten years, let me ask — very sincerely — what can I do for you, my dear?”
“Perhaps you could tell me why he left?”
“Oh, he claims it’s because of his health.”
Those words made me think of Ben Watterson, and I felt a chill. “His health?”
“Oh, it’s not true. Not unless ‘skeletons in the closet’ can be called a bone disease.”
“What skeletons?”
“I’ll be honest. If I knew all the details, I’d be down there dictating them to you. All I know is that all hell broke loose after that man came in to see him.”
“Wait — what man?”
“I don’t know, but someone ought to give the guy a medal. I should have seen this coming when I saw how Allan treated his ex-wife.”
“Allan’s ex-wife has something to do with the man who came in to see him?”
“No, no, sorry. I meant, I should have seen how rotten Allan could be to women. But no, this man came in here yesterday, and I almost called security. He wouldn’t give his name, and he acted nervous.”
“Can you describe him to me?”
“He was a black man. Hard to guess his age. Late forties? Maybe early fifties? Not well dressed. His clothes didn’t fit him right — wore an inexpensive suit that was kind of loose on him. I tried to tell him that Mr. Moffett was very busy and couldn’t see anyone without an appointment. But this guy was determined. If you work as a secretary long enough, you can spot the ones you can get rid of easily and the ones that are going to be persistent — like you. You have nearly driven me crazy on more than one occasion, you know.”
“The admiration is mutual.”
“Oh, I hope you weren’t insulted by that remark?”
“Not at all. Tell me more about this man.”
“Well, I gave in. I don’t know, I guess it seemed to me that he wasn’t asking for much. He didn’t exactly ask to see Allan.”
“What did he want?”
“He had a letter with him, and he asked me to take it in to Allan.”
“Did you see what the letter said?”
“No. But I was very curious about it, because Allan went white as a sheet when he read it. Then he got kind of blustery and stood up and marched out into the waiting room. But the man just sat there calmly and looked Allan in the eye. Allan said, ‘Come into my office.’ The man nodded and went on in.”
“You hear any of their conversation?”
“Not a word. He talked to Allan for a long time. He didn’t seem especially happy when he left, so maybe Allan didn’t give him what he wanted.”
“If he left unhappy, what makes you think he had anything to do with Allan’s resignation?”
“It was what happened after he left. Allan sat alone in his office for a long time. He wasn’t using the phone — I would have seen a line light up on the phone. Then he buzzed me on the intercom and asked me to work late. I had to call all of his old buddies last night. He set up a dinner with them.”
“They met last night?”
“No. Allan was too busy packing up his office and shredding documents last night to go have dinner. I didn’t know that’s what he was up to, of course. I was making dinner arrangements.” She paused, then said, “Maybe that’s how you can supply me with my sweet revenge, Miss Kelly. The dinner is tonight at the Terrace. I’ll bet you’d like to be there.”
“The Terrace is usually a little out of my price range, but maybe I’ll splurge tonight. Mind if I ask who’s on the guest list?”
She gave me a list of six names, seven with Allan added on as host. I knew all of them. They were the names of men with high profiles in Las Piernas; mostly, they were involved in a mix of planning, banking, real estate, and construction. But as I typed the names into my computer notes, two of them gave me an uncomfortable feeling.
I had been hearing one of them too often lately: Andre Selman.
The other name led me to tell Charlotte to change the number in the reservation.
Ben Watterson wouldn’t make it to dinner.
6
CHARLOTTE HADN’T SEEN or heard any of the news about Watterson’s suicide. Once she got over her initial shock, I asked her about her conversations with the men who were going to the meeting.
“What were you supposed to tell them to get them to this dinner?” I asked.
“Nothing special, really. Allan said I should just mention who would be at the dinner, and then to say, ‘Mr. Moffett is certain you already understand the importance of meeting as soon as possible.’ Ben Watterson. My God, I can’t
believe it.”
“What time did you talk to Mr. Watterson?”
“Let me check my phone log,” she said. I heard paper rustling in the background, then she came on the line again. “At about seven o’clock.”
“Allan didn’t ask you to destroy your phone log?” I asked, temporarily distracted.
“No. Either he forgot about them or he figured my notes wouldn’t be very important.”
“Hang on to them, all right?”
“Sure. Now that I think of it, he called twice that day. The first time, it was to tell Allan that he was sending a fax.”
“Do you remember the fax?”
“No, I didn’t get it. Allan said it was some confidential information from the bank. He stood next to the fax and picked it up himself.”
“Wasn’t that unusual?”
“Well, it didn’t happen too often, but Allan would do that on occasion. He had his secrets, even from me. Obviously, or I wouldn’t be packing up my desk today.”
“Did Mr. Watterson seem upset when you spoke to him about the dinner?”
“No, he seemed very calm. Very quiet. Just said, ‘Thank you, Charlotte, I’ve been expecting a call.’”
“Nothing else?”
“No, not a word.”
“No indication that he wasn’t planning to show up?”
“None at all. I guess that’s why I’m shocked…”
“Any of the others say anything when you called?”
“No. I figured they all knew that Allan would be contacting them. They all just took down the information and said to tell Mr. Moffett that they would be there.”
“Do you know what, if anything, these men have in common?”
“No, not really. Allan had dealings with all of them from time to time.” She paused, and I waited while she thought it over. “Nothing too surprising as far as their connection to this office. When I look down the list, they’ve all worked on city redevelopment projects in one way or another. Roland Hill, of course, as a developer; Keene Dage has done a lot of big construction; and as you know, Corbin Tyler is an architect. Ben Watterson’s bank has financed some projects. The other two, Booter Hodges and Andre Selman, are from the college. Las Piernas College has supplied most of the research and planning studies for redevelopment. So all of these men have legitimate business with Allan.”