by R. G. Belsky
“She was a reporter for The Washington Post,” I said. “She did a series of articles a few years ago about an eight-year-old drug addict that won her a Pulitzer Prize. Only it turned out there really was no kid. She’d made him up. They had to take the Pulitzer back and she lost her job.”
“Where is she now?”
I shrugged. There were blank looks all around the table. No one knew.
“I guess that really is crossing the line,” Janet said.
A copyboy came in carrying a stack of Blades and handed them to Malloy. He passed them around the table. My latest Loverboy story was right there at the top of page 1.
I was reading it to myself when I realized the copyboy was standing next to me.
“You’re Lucy Shannon, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“My name’s Dick Sievers.”
“Hi, Dick,” I said.
We shook hands. He was very young, and—I suddenly realized—handsome in a dark, brooding kind of way.
“It’s really an honor to meet you, Miss Shannon. I’ve been reading all your stuff. I want to be a reporter, too, someday. Just like you.”
Janet snickered next to me. I ignored her.
“Have you done much journalism?” I asked him.
“Well, I’m taking a course in it now at NYU. Basic newswriting.”
“That’s a start.”
“And, of course, I’m working at the Blade nights as a copyboy.”
I nodded. I wasn’t quite sure what to say.
The kid looked very nervous.
“The thing is . . . well, I was wondering . . . maybe sometime we could talk about it. Like over coffee or a drink or something. I mean, I know you’re probably really busy—but I’ve got a lot of questions. And I think I could learn a lot more in twenty minutes with a real reporter like you than from a whole semester of journalism classes.”
“Sure.” I smiled. “I’d be happy to talk with you.”
After he left, everybody at the table started ribbing me.
“God, he’s got a crush on you,” Janet said.
“Why you?” Wolfe wanted to know.
“Yeah, you’re old enough to be his mother,” Tully joked.
“Here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson,” Barlow said, holding up his beer glass in a toast.
I picked up the Blade and pointed to my story on page 1.
“Everybody loves a star,” I said.
It was a little after eleven when I left Headlines that night. I was by myself. The rest of them were staying there to drink some more. That’s one of the benefits of being sober. Not so many late nights closing bars down. It’s great for getting sleep.
There was some construction going on next door when I got out onto the street. They’d build one of those temporary walkways—a sort of tunnel made of metal and wood—that you had to go through to get to Seventh Avenue. I started through it, wondering if I’d have much trouble finding a cab.
There were still plenty of people on the street. That was why I didn’t get worried when I heard the footsteps behind me. I felt safe. I was in the middle of the Village and it wasn’t that late and danger was the last thing on my mind.
I was almost to the end of the walkway when it happened. Another few feet and I probably would have been all right. In full view of many passersby. Just get in a cab and go home and jump into bed. But I never made it.
An arm suddenly went around my neck, and I felt somebody grabbing me from behind.
I struggled, but whoever it was was really strong. A hand clamped over my mouth as I tried to scream for help.
“This is just a little reminder that no one is safe from Loverboy—not even you, Shannon,” a voice whispered in my ear. “I’m always out there watching all you bitches.”
There was an alley next to me. I felt myself being dragged into it. It was dark and hidden and no one would ever see me in there.
I knew I had to fight back. I summoned up every ounce of strength I had. I bit down hard on the hand across my mouth. There was a scream of pain and I heard something fall to the sidewalk.
Someone hit me then.
There was a blinding flash of pain in my head, and I remember hitting the sidewalk as I fell.
After that, everything went black.
Chapter 37
I was probably unconscious only for a minute or two.
When I woke up, I was lying on the pavement in the alley. My head hurt and so did my throat where the guy had grabbed me. I checked my purse. Nothing was taken. Plus, I was still alive. All in all, it could have been worse.
I wasn’t sure how badly I was hurt, though.
I slowly made my way back out to the street. No one else there seemed to have noticed what had happened. I thought about asking for help or hailing a cab or going back to Headlines. But then I saw St. Vincent’s Hospital, just a few blocks away. I walked to the emergency room.
They X-rayed my head and checked out my bruises. While I was waiting, I called the Blade from a pay phone and told them what had happened. The night editor put me on with a rewrite man. He said they were going to do a story on it. After a while, the doctor came back with some X-rays which showed nothing on me was broken or missing. He advised me to go home and get a good night’s sleep.
Instead I walked to the nearest police station, on West Tenth Street, where I filed a report on the attack.
The desk sergeant seemed bored as he wrote down the information. Until I told him the part about Loverboy. And said my name was Lucy Shannon.
“You’re the reporter, aren’t you?” he said.
“Yes.”
“I think they want to talk to you.”
“Who?”
“The detectives.”
He led me to a small room and asked me to wait there. The room had a small rectangular table and three folding chairs. I sat down in one of the chairs. I hoped the detectives weren’t too busy. This was turning into a very long night.
Five minutes passed. Then fifteen. Then close to an hour.
This was stupid, I thought to myself. The cops weren’t ever going to catch anybody anyway. I was ready to get up and leave when two detectives finally came through the door. They weren’t the detectives I had expected, though.
Masters and Caruso entered, carrying a cardboard box. They laid it down on the table in front of me.
“What are you guys doing here?” I asked.
“We heard about what happened,” Caruso said.
“Gee, it’s nice you were worried. But I’m okay. Honest.”
I flashed him a reassuring smile. He didn’t smile back.
That was my first sign that something was wrong.
The second was when Masters took out a Miranda card and began reading me my rights.
“You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to consult a lawyer . . .”
I looked at Caruso. “What the hell’s going on here, Mitch?”
He reached into the cardboard box and took out a newspaper. He put it in front of me. It was a late edition of the Blade. The story of my attack was on page 1. There was a picture of me too. The headline said:
LOVERBOY SHOCKER
Blade Reporter Attacked; Cops Seek Link to Slayings
“That’s some story,” he said.
“What’s your point?”
“You wrote it before you came to the police.”
“I wanted to make it in time for the next edition.”
“So how could you say we were investigating a link between what happened tonight and the slayings?”
“I just assumed you would—it seemed obvious. The guy who attacked me talked about Loverboy.”
“The story’s not true,” Masters said.
“When did you become a journalism critic?” I asked.
He cleared his throat. He seemed uncomfortable too, just like Caruso. “We canvassed the area, Lucy. No one saw any attack. There’s no evidence in the alley. No sign of a struggle anywhere.”
> “I was there, Lieutenant, remember?”
He grunted. “Yeah. Just you and this imaginary assailant.”
I couldn’t believe this was happening.
“Are you saying I made this up?”
“It’s starting to look that way.”
“Why would I do that?”
Masters pointed to the newspaper article. “To get on the front page. To keep this whole Loverboy thing going for you.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
I looked over at Caruso. “Is that what you think, Mitch? That I made it all up just to get my name in the paper again?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know, Lucy. . . .”
“Maybe you didn’t do it deliberately,” Masters said. “Maybe you really thought you were being attacked. People who drink a lot sometimes have delusions—”
“I don’t drink anymore.”
“You’d just left a bar.”
“I was drinking Perrier. You can ask anyone there.”
“We did,” Caruso said.
“What did they say?”
“The bartender told us you sometimes sneak drinks. He says the last time you tried to quit, you kept a flask in your pocket—and poured it into your glass under the table. Nobody knew anything about it. Until you passed out.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Is that what happened tonight?”
“No!”
“Look, Lucy,” Caruso said softly, “if you want to call a lawyer now . . .”
“I don’t need a goddamned lawyer,” I snapped.
“I think you do.”
“Why? Even if I was drinking—which I wasn’t—when did that become a crime?”
Masters reached into the cardboard box and took out some other things. A scrapbook. A few letters. A vodka bottle.
“Where did you get those?” I wanted to know.
“Your apartment.”
“What were you doing in my apartment?”
“We had a warrant to search it.”
“Why?”
Then it dawned on me. Of course. That was why Mitch Caruso had been looking around my bedroom. He’d been trying to find out if there was anything there to come back for later with a warrant. He hadn’t been on a date at all. He’d been on the job the whole time.
I glared at him. He looked away.
“You son of a bitch!” I said.
Masters picked up the vodka bottle he’d taken out of the box.
“Why does a woman who isn’t drinking anymore have an empty vodka bottle in her apartment?”
“Beautiful memories,” I said.
“That’s bullshit.”
“I don’t have to answer these questions.”
He glanced down at the rest of the stuff he’d taken out of the box.
“The scrapbook is filled with every article that’s ever been written about Loverboy. You seem obsessed with him, Shannon.”
“I’m a reporter. I keep clippings.”
“How about the letters? They’re Loverboy’s letters. The ones he left at murder scenes.”
“So what? They were written to me. Why wouldn’t I keep copies so—”
“These aren’t copies,” Masters said. “They’re originals. And they weren’t the same as any of the letters from previous murders. These were new. What were you going to do—put them at the next crime scene?”
“And why would I do that?”
“To make sure you got another big story.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Then how do you explain this?”
He reached into the box one more time and took out a gun.
Not just any gun.
A Bulldog .44 revolver.
Just like the one Loverboy used.
“We found this in your apartment too,” Masters told me.
That was when I knew I was really in trouble.
“I want to talk to a lawyer,” I said.
Part 5
Tangled Up in Blue
Chapter 38
They say there’s nothing like the fury of sharks turning on one of their own.
I remember watching a documentary about it once. Most of the time a school of sharks works in perfect union. Constantly moving through the water looking for its next prey. Relentless. Deadly. Nature’s perfect killing machine.
But then, if something happens to one of the sharks, everything changes. Maybe the shark cuts itself on a jagged rock. Or it’s shot or harpooned by a passing boat. Whatever, the sight of blood whips the other sharks into a frenzy. There’s no sympathy there. No effort to help their crippled cohort. No 911 calls in the world of sharks. They just go after it with a gusto even fiercer than that applied to any of their innocent victims.
Reporters are a lot like that.
We really are all sharks, I realize now. I mean, we talk about freedom of the press and the public’s right to know and all sorts of lofty goals. But when you get right down to it, we feed off other people’s misery. Murder. Scandal. Tragedy. That’s what news is really all about.
Sometimes critics talk about how there should be more good news reported by the media. But that’s never going to happen. News—by its very nature—is inherently almost always something bad.
I knew all that. I’d just never seen it from the other side before. Suddenly I was the hunted, not the hunter. I was the wounded shark. And the rest of them were after me. They smelled blood.
There was a crowd of them waiting for me when I came out of the station house. Newspaper reporters. Television crews. Radio stations. Someone at the precinct must have tipped them off. Why not? I’d gotten a million tips like that myself.
I was wearing handcuffs. Masters and Caruso had seemed almost apologetic when they put them on me, but they’d said it was official procedure. The two of them were on either side of me now and led me toward a waiting police car.
“Is it true that you wrote the new letters from Loverboy yourself?” a TV reporter yelled.
“Are you Loverboy?” someone else wanted to know.
“Have you been charged yet with a crime?”
I didn’t answer.
I knew all the faces. Many of them were my friends. How many times had I done the same thing they were doing now? Yelled out questions at suspects, badgered them, followed them down the street.
That was a reporter’s job. To get the quote or sound byte or headline that would make all the difference for the news. I always thought it was fun. But it wasn’t much fun being on the other side.
Cameras were pointed at me. Flashbulbs went off. Sometimes I’ve seen cops put their coats over suspects’ heads to keep them hidden in situations like this. No one put a coat over my head. But I didn’t care. It really didn’t make any difference.
When we got to the police car, Masters and Caruso pushed me into the backseat, with both of them getting in alongside me.
Then the driver turned on the red light and siren and we headed downtown to police headquarters.
Caruso never said anything to me, and I didn’t speak to him. We just sat there in silence for the entire ride. Masters was nicer, asking me several times if I was all right and if there was anything I needed. I’d known him for a long time, and I think he was kind of embarrassed by the whole situation. I appreciated his concern and compassion. My opinion of him went up considerably. I don’t want to tell you what I was thinking about Detective Mitch Caruso.
They kept me in a holding cell until my lawyer arrived.
It was the middle of the night, so it took the Blade a while to track one down. I spoke to Barlow first, then to Vicki herself at home. Both were totally shocked by what had happened.
One of the cops I knew brought me a cup of coffee and a turkey sandwich from an all-night deli next door. I drank some of the coffee, but I didn’t touch the sandwich. I tried to close my eyes, but I couldn’t sleep either. My head hurt. My neck ached.
I finally managed to drift off for a little while, though it was a fitful nap. I
woke up with a start, confused and disoriented. At first, I thought I was having another nightmare. Then I looked around and remembered where I was.
This was no dream. This was really happening.
There’s an old saying: “You should be careful what you wish for, because it may come true.”
A long time ago, I’d wished for a big story.
Now I was the story.
It was dawn—I could see the first rays of sunlight breaking through a window—when one of the cops came to see me again.
“Your lawyer’s here,” he said.
“Good.”
“I thought you might be interested in this too.”
He laid a newspaper down in front of me. It wasn’t the Blade. It was the Daily News. My picture was on the cover. The headline said:
REPORTER QUIZZED IN LOVERBOY SLAYINGS
Yep, I was definitely big news.
Back on page 1 again.
Just like I always wanted.
Chapter 39
The lawyer’s name was Kate Robbins.
I asked for her—instead of some of the more senior partners at the firm the Blade uses—because we’d worked together before and I liked her.
I’d been sued for libel by a high-profile lawyer who constantly advertised his services on television. I did a series of investigative articles questioning many of his claims of legal victories as untrue. The article was accurate, but he asserted that parts of it violated his privacy because he did not qualify as a public figure, like a politician or a movie star. Kate argued that he’d forfeited his right to privacy with the aggressive TV ad campaign. I won the case—and even got an award from the American Bar Association for exposing him as a corrupt lawyer.
“Lucy, I’m not a criminal lawyer,” she said now as she sat down.
“I know that.”
“Libel, plagiarism, copyright law—those are my specialties. Not murder.”
“Okay.”
“I think you need a criminal lawyer.”
“I’ll get one later.”
“So why am I here?”
“Right now I really need a friend.”
Kate sighed and opened up her briefcase. She took out a yellow legal pad and a pen. The legal pad had writing on several pages. She’d been taking notes even before she saw me.