Neil laughs so hard, he can barely talk, so he pauses before explaining, “It was such a hoot, the tape aired everywhere on network news. That’s how it came to the attention of the watchdog group.”
“Talk about a fortuitous blooper,” says Roxanne.
Catching his breath, Neil tells her, “And they still don’t know what went wrong. There’s an electronic console that runs the program’s gadgetry, and the CFC issued a statement that the device may have been tampered with. ‘An unknown saboteur,’ they moaned, ‘has scuttled the Crusade’s holy war against the powers of perversion.’”
Manning smiles sheepishly.
Roxanne asks him, “Have you stayed in touch with Helena Carter?”
Eager to switch topics, Manning tells her, “After our splashy court appearance, and then my series of stories about Helen, I was on the phone with her every day for a while, but that tapered off. Now she’s traveling the cat-show circuit again, with Margaret and Arthur in her retinue. She seems to have forgiven Margaret for that long-ago fling with Ridgely; Margaret, in turn, has forgiven Helen for pulling her seven-year stunt. You might say they’ve traded transgressions.”
“All’s well that ends well,” says Roxanne. “How’s Arthur adjusting?”
“Arthur is … well, Arthur. He’s still the loyal manservant, good-natured as ever, in spite of Humphrey Hasting’s attempts at character assassination.”
“I’d almost forgotten about the Hump,” says Neil. “We haven’t heard much from him lately.”
“Nor are we apt to,” says Manning. He can’t help grinning as he tells them, “His sister—wife of the Post’s publisher, you’ll remember—sentenced him to Siberia in one of their suburban bureaus. Elgin, I think.” Manning chuckles. “Writing obits.” He explains through a laugh, “That’s about as low as you can go.” He laughs even harder, having thought of something. “I hear they even drummed him out of the cat club.”
“Poor Fluffbudget,” says Neil, “innocent victim of her master’s sordid past.”
Roxanne leans forward to refill her glass from a green bottle. Cocking her head to eye Manning from under the brim of her hat, she says, “Speaking of publishers, you’ve been skirting the topic of—”
“Nathan Cain,” Manning finishes the sentence for her, no longer laughing.
“You had a lot of suspicions about him,” Roxanne reminds Manning. “Obviously, he didn’t murder or abduct Carter—no one did—but do you think he knew more than he was letting on? After all, he’s so … connected.”
Manning sighs. “I was getting paranoid, that’s all. Cain’s quirkiness fed that paranoia. Yes, his ultimatum seemed inscrutable, but let’s face it, he’s an odd man. I guess he was just pushing me. He’s taught me a lesson too. It should have been self-evident, and I won’t forget it: Never let objectivity be clouded by speculation.”
Neil offers, “He’s really not such a bad guy, Rox. When Mark solved the case and got the story, Nathan Cain was the first to admit he was wrong. Mark got the page-one series, a nice bonus—”
“Plus,” says Manning, “the Partridge nomination. The forms went up to Cain’s office this afternoon.”
“Congratulations,” says Roxanne.
“That’s a bit premature,” Manning cautions her. “It’s only a nomination. Coming from Cain, it’ll have extra weight, but the decision rests with the national committee, and I’ll be up against the stiffest competition in my field.”
Roxanne rolls her eyes. “You’re a shoo-in, Mark.”
“Maybe,” he admits.
The buzzer interrupts their conversation.
“Oh?” says Roxanne, looking toward the door. “I thought it was ‘just us’ tonight.”
“It was,” Manning assures her.
“I’ll get it,” says Neil, rising. He crosses the single vast room, leaving Manning and Roxanne to talk.
They don’t, though. Their eyes follow Neil to the door.
He opens it and tells someone in the hall, “Yes, he’s here.” Then Neil signs for something, closes the door, and returns with a document-size package. Handing it to Manning, he says, “They sent a messenger from your office.”
“Ahh,” says Manning, picking at it, “this must be the Partridge Prize nomination. My editor knew I’d like to have a copy—thoughtful of Gordon to send it over.”
Manning’s eager expression changes to one of curiosity, though, as he opens the large envelope and finds another one within. “No …” he says, “this has nothing to do with the coveted Brass Bird. It’s a FedEx, addressed to me at the Journal. From a lawyer’s office. In Wisconsin.”
He’s got the second envelope open. He skims the document within. Then his eyes pop.
Neil asks, “Well?”
“For Christ’s sake,” snaps Roxanne, “what is it?”
Manning drops the paper to his lap. “An uncle of mine died. He’s left me his house in central Wisconsin. I saw it only once, when I was a kid, and I was spellbound by it. The place is a whopper—I’m sure it’s worth plenty.”
“Wow,” says Neil. “Your uncle had no kids?”
“As a matter of fact, he had three.”
Roxanne asks, “Then why would you inherit the house?”
“I’m not sure,” says Manning. “I have an inkling.” He pauses, smiles. “But that’s a whole other story.”
Turn the page to continue reading from the Mark Manning Mysteries
PART ONE
Discovery
CELESTIAL SHAKEUP!
Astronomer claims discovery of a long-sought tenth planet
by Mark Manning
Journal Investigative Reporter
JUNE 22, 1999, CHICAGO, IL—Dr. Pavo Zarnik, the renowned astrophysicist who was named director of Chicago’s Civic Planetarium just three weeks ago, stunned the scientific world late yesterday when he announced his discovery of a tenth planet in Earth’s solar system.
Issuing a prepared statement, he told the press, “This tiny, remote body is of course not directly observable, but its existence has been verified by a computer model that accounts for minute anomalies, or perturbations, in the gravitational fields of Neptune and Pluto.”
Planet Zarnik is said to orbit the sun at a distance of 7 billion miles, roughly twice the distance of Pluto, with the Zarnikal year lasting more than 600 Earth years. But because its equatorial diameter is less than 1,000 miles, compared to Earth’s 8,000 miles, it spins through a day in about two Earth hours. The planet is said to be solid, not gaseous.
Reaction from other experts came quickly. A spokesman said that NASA would not recognize the new planet until Dr. Zarnik’s claims have been independently verified. Replicating Zarnik’s complex computer model would take months under ideal circumstances, but because of funding setbacks, the research could take much longer.
Although news of the discovery has been met with broad skepticism, none of the critics has questioned Dr. Zarnik’s professional integrity in making the claim. The NASA spokesman conceded, “The man’s credentials are impeccable.”
Zarnik, 56, took up residence in Switzerland several years ago, fleeing the civil war that still ravages his Eastern European homeland. His recent appointment as director of the Civic Planetarium was arranged, with help from the State Department, as part of the city’s Celebration 2000, marking the millennium with a yearlong festival of arts and sciences, to open July 3.□
Wednesday, June 23
MARK MANNING GAZES across the expanse of the Chicago Journal city room, then lowers the newspaper to his lap. This morning’s article, repeated from yesterday’s late editions, wasn’t exactly his best work, certainly not typical of the in-depth investigations that have marked his career and secured his reputation among the city’s top journalists. But then, this particular assignment didn’t qualify as “reporting” at all—not in his book.
Yesterday afternoon, the paper’s managing editor, Gordon Smith, nabbed Manning in the hallway and thrust a copy of a one-page press r
elease into his hand, telling him, “Cobble something together for the next edition. This might be big, and we’ve got squat.”
Manning skimmed a couple of paragraphs—something about an astronomical discovery. He asked Smith, “Shouldn’t this go to Cliff Nolan?”—referring to the Journal’s science editor.
“It did, Marko. Nolan was supposed to interview this Zarnik character and write up the discovery in layman’s terms, but he never delivered.” Smith was already backing away from Manning, taking a turn down another aisle. “I’m late for the daily editorial meeting,” he explained. “Just piece something together and get it into the system. We need to have something in ink, or we’ll be playing catch-up to the Post.”
“What happened to Cliff?” asked Manning, but Smith was already rushing away toward his meeting. So Manning got to work. Even though he was more than qualified to rewrite a press release for print, he still felt qualms about putting his byline on a science story that was out of his realm and, to his way of thinking, not very interesting. There was nothing in this claimed discovery that roused his curiosity. Other than the skepticism of Zarnik’s peers, which might well be dismissed as professional jealousy, there was no conflict in this story. Manning would simply relay the known facts, like some talking-head TV anchorman. Grousing, he told himself, This story has no element of mystery—does it?
Now he leans back in his chair, folds the paper, and sets it squarely on his clutter-free desk, which accommodates only the essential telephone, appointment book, steno pads, pencil mug—and a framed photo of a handsome man of thirty-three who stares at the reporter with a fixed, worshiping smile. Half-walls surround the desk on three sides, demarcating the limits of Manning’s work space. A babble of organized confusion, intensified by an approaching deadline, fills the vast room, but he does not hear it, immersed in thoughts about a promising story he’s eager to begin drafting. There’s a ghost-payroll scandal at the local water utility that’s about to burst wide open, ripe for a round of investigative journalism.
He switches on his computer terminal and begins transcribing notes, originally written, as always, in the blue-black ink of an antique Montblanc, his pet fountain pen. His right leg pumps autonomically, burning off energy not consumed by the action of his fingers on the keyboard. The heel of his spit-polished cordovan shoe taps the hard carpeting. A summer-weight blazer, only recently brought out of storage, drapes the back of his chair.
He stops typing and leans forward to check his words, searching for a tighter phrase. He squints, unsatisfied, and the clean, strong features of his face turn momentarily comical. If a stranger were to glimpse him at work and guess his age, he might be pegged for thirty-something, but in fact, he’s forty-two now, fit and trim—the waist size of his khaki slacks hasn’t changed in years. His eyes, uncommonly green, appear even more so, their color amplified by the background hue glowing from the screen. Finding his phrase, he resumes typing, then uncaps his pen and checks off several items on a page of his steno book.
“Say, Mark. Got a minute?”
Manning swivels from his computer to find Gordon Smith standing behind him with a cub reporter, David Bosch, in tow. The eager kid was a newsroom intern from Northwestern until a year ago, when he finished his journalism degree and was kept on full-time. His broad shoulders and owlish glasses give him the air of a boyish Clark Kent—a likeness that has not escaped Manning, who has taken care to keep their chummy relationship strictly professional.
“Of course, Gordon,” Manning answers while standing. “What’s up?” As a casual aside, he adds, “Hi, David.”
“A few minutes ago,” the editor says, “I got a call from Nathan Cain…”
“Oh?” asks Manning, a hint of caution coloring his voice. A phone call from the Journal’s legendary publisher may be an everyday occurrence for Gordon Smith, but others in the newsroom rarely see the man, let alone speak to him. As the result of this call from on high, Smith is now standing at Manning’s desk. “And …?”
Smith laughs, scratching the back of his head. “It’s the damnedest thing, Marko, but Nathan was really knocked out by your Zarnik piece this morning. He told me to keep you on the story, and he wants to make a splash with a page-one follow-up on Sunday. We’ll be promoting it for the rest of the week—broadcast and print.”
Manning opens his mouth to protest, intending to tell his editor that the story was nothing, a rehash of a press release. If Cain wants it taken further, Cliff Nolan is clearly the best writer for the job. Besides, Manning is itching to get started on that waterworks story.
But before Manning can voice the first syllable, Smith tells him, “I know how you feel about it, and between you and me, I agree. But Nathan gave a direct order, and I’m not inclined to tell him he’s wrong.” Again Smith chuckles—his customary technique for dispelling tension. “It’s just a couple of days’ work, then you can get back to whatever steamy exposé you’re cooking up. And to sweeten this story, Nathan suggested that I assign you an assistant.”
Peering over Smith’s shoulder, David Bosch waggles the fingers of one hand as if to say, That’s me.
Lord, Manning tells himself. All I need. If there’s no way to get out of this nowhere story, I’d rather work it alone. But now we’re going to turn it into a “learning experience” for some rookie.
Resigned to the inevitable, he forces a smile and tells Smith, “Okay, Gordon, we’ll have it wrapped up within forty-eight hours.”
“That’a boy, Marko.” Beaming, Smith pats Manning’s back, then strides off toward the city desk, leaving the cadences of yet another chuckle in his wake.
Manning shakes his head and sits. David steps into the cubicle, telling him, “Sorry, Mark. I know you’ve got better things to do. The whole setup sounds goofy to me too—but the truth is, I’ll be honored to work with the best in the business.”
There now, Manning thinks, this may not be so terrible after all. In spite of the kid’s limited reporting experience, he’s already a pro at pushing the right buttons. And he’s certainly not hard on the eyes.
Manning gestures that David should sit, telling him, “Actually, I’m a bit rusty at ‘team reporting,’ so it may turn out that you’re just along for the ride.”
“You’re the boss,” David assures him. “And I’ll try to keep out of your way.” As he perches on the edge of the desk, Manning can’t help but notice the long, knotted muscles of David’s thighs—he’s clearly invested some time at the gym.
“And I’ll try to make you feel useful,” Manning tells him. Glimpsing at his desk calendar, he asks, “Is your schedule open this afternoon?”
“Now it is.”
“Let me give Zarnik a call and see if he has time for us to visit him later.” He pulls a file from a drawer, retrieves Zarnik’s original press release, and makes note of a phone number, telling David, “In all honesty, I shouldn’t grumble about this. With Celebration Two Thousand set to open in less than two weeks, we’re both lucky not to be writing sidebars for the ‘Arts’ section.”
With a laugh, David nudges his glasses, which have crept down his nose. “That’s exactly what I was doing five minutes ago when Mr. Smith rescued me. I know the festival is a big deal and all—it seems the whole world is pouring into the city these days—but I think it’s being blown way out of proportion.”
“Tell me!” Manning flumps back in his chair, eyeing the framed picture on his desk. “I have more than a passing interest in seeing this festival up and running.” Indicating the photo, he asks, “You know Neil Waite, don’t you? My, uh … loftmate?” Not that Manning would ever deny his relationship with Neil—these have been the happiest, most liberating two years of his life. But he just doesn’t care for the term “lover,” finding it entirely too earthy for most contexts. The language is full of other descriptors—roommate, companion, partner, husband, friend—all of them borrowed from other settings, none of them le mot juste. “Loftmate” will suffice.
“Sure,” answers David
. “You introduced us when he dropped by the office one day. He seems like a great guy—an architect, right?”
“Right. And that’s what got Neil involved with the festival. He’s really got his hands full with the architecture committee—so involved that most of his building projects have been back-burnered till after the Fourth. And now he’s tied up with another committee that’s planning the human-rights conference.”
David hesitates, uncomfortable with the topic. “That’s like, gay rights, right?”
Manning stands. “It sure is.” He closes Zarnik’s folder. “And it’s got a lot of people upset. The Christian Family Crusade wasted no time announcing they’d stage a counterdemonstration at the opening.”
David stands to look Manning in the eye. “Don’t mind them. They’re just a bunch of crazies.”
Manning exhales an odd noise, something between a sigh and a laugh. “That’s what makes me nervous.”
From the aisle, a lilting voice interrupts their discussion. “Here you go, darlin’. A fresh supply of bedside reading.” Into the cubicle sidles Daryl, a gay black copy kid, still a student at Northwestern, who has never made a secret of his general interest in men—or his particular interest in Manning. He carries a hefty stack of oversize books, foxed and musty-smelling, just plucked from the reference section of the paper’s morgue. He nudges between the two reporters—“’Scuse me, David”—and drops the books onto the desk with a dusty thud.
Manning looks askance at Daryl. “What’s this?”
“Basic astronomy, hon. Time to brush up on the cosmos.”
“How’d you know?”
Daryl’s gaze glides first over one shoulder, then the other. Coyly, he responds, “My ear’s to the rail.”
Manning flips through the titles, recognizing that Daryl has chosen well. “I suppose I should thank you for your efficiency.”
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