“Okay …” says Daryl. Having never heard the music, he’ll have to take Manning at his word. “But there were no fingerprints on the disc.”
“Exactly. CDs are fingerprint magnets. That disc should have been covered with prints—Cliff’s prints. The fact that there were none at all means that the disc was almost certainly handled, cleaned, and played by the killer, not by Cliff.”
Daryl nods. “And that brings us back to the central question: Who killed Cliff Nolan?”
Manning inches his chair closer to Daryl, who leans forward to listen. With lowered voice, Manning tells him, “I now have five possible suspects. First, there’s the actor who is posing as Zarnik. His obvious motive for murder would be to avoid exposure as a fraud by Cliff, but why the whole ruse in the first place?
“Second, there’s Lucille Haring, who works up in Nathan Cain’s office, on loan from the Pentagon. She’s a computer wiz, with access to drafts of reporters’ stories, even as they’re being written. The Pentagon may have some involvement in the Zarnik scam, and Haring would have known that Cliff was ready to blow the whistle. What’s more, she’s a lesbian, and Cliff had threatened to expose her to the military brass, which would be the end of her career—so she was plenty motivated.”
Daryl asks the obvious question: “Have you talked to her?”
“I’ve been trying,” Manning assures him, “but we can’t seem to connect. I got another voice-mail message from her today—she can’t meet tonight or tomorrow night because she’s ‘terribly busy with an important project.’ It sounds like a runaround, and I should probably just confront her upstairs in her office during the day, but I don’t want Nathan Cain to get wind of this till I have some firm evidence.”
“A wise precaution,” Daryl agrees. “Who else?”
“Third on my list is Carl Creighton, a prominent local attorney who was possibly being extorted by Cliff. He apparently has some connection with both Zarnik and the Christian Family Crusade—but what’s their role in all this?
“Fourth is Dora Lee Fields, Cliff’s next-door neighbor, a real character. She’s an Elvis impersonator, a CFC member, and a pistol-packing redneck who threatened to kill Cliff for some peace and quiet—she couldn’t stand his loud music, and it was loudest on the night he died. She may be trying to divert suspicion from herself, but she told me that Cliff had a visitor that night, a tall man with a limp.
“And that brings us to suspect number five, Victor Uttley, Chicago’s cultural liaison to the world. He was at Saturday’s party—that tall, effeminate number with a limp from a recent Rollerblading mishap. He’s the one responsible for all those expensive ads that have been running this week, congratulating Zarnik. So he has an interest in Zarnik’s discovery, which we know to be a sham. What’s more, he’s well connected in the theater world, and we’re reasonably sure that ‘Zarnik’ is an actor. That might be an important connection, which is why I asked you to do some research on Victor Uttley.”
Manning glides his chair back a few inches, dropping his arms to his sides. “And that, I’m afraid, is all I’ve got.”
Daryl taps one of the manila folders on Manning’s desk. “You’ve got a morgue file on Uttley. I dug out everything I could, but there wasn’t much—a couple of tepid acting reviews, a metro story about his appointment to the mayor’s office, a few mug shots from his agency.”
As Manning thumbs through the folder, Daryl adds, “You’ve also got a shitload of messages from him. He’s antsy to talk to you. In fact”—Daryl plucks one of the slips and dangles it in front of Manning’s face—“he’ll be stopping by the office this afternoon, right about now, hoping to catch you.”
Daryl has barely finished his sentence when David Bosch pops into the cubicle. “Hey, Mark.” He’s winded and grinning. “Guess who’s out front.”
Daryl picks lint from his sleeve, showing no interest in David’s news. At the same time, he notes with great interest that David’s casual attire is virtually identical to Manning’s.
“Okay,” Manning tells David, “I’ll bite. Who’s out front?”
“Victor Uttley! I happened to hear him tell the receptionist that you were expecting him, so I said I’d run back to get you.”
“Damn, what a coincidence,” says Manning, straight-faced.
This prompts a chortle from Daryl, who’s busy admiring the contour of David’s firm buttocks. When David notices the direction of Daryl’s gaze, Daryl looks up to tell him, “Nice pants.”
“Oh. Thanks.” Then David tells Manning, “So … grab your notebook.”
Obediently Manning rises, picking up his notes, his calendar, and his Montblanc. Noticing that Daryl’s gaze has returned to David’s pants, he says without inflection, “Stop that.”
Oblivious to the subtopic, David asks Manning, “Mind if I tag along?”
“I insist,” Manning tells him, clapping an arm over his shoulder. “After all, you’re part of the team.” And they start off down the aisle together, affording Daryl a nice view of both backsides.
Daryl calls after them, “Oh, David?”
He turns. “Yeah?”
“How was Wisconsin?”
“Sweet, man.”
Uh-huh. Daryl smiles, rises, and strolls off in the opposite direction toward the heart of the newsroom, where he’s late for switchboard duty.
Manning and David escort Victor Uttley into one of the little conference rooms that surround the reception area outside the editorial offices. It’s a stark closet of a room with white, undecorated walls, badly scuffed by chairs on casters, clumped around a center table.
“Have a seat and get comfortable,” Manning tells Uttley, adding, “or at least try to.” Manning shrugs an apology for the tight quarters, shuts the door, then joins David and their guest around the table.
Uttley winces as he sits, trying to find a comfortable space for his lame leg. “Thank you, Mark,” he says, “for seeing me without an appointment.” His lanky frame and long features appear drawn and emaciated in this sterile environment, which is too brightly lit, seemingly from nowhere.
Manning replies, “Sorry I’ve been so hard to reach. David and I have been working on a story that took us out of town. Have you met, by the way?”
They mention having seen each other at Saturday’s party, shaking hands to make it official. As they reach across the table, their chairs shift position, banging the walls.
“So, Victor,” Manning continues, flipping open his pad, “what is it that you’ve needed to see me about?”
Uttley hesitates. Through a skittish laugh, he says, “Actually, I understand from Neil that you’ve been wanting to see me.” He pulls one of his skinny cigarettes from an inside jacket pocket and lights it, not bothering with the holder, not bothering to ask if anyone minds.
“Come on, Victor. You’re first. What’s this about? I spotted you downstairs in the lobby Monday morning.”
He sucks his first drag, then blows the smoke sideways, over a shoulder. “I wondered if you’d seen the ads we ran—from the mayor’s office—congratulating Professor Zarnik.”
Manning snorts. “They were hard to miss. And while the Journal appreciates the revenue, I must admit that the ads baffled me. From the mayor’s perspective, what’s the point—to pump up the prestige of the city?”
“Precisely!” says Uttley, suddenly energized, fluttering both hands. “A city’s self-perception is a tenuous, gossamer thing.” The orange dot of his cigarette traces circles in the air. “We owe it to the citizens of Chicago to seize any opportunity to remind them that they inhabit a miraculous urban playground of culture and science.”
David stifles a laugh. Catching a glance from Uttley, he pretends to cough, shooing smoke with his hands.
Uttley looks about for an ashtray, but there is none, only a lipstick-stained Styrofoam cup left on the table from a previous meeting. There’s an inch of coffee in it, to which Uttley adds his cigarette, extinguishing it with a hiss.
“Thank you,�
�� David mumbles through another feigned cough.
“Anyway,” Uttley continues, “I just wanted to make sure you had seen the ads. Plus, the mayor asked me to convey his personal thanks to you for breaking the story and helping to spread the city’s good name.” He smiles.
“Do express my gratitude to the mayor,” says Manning, aping the smile. This doesn’t make sense, though. Uttley could have simply phoned the message, or sent a card, maybe a plant. Why all this skulking-about, this urgent face-to-face meeting? Uttley’s behavior has been more typical of an informant’s, a “source” who’s about to impart a hot tip. But this is nothing. Manning tells him, “I was only doing my job.”
“Your humility,” says Uttley, “is a credit to your profession.”
Oh brother. “I was wondering, Victor, if perhaps the mayor’s office could be of assistance in facilitating some background research for another story I have planned—it has nothing to do with Zarnik.”
“We’ll be happy to try. Is this the matter that Neil mentioned on the phone yesterday, the laser show?”
David looks to Manning with a quizzical blink, having never heard of this story.
“That’s right,” Manning tells Uttley. Then he explains to David, “At the end of Saturday night’s human-rights rally, some new laser technology will be used to display a huge pink triangle over the stadium; special projectors are being installed on top of the Journal Building and two other towers. The sky show will continue every night for a year, throughout the run of Celebration Two Thousand. Nothing has been published yet about Saturday’s finale—it’s being kept as a surprise. But once people get a look at it, there’s bound to be widespread interest in how it works. So …” Manning turns to Uttley. “I’d like to arrange access to one or more of the projection sites to get a firsthand look at the equipment.” He opens his datebook. It is Wednesday—the week is half gone already. “I’d like to do some snooping by Friday. Any later, it’s anyone’s story.”
Uttley tells Manning, “One of the projectors is on top of this building. Why don’t you just hop on an elevator and take a look?”
David looks from Uttley to Manning—it’s a logical suggestion.
Manning tells them, “Let’s just say I have my reasons. Can you help me?”
“Probably. I’ll let you know by tomorrow. We’ll shoot for Friday.”
“I appreciate it, Victor.” Manning makes a note in his calendar and closes it. While capping his pen, he thinks of something. Uncapping the pen again, he flips open his steno pad. Adopting a chatty, conversational tone, he says to Uttley, “Even without the laser spectacle, it sounds as if the opening ceremonies on Saturday should be sensational. Neil tells me you’ve had a hand in the planning, Victor.”
He puffs with pride. “That’s putting it mildly. The mayor’s office is keenly aware that Saturday’s program will affect the world’s perception of this city for years to come. Planning is crucial, of course, and I’ve tried to keep an eye on the committees.”
“I’ve always been something of a music buff, so I’m especially interested in that aspect of the festival. I understand there’s a possible glitch in lining up the Three Tenors.” He pauses, deciding to gamble, then asks, “Is it true that Paganini may cancel?”—naming not a reigning tenor, but a long-dead violinist.
“That’s just a rumor,” Uttley assures him. “All systems are go—he’ll be here.”
“Oh, good,” says Manning, adding with wry understatement, “I wouldn’t want to miss that.” He jots a brief note, telling himself, This guy wouldn’t know Bach from Bruckner. If he could mistake Paganini for Pavarotti, he surely lacks sufficient musical knowledge to synchronize four gunshots to the “Dies Irae” of Verdi’s Requiem. Victor Uttley did not kill Cliff Nolan. As suspected, Dora Lee Fields may have invented the man with a limp.
Manning closes his notes and pockets his pen. The meeting, it seems, is finished.
Victor rises from his seat, extending his hand. “I’m glad we finally connected. If there’s anything else—”
“Actually,” Manning interrupts, “there is one other bit of unrelated business I wanted to discuss with you.”
“Oh?” Victor settles into his chair again, scraping the wall.
“You’re an actor,” says Manning. “Correct?”
“I was, yes, but my new position leaves no time for such pursuits.”
“Of course,” Manning tells him, “but I understand that prior to your cultural-liaison days, you were building a promising career within the professional theater here.” That’s a stretch, Manning knows, but he’s trying to ingratiate himself.
And it works. “The critics seemed impressed,” says Uttley. “I was starting to get consistently favorable press. But … civic duty called.”
“Might one say, then, that given your background, coupled with your new position, you’re thoroughly ‘connected’ to the theater scene in Chicago?”
“Oh my, yes.” Victor squares his shoulders. “And beyond.”
Manning again flips open his notes. “Excellent. The reason I ask is that I may have use for a contact within the theater world. I’m sniffing out a future story that could turn into something of an exposé. It involves a prominent figure—a local woman who’s been getting some publicity recently—who I have reason to believe may be an impostor, a professional actress. If that’s the case, do you think you’d be able to help me identify her?”
Uttley leans forward on his elbows, beads Manning with a stare, and lowers his voice. “If she’s ever worked in the Midwest, I probably know her.”
“When I’m ready to get the investigation rolling, can I enlist your help?”
Uttley leans closer. “My hard-earned background deserves compensation.”
Manning leans back easily in his chair. He doesn’t bother to hush his words. This is business. “I can’t authorize that, but my editor can. I’ll speak to him. This could be an important story, and we need a source.” Manning closes his notebook.
“He wanted money?” asks Neil that evening, seated at the center island of the kitchen. He and Manning have arrived home within minutes of each other.
“Most informants do,” says Manning, pouring vodka over ice. “The difference is, most aren’t so brazen.”
“Why did you tell him the impostor is a woman?”
“Uttley’s weird. Something told me not to tip him that I suspect Zarnik. It’s a detail he doesn’t need to know yet. Even though I no longer suspect him of Cliff Nolan’s murder, I haven’t ruled out the possibility that Uttley could be involved in the Zarnik ruse. He’s demonstrated a conspicuous self-interest in Zarnik’s discovery, fake or genuine, by running those ads.”
“Tantalizing idea,” says Neil. “But frankly, I don’t think Victor’s that clever.”
Manning laughs. “Neither do I.” Garnishing the two glasses with orange peel, he hands one to Neil.
Rising for a toast, Neil tells him, “Welcome home, Mr. Manning. It’s been a long thirty-six hours—and yes, I counted every one of them.”
Before drinking, they take a moment for a leisurely kiss. Their embrace is made clumsy by the cocktails in their hands, but it’s good to be back in each other’s arms, and neither one flinches at the few drops of alcohol spattered down their backs.
Holding tight, Manning is secure in the innocence of his attraction to David—it could never possibly threaten his bond with Neil. Their identity as a couple is rooted far below the fertile topsoil of sex, deep in the spiritual substrata where their intellects, their shared past, and their planned future are nurtured. By any reasonable measure of commitment, they are “married.” And yet, Manning knows that he cannot simply dismiss last night’s transgression as an inconsequential slip. The marriage—Manning’s sense of their marriage—has been damaged. It’s up to me, Manning tells himself, to focus and to fix it. And Neil doesn’t even have a clue.
“What’s wrong?” says Neil, sensing an unexpected intensity, something almost desperate, in Man
ning’s hug.
Manning holds him at arm’s length. “I missed you. Being apart isn’t good for us.”
“I’ll drink to that.” And Neil does so.
Manning also drinks. “How’s everything shaping up for this weekend?”
Neil considers before responding. He strolls to the main space of the loft, toward the sofa that looks out through the windows. Manning follows. Neil sits, telling him, “Now that you ask, I realize that the whole project is finally winding down for me. Sure, the next couple of days will be hectic, but come Saturday, my committee days will be over. I look forward to getting my life back—getting our life back.”
“You have no idea how good that sounds,” says Manning as he sits next to Neil, close, thigh to thigh, wrapping an arm around him. “I’m sorry things have been so … uncertain lately. I haven’t had much time for ‘us.’”
“No need to apologize,” Neil assures him, dropping a hand between Manning’s legs to squeeze his inner thigh. “We’ve both been busy. That’s life.”
Manning’s been busy, all right. “I’ve got an idea,” he says. “It’s Wednesday, ‘date night.’ May I have the pleasure of your company at dinner, Mr. Waite? How about that trendy new bistro everyone’s yapping about—what’s it called?”
“Bistro Zaza. But we’d never get in.”
Manning won’t be deterred. “I’ll call the office and have someone in Features phone for us. Ten-to-one they’ll think we’re food critics. You watch: We’ll get the best table in the house, and they won’t keep us waiting at the bar. But”—Manning raises a cautionary finger—“we’ll come home for ‘dessert.’”
“A thoroughly intriguing proposition,” says Neil, sliding his hand from Manning’s thigh to the crotch of his chinos. “But I’ve always been sort of a pig about dessert. Let’s have it now—and I’m not talkin’ tiramisu.”
Yow. “Should I call the office first?”
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