“I suppose it’s not quite the same,” he granted, then fell silent for a long while. “What about that . . . man? That professor?” he asked, uncomfortable with the question and, perhaps, the eventual answer.
“I hope you won’t mind a little indiscretion on my part,” I said, looking up at him again. “I came into possession of a couple of letters Jordan had written to a friend. And there were a couple of snapshots of Jordan and Jerrold holding hands in India.”
The judge stiffened.
“In the letters, Jordan described her love affair with Jerrold.” I paused. “I sent photostatic copies of the letters and prints to Professor Lionel Benjamin, chairman of the Engineering Department and Jerrold’s tenure committee.” I licked my dry lips to moisten them. “And I dispatched copies to Jerrold’s wife, too.”
“And?” asked the judge.
“I’m sorry, but I got word yesterday from the department secretary that Jerrold got his tenure despite the information I sent. I’m afraid my ploy failed.”
Judge Shaw stared blankly at me, and I couldn’t be sure if he was annoyed or not.
“His wife is standing by him, too,” I said. “I can’t imagine why.”
He coughed lightly, but showed no outward emotion at the news.
“What about that Indian fellow?” he asked in a hoarse voice. “You said he was the one who . . . mutilated my poor Jordan.”
“Even if the letters I sent didn’t sink Jerrold, they finished off Roy,” I said. “Jerrold doesn’t protect him anymore and, in fact, blamed him for the embarrassing appearance of the letters. Singh must have assured him that he had collected all incriminating evidence from Jordan’s apartment the day after the murder, so when the letters and photographs surfaced at the tenure meeting, Jerrold assumed he’d been double-crossed. Singh’s father shipped him off to India three days ago.”
I don’t think any of this pleased Judge Harrison Shaw. The cavernous sorrow left by Jordan’s death would remain forever, of course, perhaps becoming familiar with time, but the heartbreak and the cruel sting would surely dog him all his days.
Now, there was only one thorn left to pull. The judge put the question to me with great discomfort: “We read in your paper that there might be . . . film. Photographs of Jordan.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling the sweat on my brow. “Don’t let that trouble you. I invented that story and fed it to George Walsh.”
His dumb expression begged for an explanation.
“I thought the story might flush out the killer.”
“Then you’re sure no photographs of her exist?” asked the judge. “I would choke on my rage if any pictures of her ever turned up.”
“There is no film of her, Judge,” I said, my mouth sticky dry. “You have my word of honor. My promise.”
We talked a while longer, reviewed the last niggling details until there was nothing more to say. Once we’d covered everything, all that was left was an awkward ending. I thought I might be able to help him cope and suggested another meeting if he wanted, anytime he wanted.
Judge Shaw looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Miss Stone,” he said. “I appreciate your fine work on this case, all your efforts. But I see no reason for us to see each other again.”
I was stunned.
“You must understand,” he explained. “This does not establish a social bond between us.” He paused. “In fact, just the opposite.”
If he had gutted me with a knife, I could not have felt more hollow. I left his office sobered, humbled, and filled with self-reproach. What had I been thinking? Harrison Shaw was no father of mine, and I was not his Jordan. I should have wished him well on my way out the door, but I couldn’t do it. I had my own demons to wrestle. The judge and his wife had no monopoly on grief.
I returned home and pulled the heavy Curtis folio off its shelf. I hadn’t looked at the haunting photographs since I’d first developed them, and I didn’t want to see them now. I burned them and their negatives in a metal wastebasket in my bathroom. Mrs. Giannetti banged on the door, wanting to know what the smell was.
About two months later, I ran into Pukey Boyle at the Dew Drop Inn—I had become something of a regular. When I first caught sight of him across the room, I thought, “God, that is a lot of man!” Not my type, perhaps, but a lot of man just the same. It was the first time I’d seen him since that day at the Leatherstocking Motel. Now, in the dim light of the bar, we had several drinks and a couple of pickled eggs together. We talked late into the night, and he asked me if I’d ever heard from Julio Hernandez.
“His mother sent me a thank-you note, but that’s it,” I answered. “I don’t get down to the East End much these days.”
Pukey grunted a chuckle. “The East End? Your boy’s moved up in the world. He’s shacked up with Jean Trent and got himself a brand-new Corvette. I heard they’re getting married. Can you imagine? That old hag?”
I sipped my drink and smiled inside, happy to see Victor Trent’s nest egg finally being put to use.
It was hours later when I found the courage to ask Pukey the question I had tried to ask him in the hospital.
“Why were you following me? Why did you want to protect me?”
“I knew you were on top of things, and I didn’t want anyone getting in your way,” he said with a shrug.
I was flattered. I thought how sweet it was that he’d been carrying a torch for me. He’d probably been too shy to tell me his true feelings. Then he smiled, a little sadly, and looked into his beer.
“You might not understand this, Ellie, coming from a guy like me,” he said. He shook his head slowly, then looked away. “I loved her. I loved her like you can’t imagine.”
And, yes, I felt like a chump. I laughed silently at myself and thought what a great guy Pukey Boyle had turned out to be. I touched his hand to comfort him and to convey that I understood. Our eyes met, and I shared a smile in the dark with my hero, my paperboy.
A book is made by a lot of people. My books have been made better by the great team at Seventh Street Books. I am grateful in particular to Dan Mayer, editorial director, who tears apart my plots, looking for holes to plug and logic to correct; Mariel Bard, editor, who ferrets out the buried errors in my manuscripts and polishes my words; Meghan Quinn, publicist, who works so hard and cheerfully to get my books seen and read; and Jackie Cooke, senior graphics designer, who produced the beautifully evocative covers for Styx & Stone and No Stone Unturned.
Some wonderful friends have provided me with invaluable feedback and support: Lynne Raimondo, Kay Kendall, Raik Sabeel, and Dr. Kunda. Thank you, all.
Special thanks to my agent, William Reiss of John Hawkins & Associates, for his advice, for his efforts, and for Ellie Stone herself.
James W. Ziskin lives in the Hollywood Hills with his wife, Lakshmi, and cats, Bobbie and Tinker.
He is the author of Styx & Stone. A linguist by training, James earned a bachelor of arts and a master of arts in Romance languages and literature from the University of Pennsylvania. He is currently working on the next Ellie Stone Mystery.
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