I won’t, I can’t be more specific about what happened at Manning. That golden day, graduation, has turned to gray and my diploma seems to be a dark, faded thing, crumbling up. I am full of shame. Terrible shame. I know I should go to the police. But can I? A Black woman claiming that her White boss, a rich man, assaulted her. Where will that end up?
A high school friend has a job as a maid on the Upper Eastside. She’s going to make an introduction, as I left Manning without a reference, among other things. I’m going to go for that. I need to eat. Perhaps I’ll be able to look for work in business at some point, when I can hold my head up and look people straight in the eyes.
I will be over soon. But please write and promise we will not talk about this. Please let me try and move on.
With much love,
Martha
He set the letters to the side. Ricky MacDonald needed to be interviewed again. The letter needed to be part of that conversation—to make sure MacDonald had a rock-solid alibi for Martha’s murder.
The New York Post was based in a dingy building on dingy South Street in a dingy neighborhood downtown. Once, all the city’s many papers—when there were many—were downtown, though most were located on Park Row, called Newspaper Row. The Post’s headquarters formerly housed the New York Journal-American, the building bought by former Post owner Dorothy Schiff in 1966 when the Journal-American folded with several other papers after the disastrous printers strike.
Taylor had been invited down after the Murdoch executive from DeVries’ party made the call he’d said he’d make. Taylor had finally decided to test what his gut was already warning him against. His head needed an answer.
The Post’s assistant city editor, who’d introduced himself as Gorton, sat behind a steel desk in the newsroom. The odor of printing ink mixed with pine-citrus cologne. Taylor liked the ink better. He missed it.
Gorton was an Australian. Taylor knew from old friends who were hanging on at the paper that the men Rupert Murdoch had installed in key posts were called the Gangeroos. This had to be one of them.
“I went back and read some of your stories at the Messenger-Telegram,” Gorton said. “Not sloppy or lazy.”
“Is that what you were expecting?”
“That’s what the boss thinks about the work of a lot of American journalists.”
“Wasn’t aware the true home of journalism had moved down to your little country.”
“You must be American if you think Australia’s small.”
“Smaller population than just the New York area. Imagine that’s why your boss came here. Small-time to big-time, right?”
“Are you looking for a job or here to bust balls?”
“Not sure. Someone suggested I talk to you.”
“Don’t know anything about this City News Bureau you’re at now. Except your boss keeps calling on me. Why should I subscribe to it?”
“His name’s Henry Novak. It’s his job to sell you. I write the stories.”
“You got anything good on Son of Sam?”
“No. Working something different. Woman murdered the same night as Virginia Voskerichian.”
“Why the fuck would you do that?”
“Big city. There’s more than one story in this town.”
“This is the story. Everything else is dressing the window. That’s what the boss says.”
“You quote the boss a lot. The problem for your boss is the News looks to have its hook into that story of all stories. The killer’s writing them love letters.”
Gorton appraised Taylor with dark eyes. “Look, I can see you helping out Steve Dunleavy. The boss has him on Son of Sam full-time. We’re going to catch up with the News and pass right by them.”
“Help out?”
“Chase down leads. Dig up material he needs. You’ll like him. Started as a copyboy on the Sydney Sun. Started like you, mate.”
“Mate? What are we, pirates?”
Gorton ignored the crack. “Neither of you are like these Princeton pricks.”
“One of us isn’t a prick, at least.”
Shaking his head, the man picked up the phone and asked for Dunleavy.
Taylor already knew Dunleavy in passing. An Australian, he had arrived from London in the mid-sixties and worked a bunch of jobs for British and Australian papers. Hanging out in all the press bars. Lots to say. He was most recently on the Star, Murdoch’s supermarket tabloid, and moved to the Post as soon as the mogul bought the paper. He had hair piled like a pompadour, wore the suits of a Wall Street man, and was a Murdoch favorite. Taylor had already figured out from reading the paper that Dunleavy was tasked with catching up with the News on the serial killer.
Gorton dropped the phone back in the cradle. “He’s out.”
“I got a call yesterday from a source offering a third Son of Sam letter.”
Gorton brightened measurably. “You have it?”
“Not yet. Waiting for the second call.”
“If so, we’d be interested.”
“Okay. A deal, then. You get the letter. I write the story I’m working on. Call it a sidebar on all the other murders going down in this city.”
“Who’s dead? Who did it?”
“A young Black woman. Shot. I’ve got leads. Former boss at a shoe company. Or she might be connected with a Park Avenue murder.”
“Not our sort.” He waved his hand at the meaninglessness of it all. “We want Son of Sam and anything about him. That crazy maniac is selling papers like lollies at the beach, mate. I can probably get you cash for the letter—and the job working for Dunleavy would be a cinch.”
“Why isn’t it your story? Because a Black woman was murdered?”
“We’re looking for a different reader now.”
“What do you do on a day when there’s no Son of Sam news?”
“Oh there’s always something we can pull together.” Always something you can invent. “We’re covering other stories too. Crime’s a priority. Crimes people care about.”
“I’ve read some of Dunleavy’s pieces in the Star and since he got here—and the rest of what’s running in this poor broken-down old paper now. You boys seem awfully patriotic given your short stay here.”
“Best country in the world, America.” Odd-sounding with an Australian accent.
“ ‘Facts are stubborn things. Whatever may be our wishes, our inclinations, or the dictates of our passion, they cannot alter the state of facts.’ ”
“The fuck is that?”
“John Adams. He was a president of ours. Something a patriot would know. You and the boss will need that for your citizenship tests. You might try using more facts in your paper too.” Taylor stood. “That’s why it wouldn’t work for me here. Facts.”
“We’re going to be the paper in this town, mate. The boss wants nothing else. He gets what he wants. Fuck the facts. He’d tell you that. We’re in the entertainment business. That’s what papers do. You’ll come begging.”
“More pirate talk. I’ve been covering cops in these five boroughs for more than a decade. The only Sydney I know runs a deli on Sixty-Fifth Street. This is a serious city of serious size. What’d you cover down there? A knifing at the pub once every couple weeks. Kangaroo-nappings?”
“Always Kangaroo jokes.”
“You ever wonder why?”
“Call about that letter. We can make a deal. I don’t care how big an asshole you are.”
I’d rather do a deal with the devil himself.
Taylor left the newsroom—though not without a wistful look at the ranks of reporters working stories—and the building. The Post had failed his test quicker than he expected. He’d have done the trade—if he ever got the letter. He’d love to get Martha Gibson’s story in a big paper. All a dead if. Everything he’d heard about the paper had turned out to be true in a 15-minute meeting. Should the guy with the letter ever call back, and should he not be some nut, Taylor would make sure the City News Bureau had the biggest scoop in its short hi
story. Facts were the only choice Taylor knew how to make. Novak would never ask him to play fast and loose with the facts. Not even Cramly. Facts built the story, and the story was his way to act as witness for a victim. And let others do the same.
Chapter 26
Taylor leaned against the Empire State Building, as close as he could get to the entrance without being noticed. He wanted to see people coming in. He held copies of the News and the Post, one inside the other, and at this point was only scanning headlines as he kept watch. Both papers had begun counting down the days to the anniversary of Son of Sam’s first killing—eighteen-year-old Donna Lauria on July 29, 1976. Murdered in the Bronx, and her friend Jody Valenti wounded. The tick tock of fear. The psycho would strike again at the end the month. It wasn’t implied. It was run-for-the-hills fear-mongering. The papers parsed and re-parsed the letter to Breslin for a clue, interviewed and re-interviewed cops in the Omega Group, consulted shrinks, astrologers, and psychics. Taylor expected chicken entrails next. You had the distinct impression the papers wanted the killer to attack on July 29. Would be disappointed if he didn’t.
This was all about selling newspapers.
Taylor hadn’t worried once about circulation during his entire career. That was a job for publishers, which was probably one of the reasons the paper he worked for went out of business. He’d stupidly figured if he wrote the best stories—stories people didn’t know, needed to know—the rest would take care of itself. It didn’t, and yet it didn’t change his view on what the job was about. If you chased what readers wanted, not what they needed to know, you’d do anything. Bend facts. Break them. Hell, run porn, the light stuff at least, like Murdoch did in London.
He’d twice tried to see Ricky MacDonald in the office without luck. Now he was staking out the building. MacDonald was unconnected to the crimes against the DeVries family, but his history with Martha Gibson left him on the list for her murder.
MacDonald spun through the revolving doors into the building. Taylor waited a minute, then entered and stepped onto an elevator.
Three women sat in folding chairs in the makeshift waiting area in front of the little round desk of Ricky’s mother. The women were Black, young, and good-looking, each in her own way. He walked right past the blue-haired mother into the maze of stacked boxes.
“Where are you going? Where are you going?”
Ricky MacDonald, on the phone, spoke pleasant sales patter into the mouthpiece while laying angry eyes on Taylor, who plunked himself into the chair in front of his desk.
The mother stopped yelling when she saw her son was on the phone.
Taylor whispered to her, “I’ve got material evidence. I’d get on the phone with the lawyer brother and get him over here. Now.”
She moved fast for an old lady.
MacDonald hung up. “What the fuck are you doing here? My brother said the next visit would be trespass. Harassment.” He picked up the phone.
“Relax. Your mother’s already calling.” Taylor threw a copy of Martha’s letter on the desk. “Read that.”
MacDonald did, a hungry look on his face that nauseated Taylor. He tore it up.
“It was a Photostat. I’ve got the original. So you’re a pervert and a sleazebag. But what matters to me at this moment is whether you killed Martha. Some one pays for that. My story could include that letter. I’ve got a witness who saw you attack her. I’ve got her sister’s word on Martha’s experience here. I want proof you didn’t kill Martha Gibson. An alibi. Or I write. Then I’ll be done here, and I can go take a long shower.”
MacDonald threw the pieces of the letter in the trash and yelled, “Mother, we don’t need Harry.” He looked at Taylor, who couldn’t tell if the man was pissed off or scared or both. “What was the date?”
“Early hours of March eighth.”
Face transforming to that of a petulant child, he flipped through a black 1977 appointment book. A smile spread across his face, adding an element of greed to the petulance in his expression.
“Louisville, Kentucky, meeting with Jim Daniels of Daniels & Sons Shoes. We had dinner.”
“Call him.”
“I’m not calling—”
“Call him or I write. We talk to the cops about your extracurriculars. Let me listen.”
Taylor leaned close enough—but no closer than necessary—so he could hear. His stomach squeezed, queasy. Aftershave that was more stink than scent. Is that why they called it musk? It seemed to be the type worn by men lacking confidence with women, the job, life.
MacDonald went through all the salesman preliminaries. Taylor’s stomach churned. He wanted this to be over fast.
“Getting things right for the expense account,” MacDonald said. “We had dinner on March Eighth?”
Daniels confirmed the dinner, time, and place. More sales pleasantries were exchanged, though Taylor was already back in the chair when MacDonald hung up.
Taylor yelled for the ladies waiting for appointments. They arrived and stood, eager, looking to be the one.
“I know you all want jobs,” Taylor said. “I’m a reporter. This man is a pervert. He assaulted a previous female employee. He seems to target Black women. I’m sorry to give you that news. Make whatever decision you like.”
Anticipation turned to revulsion in two, who turned and were gone. The third paused and left more slowly. Taylor guessed she was taking her chances.
“God, how I wish I could come back and do that every day.”
“We had a deal.”
“We did. I’m not including the letter in my story. I wouldn’t do a story on what you did anyway. I’m not dragging Martha’s name through it. That’s a justice her memory doesn’t deserve.”
“You lied. Now, you’re crossing the line. You’re going to ruin me. This is some … some kind of slander. Office romance. Happens all the time. You’re going to hurt my business. That’s defamation.”
“You learn those big words from your brother? Tell him to come at me with whatever he’s got. I’ll tell him what you’ve been doing. I’d suggest you have him read Martha’s letter before contacting me. Unfortunately, you tore up your copy. My final gift. Reporters, we make lots of calls. We’re fast at it. I’m calling every secretarial service in midtown and telling them about you. They don’t want to be in any news stories.”
“You’re a … you’re a—”
“I’m nothing you need to worry about. You’re a shit bag taking advantage of these women. Remind Mom. Tell Harry. This is a game that doesn’t play in the courts. Not my way.”
On the ear-popping decent in the elevator, Taylor opened his notebook and crossed Ricky MacDonald off the murder list. Taylor had already proven there wasn’t a drug connection. That boosted the odds Gibson’s murder was tied in with the DeVries family, with the killing of Edmond DeVries. Yeah, but odds were nothing unless he figured out who was the goddamn connection and why it happened. Martha hadn’t known if the person who came out of the sitting room had seen her. Was hearing that one conversation enough to get her shot down? Or was there some other tie he wasn’t seeing? He’d get his all-important read tomorrow night when the DeVries family would be together to hear the story. He had to.
Chapter 27
It was like the Greek Orthodox God of his mother decided the thermometer was a joke. The temperature had jumped to 93, with forecasters promising the same for the next three days at least. Much of July had been like this, the phrase “hazy, hot, and humid” worn to uselessness by the weathermen. A clockwork violent thunderstorm crashed through the city almost every afternoon, doing nothing to clear the air—in fact, somehow making it stickier. No storm this afternoon, but the meteorologist on all-news radio 1010 WINS promised an evening version. New York, always changing.
Taylor and Samantha walked up Park Avenue, a thoroughfare that highlighted the way New York could change on you—extreme wealth on the same street as desperate poverty, separated only by blocks farther north. If they kept walking, they’d be
in Harlem.
The sun disappeared, yet the fading light did nothing to cool the hot, thick air. The heat somehow seemed worse in the dark, as if nothing could make it go away.
Taylor’s undershirt had again failed in its job and soaked through to his dress shirt. He’d hoped to run back to the Murray Hill apartment to change, but stories kept coming in at the office, as the heat wave drove people to rob, rape, and kill. He’d spent the day filing on one explosion of violence after another. Domestic dispute, wife stabbed, assailant in custody. Gunpoint mugging with a cop coming up the block—cop was shot. Bodega owner murdered for nine bucks and a Colt 45 malt liquor. On and on.
As they walked, Samantha’s auburn hair, in a ponytail because of the humidity, swung back and forth. She was beautiful any way she wore her hair, and putting it up gave him a different view of her face, which was glowing—or dripping with sweat, depending on which side of the feminist-language line you fell. Sweat was Samantha’s preferred word, he knew from early experience. Her time as one of the first few hundred women to ride on patrol in the NYPD hadn’t made her a feminist, she claimed. It had taught her she didn’t like being treated like shit. Taylor wasn’t sure what the difference was, but he sure didn’t want to argue about it.
He signed in at 8:50 p.m. at 827 Park, the doorman a guy he hadn’t met before, and waited as the man called the apartment. They rode up in the elevator. Taylor had phoned ahead and specified the sitting room, which triggered a lot of back and forth. “We don’t have company in there,” he’d been told three times. Still, he’d insisted.
The pressure of the coming encounter tightened his throat. This was his shot, maybe his last shot. The DeVries household’s reaction to the conversation Martha overheard had to shake something loose. The detective at the 19th Precinct wasn’t even returning his calls now and had had him thrown out when he tried to pay a visit. Taylor did learn the cop’s name was Dick Moore, so a dick in name and action.
Lights Out Summer Page 18