Legwork

by Katy Munger

  I heard a door slam and froze, contracting my muscles in an attempt to shrink to a size I could never hope to attain. Voices approached, two women arguing about some man named Artie and whether it was okay to have an affair with a married man if his wife knew and didn't care. The one who was all for hopping in the sack and damn the torpedoes was on the verge of convincing the other of her viewpoint when they passed by, high heels clicking on the asphalt just inches from my twitching ear. A cramp shot up my right calf and I winced, shifting slightly to ease the pain. The gear shift poked into my bladder and I felt an intense urge to take a pee. It's easy when you're a guy and can whip it out and whizz into a can. Us females on stakeout have it harder. I silently willed the two intruders to get the hell on with their lives. Obligingly, their voices faded and I began scrambling through the pile of documents before the rest of the world passed by.

  Among the fascinating facts I discovered about Stoney Maloney was a propensity to speed, a disregard for local parking laws and a habit of failing to have his car inspected on time. I wondered if he bothered to pay for all the tickets or if they just sort of disappeared into that never-never land of good old boy favors.

  I found the motel receipts stashed inside a AAA towing assistance wallet, gummed together with bits of ketchup from another burst packet. The imprint was blurred on most, the carbon bleeding from exposure to the ravages of vinegar and tomato paste. He wasn't using his real name, or rather, he was using a variation on it. It looked like his alter ego was S. Pickett Jackson Maloney. I examined the crumpled slip marked for the Wednesday night Mitchell died and realized I was holding Pickett's charge in my hand. Talk about brushing up against history. What in the hell had possessed his mother to name him Stonewall Pickett Jackson Maloney? Did she think he never intended to travel above the Mason Dixon line? But worst of all, the name of the hotel was about as legible as grammar school graffiti. I turned each slip sideways, upside down and even held it up to the light above me but about all I could decipher was the word "Inn." The jerk at the front desk had been sloppy with his charge slips; every one of them was imprinted way to the left so that the name of the establishment trailed off one side. I'd lodge a formal complaint with the management to fire his ass on the spot. But first I had to find the spot.

  I rammed the mess back into the glove compartment, arranging the layers as best I could to replicate his unique storage system, grabbed a couple of campaign flyers for their pictures of Stoney, and got the hell out of there. I'd barely dashed to safety behind the hedge when Stoney's mother stomped out the back door of the building with several volunteers following. They climbed into a cream-colored Lincoln Continental and pulled away, Sandy Jackson sitting in the front passenger seat with some poor browbeaten-looking fellow at the wheel. The driver cowered nervously as he passed by my hiding spot, then proceeded to jerk and sputter his way down the avenue. Talk about stop and start driving. They'd have whiplash by the time they reached McDowell Street.

  It took me five phone booths to find an intact phone book but at least the directory was only a year out of date. I found six motels with the word "Inn" in their name, ripped the pertinent pages from the book—hey, none of us is perfect—and spent the rest of the afternoon checking out the decor and friendliness of smooching spots across town.

  I was on my third motel when I spotted the tail. I would have noticed it sooner, but I wasn't expecting one. I thought Bill Butler and the Raleigh Police Department had blown me off as a crackpot. I had just pulled out of the circular driveway of the Plantation Inn north of Raleigh when I spotted a blue sedan lurking behind the dumpster of the convenience store next door. Now, come on, people—I had just gotten through lurking behind a dumpster myself. The driver could have been a little more original.

  Pulling out into traffic behind me, he stayed about five cars back. He was relatively subtle, which was why I had missed him until now. Plus the little bugger was persistent. I couldn't see his face because he was wearing these discreet black sunglasses that wrapped around his temples and were about as subtle as a sign on his ass saying "I'm a cop." But I could see enough to know he'd barely met the minimum height requirements of the force and that he wouldn't need to worry about RPD haircut guidelines for much longer if his balding forehead was any indication. I tried shaking him at a couple of stoplights, but there was a pair of retirees in the car in front of me who were managing to piss me off every three feet with some new boneheaded driving maneuver. They were an insurance company's nightmare the way they wandered back and forth across the lanes and stopped at every yellow light. God, when I grow old I'm going to move up North and spend my days driving really slowly up and down their superhighways.

  I finally said the hell with it, let him follow me, and headed toward the airport to try the Courtyard Inn. There, the lovely girl at the counter refused to answer any questions, but she didn't have to. There was a pile of charge slips next to her elbow that matched the ones in Stoney's car. Plus, she would never make it on Broadway. Her painted eyebrows almost kissed her bangs when I showed her Stoney's pamphlet and asked if she recognized him. I returned to my car in triumph, though I did admit I didn't know all that much. I knew where Stoney took her and that Stoney took her, but I didn't know who "her" was. I had five days until next Wednesday night and, if he chose to chance their regular spot, I could spend the evening in the parking lot and catch them that way. What it would accomplish, I wasn't sure. But at least I had confirmed that his liaison was no figment of his imagination. The Rockman lived.

  I wasn't through with my tail. I'd done my job and now it was time to play. I visited six more motels at random. It was easy since the airport area offered plenty. I popped into each lobby, used the restroom, or had a Diet Pepsi in the air conditioning, and once stopped for a vodka gimlet straight up because the bartender was cute and I was getting tired. I stretched my game out for a good two hours, determined to make the guy tailing me earn his overtime. On a whim, I led him out to Garner, a small country town next door to Raleigh, and pulled into the gravel parking lot of the Babydoll Lounge, a joint I recognized from Bobby D.'s topless bar wanderings. I parked my butt at the end of the bar, ignoring the horny construction workers and tired old geezers who were trying to decide whether I was more likely to put out than the professionals grinding away on the pathetic stage behind the bar.

  When I saw my tail walk in and take a booth near the front door, I struck up a conversation with the dusty redneck next to me. He had three teeth total, all on the right side of his mouth, but I needed him for distraction purposes, not for marriage. I bought him a beer and told him the sad, sad tale of my ex-husband, a former cop turned bad, who couldn't seem to let me go. After years of beating me, I confided, I'd finally broken away but he just couldn't stand to let me live my own life. The guy's biceps bulged further with each new atrocity I invented and his eyes gleamed more dangerously with each beer we shared. I finally left him, saying I'd be right back, I just had to shake the dew off my lily. I stayed in the ladies room long enough to make my tail nervous and, sure enough, when the cop left his front booth and followed me into the back of the lounge, my bar side companion followed him. I could hear them arguing on the other side of the bathroom door.

  "Hey man, it's history between the two of you," my toothless paramour was sputtering. "Give it a rest, man. She's a lady."

  "Who the fuck are you?" I heard my tail answer.

  I didn't wait for the rest. I hopped up on the toilet and opened the single window in the bathroom, shimmying out onto the gravel parking lot. It cost me a few snags on my now grimy Anne Klein pantsuit, but it couldn't be helped. I was gone in sixty seconds flat. I was sure the guys would work it all out. Testosterone and alcohol is such an interesting combination.

  "What the hell happened to you?" Bobby D. demanded. "You look like shit." It was nearly nine o'clock and he was still hard at work, munching on a pizza.

  "Wild goose chase," I explained. "I was the goose."

  He grunted
but didn't ask any questions. When he's eating, Bobby likes to concentrate.

  "I'll take one of those," I said, grabbing the largest slice I could find.

  "Hey!" he barked. "Go easy. I need to keep my blood sugar up."

  I almost choked on my pizza I was laughing so hard, but Bobby D. managed to stop me in mid-guffaw.

  "There's a guy waiting for you in your office," he mumbled through a mouthful of pepperoni and cheese.

  "What?"

  "There's a guy wants to talk to you. He's waiting in your office."

  "Why the hell did you put him in there?" I whispered.

  "He didn't want to stay out here and I thought it might be important."

  I knew why the guy didn't want to stick around and watch Bobby eat. I didn't know why Bobby thought it might be important.

  "Bobby, that's my goddamn office," I hissed. "I have confidential information in there."

  "Like what? Box of Playtex Supers in the bottom drawer?''

  "How about an Astra Constable in the top right-hand drawer?"

  "You keep that one locked," he retorted. "It's a pussy gun anyway."

  "How about I go unlock it and let you get a real close look?" I said. "We'll see how pussy you think a .380 semiautomatic pistol looks up close."

  "Take it easy," he said, swallowing a wad of mozzarella. "I recognized the guy. He ain't going to hurt you."

  "Who is it?" I demanded.

  "I can't remember his name. I've seen him on television."

  Oh great. Probably on "America's Most Wanted." I left Bobby to his gluttony and carefully inched down the hall. I wasn't in the mood for surprises. I got one anyway. My visitor was sprawled backwards in my plastic client chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him as he snored. I decided against waking him until I could figure out who the hell he was. I tiptoed up and scrutinized his face. He was thin and his brown hair was even thinner. He had a sad-looking face, like a disappointed hound, and a pair of wire rim glasses that were slipping off his nose. His eyebrows were bushy and pulled into each other, like two caterpillars crawling toward true love. His eyelids twitched as he dreamed and one leg kicked out; he was in the middle of some heavy-duty rem sleep. He did look familiar, but I couldn't think of the name. He was a television reporter, I thought, for a local station.

  "Hey!" I kicked the bottom of one of his shoes and he jumped like he'd just been bitten by a copperhead.

  "What?!" he cried and it was my turn to jump. He had one of those baritone media voices and it filled the room. Then he began to wheeze violently.

  "Take it easy," I said, afraid he'd choke to death in front of my eyes. "You came to see me. Remember?"

  He looked completely baffled. "Who are you?" he demanded as his wheezing subsided to a strangled whistle.

  "Who am I?" I snapped my fingers in front of his face. "Wake up, buddy, you're the one who came to me."

  He stared at me for a moment then swiped a weary hand through what was left of his hair. His eyes cleared and he focused on the office around him. His breath returned to normal. "Oh, yeah," he mumbled. "Sorry. It's been a hell of a week."

  "I guess so." The guy looked pretty harmless. Confused but harmless. I pulled out my chair and sat in it gratefully, parking my feet on the desk. I don't wear high heels, I'm not that dumb, but you do need a little height to pull off Anne Klein and my doggies were barking from a hot day pounding the pavement in two-inch dress shoes.

  The guy was gulping in air and slowly waking, going through all the little motions people invent to reclaim their dignity. He straightened his tie, evened out the cuffs of his pants, ruffled his thinning hair back in place and rebalanced his glasses on his nose. "Listen, you don't know me but I know you," he said when he had pulled himself together.

  "Yeah?" I asked helpfully.

  "Well, you helped a friend of mine get out of a lousy marriage without losing his shirt. And I've seen you a lot during the campaign. Working for Masters."

  "I don't remember seeing you," I said, not caring who his friend was. I knew I'd never remember the name—all my clients want to get out of lousy marriages.

  "I'm usually off to the side filming my commentary. Don't you ever watch the public television station?"

  "I don't watch television at all," I told him.

  He looked at me like I was downright un-American. "Not watch television?" he repeated.

  "Why don't you just tell me who you are and why you're here?" I suggested. "You do look familiar," I added, hoping to loosen him up.

  "My name's Frank Waters," he said. "I do statewide political commentary for WUNC. Didn't you see my series on environmental law last month?"

  "No," I confessed.

  "Oh." He recovered quickly from this blow to his ego. "Let me just cut to the chase."

  "Please do."

  "I was in the middle of preparing an expose on Thornton Mitchell when he was killed."

  Now he had my attention.

  "He's been popping up around the edges of a lot of local stories for a couple of years now," Waters explained. "But he was really smart about it. Forget about all the young girls and the public image. He acted stupid about some things but, take it from me, he was sharp when it came to business."

  "What do you want from me?" I interrupted. "In exchange for this information?" I like to know what I'm going to owe before I buy.

  His breath started coming faster, like another asthma attack was on the way. "I need your help. I thought you knew that."

  "Help in what?"

  "There are some missing pieces in his story and I can't get anywhere without them. I'm convinced it crosses over into your investigation. I need your help filling in the holes. I think we can help each other."

  "Maybe," I said doubtfully.

  "Not maybe. Definitely. Just hear me out before you decide. If you don't feel you can help, fine."

  A television reporter giving away information for nothing? Something wasn't right. "What's going on?" I persisted. "Tell me the truth."

  He hesitated. "I am telling you the truth, but there is something else bothering me. Maybe you can help me with it." He took a deep breath and his Adam's apple bobbed in his scrawny neck. His breath grew more rapid until he sounded like a little locomotive chugging away. His hands shook as he spoke and I couldn't decide if he was the nervous type or had the DT's. "I think maybe I'm in danger here. Someone might be watching or following me. I was getting these phone calls right before Mitchell died. Someone was calling me and hanging up. It's happened before when I was working on a story, but no one ever got murdered in the middle of an assignment. What if I've uncovered something I shouldn't have?" His face grew even paler and I was afraid he might pass out right at my feet.

  "Take a deep breath," I told him. "And hold your head between your knees." I helped him assume the position and waited patiently. Why me, Lord? Why me?

  After a moment of deep breathing, he continued. "Every time I think about Thornton Mitchell with a big shotgun blast in the middle of his chest, I wonder if I'm next. I need help finding out what's going on. The cops aren't an option. We're on different sides. You already know Mitchell's story, maybe even more that I do. You've got to help me. I'm after the truth but I don't want to be killed for it. I'm so nervous already that I've started having panic attacks. That hasn't happened since I was a kid. They could wreck my career. I can't go on the air with asthma. And I'm not sure this story is worth my life."

  "Someone might think so," I pointed out.

  He gulped again. "I know. That's why I need you."

  "Okay." I nodded. "I'm listening. Relax and tell me what you know."

  "I've been following state politics for over ten years," he explained. "It's my beat and I'm good at it. I know everyone involved, including the guys you never hear about who operate behind the scenes. I spend most of my time watching the legislature work. I'm there physically and I see who's waiting out in the halls, who hides behind closed doors and who picks up the check for dinner. I grew up
around here. I know how to blend in. No one ever notices me. It's amazing the things I see."

  Looking at him, I could believe it. He was that putty color you see on office desks and computers. The guy was so bland he would blend in with the hallway paint.

  "There's been a lot of controversy about development in the Triangle over the past few years," he continued, referring to the area of North Carolina formed by the three cities of Raleigh, Durham, and Chapel Hill. "Ever since that stupid magazine article came out naming this area as the number-one place to live in America, we've been invaded."

  "I know," I agreed. "Time marches on. What can you do?"

  "Well, some of us do different things," he explained. "And some of us forget about anything but making as much money as fast as we can off the situation."

  "I thought reporters were neutral," I said.

  "Our coverage is supposed to be. Our souls don't have to be. I've been following environmental issues in particular, especially the relationship between overdevelopment and local legislation. All this, of course, has a lot to do with my political beat. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that one side favors real estate development over the other. And that the men who are making money off the development are tunneling a big chunk of it back to the politicians making it possible."

  "That's the way it's been done for two hundred years," I said.

  He nodded. "Yeah, but the stakes are getting higher every day. There's more competition for the development, the opportunities are shrinking as people decide they've had enough but because of demand the potential to make big, big money is getting bigger. You see the paradox?"

  I nodded. I know big words. I wondered what he was getting at.

  "I began to follow the links between real estate development in this area with contributions to local political campaigns," he explained. "In the past, people weren't too sophisticated about it. It was a pretty straight path from your local construction company owner to the mayor's campaign or whatever. But the more you move up the political ladder now, the less straightforward the path becomes. In part, because state and federal laws kick in, limiting the amount you can give. I started looking into state legislature and gubernatorial campaigns, tracking down the contributor and PAC lists, charting instances where the money came back to real estate developers or companies with business before the state."