Stone Rain

by Linwood Barclay

  It was the top of the hour and the news came on. The morning rush-hour traffic had thinned; it would be overcast with the odd sunny break. And then:

  “Police have made an arrest in the grisly murder of an Oakwood newspaper columnist who was found dead, his throat slit, in the basement of a dominatrix earlier this week. Charged is Miranda Chicoine, who ran a sex business from her suburban home in Oakwood. Police arrested Chicoine outside of the village of Kelton, at the home of her sister and brother-in-law, Claire and Don Bennet, early this morning. They had been led to her location by Zack Walker, a reporter for the Metropolitan, who had been trying to track down the woman, hoping to talk her into turning herself in, according to police. In Washington—”

  I turned off the radio.

  I was undoing my pants when the phone rang. I walked back to the bedroom, picked it up.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Well, I’ll be damned, you’re there.” It was Dick Colby, the paper’s odiferous crime reporter. “You’re quite the man.”

  “What can I do for you, Dick?”

  “This story about you and the hooker just broke, police issued a statement, it’s already on the radio—”

  “I know.”

  “And you didn’t call us first? Fuck, Zack, what’s with you?”

  “I just got back, Dick. It’s been kind of a long night.” I glanced into the bathroom, saw steam escaping from around the shower curtain.

  “Okay, look, the radio, other papers, all they can get is the basics. We need the good shit, the color, from you. So how did you track her down, this Chicoine chick? That her real name? Because she was going by Snelling, right? Let me check these spellings with you.”

  “Dick, I got nothing to say. I’m gonna have a shower. The water’s running.”

  “Zack, hello? This is your paper calling. I know you probably think you should write this one up yourself, but you ask me, you’re too close, you’ve got a conflict, just like with those other big pieces you did, but fuck, that was okay with them then, but this time, I don’t think so. So you’re going to have to tell me what you’ve got, I’ll write it up, but you’ll look good just the same.”

  I thought I caught a whiff of him over the phone.

  “No comment, Dick,” I said. “I’m on suspension.” I hung up.

  I was almost back to the bathroom when the phone rang again. I picked up. “Dick, I mean it, I have nothing to say.”

  “Zack.” It was Sarah.

  “Oh,” I said. “I just finished hanging up on Cheese Dick. I thought it was him.”

  “It’s all over the newsroom, the thing about you and Trixie,” Sarah said. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Tired.”

  “What happened?”

  “I found Trixie. Police were following me. They raided the place in the night, took her away.”

  “She did it? She killed that man? The reporter?”

  “No,” I said, thinking, not that man. “The cops’ll probably figure that out eventually.”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Trixie said she was going to tell them that I went up there to tell her to turn herself in, and that’s the spin I just heard on the radio. I guess we’ll see.”

  “Do you want me to come home?”

  I shook my head, then realized that Sarah couldn’t see me. “It’s okay. I’m going to shower, maybe go to bed. How’s everything here? Kids okay?”

  “They’re fine. Worried about you.”

  “And you? How are you doing?” What I really was asking was how we were doing.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’m…I can’t stand it here. Working with Frieda. Every day, it’s like we’re planning a church supper instead of a newspaper. I can’t swear here. It’s driving me fucking crazy.”

  I let out a small laugh. I couldn’t recall when I’d last done that.

  “Is it over, Zack?” Sarah asked.

  I wasn’t sure what she was referring to. Us? Was it over between us? “What do you, I mean, I don’t, what?” I said. The steam was still pouring out of the shower.

  “All this trouble,” Sarah said. “Is it over? Can you promise me that it’s over?”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes,” I said. “It’s over. It’s going to be up to Trixie now to figure out what she’s going to do. I…I thought I was doing the right thing, figuring out where she’d gone, finding out what really happened, and maybe that was stupid. But now that she’s been arrested, it forces things to a head. She’s got a lawyer, she’ll have to work things out. I guess,” and I paused a moment, and then said, “I’m done with it.”

  Quietly, Sarah said, “You have to be.”

  “I know.” I heard her say “Fuck” under her breath. “It’s Colby, coming this way. I’m surprised he could find his way to the Home! section.”

  “He probably caught the scent of cookies.”

  “He looks pissed.”

  Then, in the background, I could hear Colby asking, “That him? I want to talk to him. He can’t jerk me around this way.”

  “I’ll see you tonight, okay?” Sarah said.

  “Yeah, that’ll be nice,” I said.

  “Let me talk to him,” Colby demanded.

  “Bye,” Sarah said, and hung up.

  For the first time in a very long time, I felt good, as though a weight had been lifted off my chest. I took a couple of deep breaths, then thought about how to welcome Sarah home. I’d pick up some steaks, buy a bottle of wine, give the kids some cash to go out for pizza and a movie and—

  The phone rang.

  The shower still running, waiting for me. I wondered whether there was any hot water left by now.

  I grabbed the receiver and said, “Hang on.” I ran into the bathroom, reached past the curtain, and turned off the taps. The mirror was completely fogged. I ran back to the phone, put the receiver to my ear, and said, “Sorry, hi.”

  “Mr. Walker?”

  “Yeah, I just had to turn off the shower.”

  “Where’ve you been? There was something on the radio. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  “Excuse me?” The voice seemed familiar, but at the moment, I couldn’t place it.

  “I’ve been calling you for a couple of days now. Haven’t you listened to it? Did you get it?”

  “Look, I’m sorry,” I said, “but who is this?”

  “Brian Sandler. Oh my God, are you kidding me? Haven’t you listened to the file?”

  Sandler. From the health department. The one who wanted to roll over on the Gorkins and the ones he worked with who were on the take.

  “Mr. Sandler, of course, I’m sorry. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve been through in the last couple of days.”

  “Yeah, well, you wouldn’t believe what I’ve been through the last couple of days, either.”

  “Okay, look, just start from the beginning. What’s this about a file? What are you talking about?”

  “Is your phone secure?”

  “What? What are you talking about? Of course my phone’s secure.” But then again, I thought, it might not be. Flint might have had the line tapped, thinking Trixie might call me, tell me where she was.

  Fuck it. “It’s fine,” I told Sandler. “What is it?”

  “I e-mailed you a file. A recording, of a conversation.”

  “What conversation?”

  “Me and my boss. Ellinger, Frank Ellinger. I got this digital recorder, left it on in my jacket pocket, went in and saw him, got him to say stuff. I’ve got him admitting to the payoffs from the Gorkin lady and others, letting shithole restaurants stay open even when they don’t meet minimum standards, that kind of thing. It’s all there. Listen to it. You’ll see. You just have to make it clear that even though I make it sound like I’m going along with it, it’s me trapping him, you understand? You have to make that clear when you do your story.”

  “Hold on, Sandler. I’ll check it out. I’m sure it’s good stuff. Let me h
ave a listen and we’ll go from there.”

  “Let’s meet again, at Bayside Park. We can meet there at nine tomorrow morning. You listen to it, you come and see me, we’ll get these fuckers.”

  “Okay, okay, that sounds fine. Let me get some numbers from you.” I opened up the bedside table drawer, found a pen and a piece of paper. “Where can I reach you?”

  Sandler gave me his cell, work, and home phone numbers. “Just listen to it, okay? It’s legit. You need to get these guys, and these crazy Gorkin women. I can’t live with this shit anymore, you know?”

  “I hear ya.”

  “Ellinger, I think he was suspicious at the end, you know? Like he thought I was up to something, so you gotta move on this fast. He might talk to Mrs. Gorkin or something, you never know.”

  “Okay, okay. Just calm down. I’ll listen to the file, meet you in the morning.”

  “Just listen,” Sandler said, and hung up.

  I sat on the edge of the bed a moment, then went into the bathroom and turned the shower taps back on.

  Just as I figured. No more hot water.

  But there was plenty more waiting for me.

  31

  SHIRTLESS, I went down the hall to my study and sat down at the computer. I didn’t spend as much time here as I once did, when I was writing science fiction novels. I still had the room decorated with SF toys and souvenirs—I’d recently put a framed Fantastic Voyage poster on the wall: orange with yellow lettering, some people spilling out of a guy’s eye, pretty cool, really—but they weren’t proving to be as inspiring as they once were. Someone being mischievous, Angie probably, had left a Batman action figure sitting on my keyboard. A Post-it note had been stuck to Batman’s chest, and written on it were the words “Make up with Mom.” The handwriting, I realized, was Paul’s.

  I set Batman aside and fired up the e-mail program. I had a couple of dozen messages, most of them offering various services to enlarge my penis, drugs to enlarge my penis, or Rolex watches that would allow me to time, to the millisecond, how long it would take my penis to reach its full potential (i.e., become big enough to wear a Rolex, if some of the other e-mails were to be believed). Also, some businessmen in Nigeria were seeking my assistance in helping them transfer millions of dollars to North America, and if I could supply them my bank account information, thereby allowing them a place to hide their cash, I could keep a healthy percentage for my trouble.

  And then there was one from Brian Sandler.

  I clicked on it. His note read, “Dear Mr. Walker: This is me and my supervisor Frank Ellinger talking about the situation. I believe you will agree that it is very damaging for him and also for me, but I am playing a role here to get him to say what he does, which you should make clear in your story. I’m the whistleblower here, you understand. Brian Sandler.”

  I opened the attached file and clicked on the tiny triangle pointing to the right. There was a small delay, and then the conversation began. It took only a moment to figure out who was who.

  Ellinger: Yeah, sure. Grab a chair. Want one? (sound of rustling bag)

  Sandler: No, no, well, sure. (more bag rustling) You got a sec?

  Ellinger: Yeah. You see that game last night? Fuck.

  Sandler: Yeah, that was something. Talk about coming from behind.

  Ellinger: Fuck, yeah. Wassup?

  Sandler: Oh, same old. You know. Busy.

  Ellinger: Yeah, busy. Things good at home?

  Sandler: Oh yeah, sure. You?

  Ellinger: Just got a hot tub. You should come over. Fuckin’ awesome.

  Sandler: Sure, that’d be fun. Listen, you got a sec?

  Ellinger: I said yeah, sure, you gonna sit down or just stand there?

  Sandler: Yeah, thanks. So, about Mrs. Gorkin.

  Ellinger: Oh yeah. Some hunk of woman. (laughs)

  Sandler: And those daughters of hers. The twins.

  Ellinger: In Russia or Kanuckistan or Fuckistan or wherever the bejesus they come from, they’d be beauty contest winners. Over here, they look like they should be wearing an Amana box.

  Sandler: Yeah, well. They’re strong, no doubt about that. Anyway, I just want to check with you, that we’re okay with them.

  Ellinger: Sure, yeah, we’re okay. What are you talking about? Everything’s fine.

  Sandler: I mean, I wonder if maybe I should be getting a little more than I’m getting. Like, I’m not really taking anything right now. I just, you know, I look the other way because I don’t want them, I don’t know, hurting my family or anything.

  Ellinger: Jesus, Brian. Don’t be such a pussy. They’ve got money. How you think I got my fucking hot tub?

  Sandler: Well sure, that’s what I was thinking. I mean, how much did they give you anyway? If I start hinting around, what should I be looking at, for them to give me?

  Ellinger: Shit, they usually gave me a hundred any time I dropped by. They’d get pissed, right, thinking I was dropping by too often, but I explained, hey, if I don’t come by, it’s gonna be someone else, and just how many people do you want to put on the payroll? So once, every couple of weeks, I do a walk-through, tell them some things maybe they should clean up, stuff anybody could see, but the stuff you can’t see, that’s not a big problem.

  Sandler: Okay. So, I go in, I say, you know, I want the same deal you had when you inspected Burger Crisp, before you got shifted.

  Ellinger: You want, I can make a call to them. Pave the way, you know? I mean, they got the money, they’re doing a lot more on the side than selling burgers. You want me to do that?

  Sandler: You don’t mind?

  Ellinger: Fuck no, no big deal. You ever eat there?

  Sandler: No, never.

  Ellinger: Yeah, well, that’s a plan to stick with.

  Sandler: So, Frank, you don’t mind my asking, how much, you figure, they paid you altogether?

  Ellinger: I don’t know. Seven, eight grand maybe. But that was over a couple of years. Can’t buy a hot tub that way. Got to have a few Burger Crisps, you understand.

  Sandler: Eight, ten grand. That’s great. Really helps out, right? We all got a lot of bills. So, how many other places you got an arrangement with?

  Ellinger: Brian, what is this? You want to know whether I’m declaring this on my income tax?

  Sandler: (laughs) No, shit, no.

  Ellinger: It’s just, you’ve got a lot of questions.

  Sandler: This whole thing, it still makes me nervous, you know? And those twins, they did hold my finger in the fryer, remember.

  Ellinger: Yeah, that’s gotta hurt.

  Sandler: So I’m just sayin’, I want to feel my way carefully with this. I got bills too.

  Ellinger: Okay. I just need to know you’re not fucking around with me. Right?

  Sandler: No, man. I’m not.

  Ellinger: I just need to know.

  Sandler: I told you. You don’t have to worry about me.

  Ellinger: Because there’d be a shit storm, you started fucking around with me. And it wouldn’t be just me, right? Mrs. Gorkin, those little darlins of hers, you don’t want to go pissing them off.

  Sandler: No, for sure.

  Ellinger: You hot?

  Sandler: Huh?

  Ellinger: You hot? You look hot. You’re all sweating, like.

  Sandler: No, I’m good. Listen, I’ll let you go. I got stuff, you know.

  Ellinger: I’ll make the call. Maybe tomorrow. Okay?

  Sandler: Yeah, good. That’s fine. Whenever.

  That was it.

  I listened to the entire exchange a second time. I had to hand it to Sandler. It was good stuff. I could see the entire conversation, reprinted nearly word for word, at least those that the Metropolitan would print without dashes, as a sidebar to a main story. People love reading those kinds of things. Brings a story into focus more quickly than a lot of exposition.

  I’d have more questions to ask him the following morning when we met in Bayside Park. I decided, for safety’s sake, that ma
ybe it was wise for at least one more copy of this audio file to be out there, so I forwarded it to Lawrence Jones, marked it “FYI” and included a short explanatory note. Lawrence does a lot of surveillance work, and might have some words of wisdom on just how incriminating this exchange was for Frank Ellinger.

  I exited the mail program and decided to give the shower another try. There was enough hot water. Just.

  Paul was home shortly before four, and Angie appeared not long after that.

  “Why don’t you guys go out and get some dinner, give me and Mom some time alone tonight,” I said. “Things have been a bit rocky lately, and I’m hoping maybe I can smooth things over a bit now that this whole Trixie thing is over with.”

  “Okay,” Paul said. “But we’re going to need some cash.”

  I dug a twenty out of my wallet and handed it to Angie, who was closer. She examined the bill in my hand. “Is this some sort of a joke?” she asked. She had that wry look in her eye, the one that said You know I’m kidding, right? I dug out another ten and handed it over. “I suppose we’ll be able to get something with this,” she said.

  “Jeez,” Paul said to his sister as they walked away. “I thought twenty was good. Nice going.”

  There’s an Italian place down around the corner where Sarah and I sometimes go for a sit-down dinner. But they do a bit of takeout and delivery on the side, so I ordered two veal et limone with sides of pasta and arranged to have them delivered at seven.

  I put on some Errol Garner (the Lawrence Jones influence), set the table with a cloth and napkins and everything, turned down the lights, lit some candles, and awaited Sarah’s arrival.

  Her car pulled into the drive at six-thirty, and I met her at the door with a glass of wine.

  Her eyes darted about, caught the candles, the elegantly set table in the dining room off the kitchen.

  “Well,” she said, dropping her purse and taking the glass of chilled wine from my hand.

  “I love you, Sarah,” I said. “I’m a dipshit, a pain in the neck, a busybody, an asshole of the first order. Ask anybody. I can supply references. I’m sorry for the things I’ve put you through. God knows how I do it. Up until three years ago, I’d barely had a parking ticket, and then, it’s like, I don’t know, I got cursed with catastrophe. And the only thing that’s gotten me through all this has been you. I love you more than anything in the world, Sarah.”