“Dr. Ellis?”
“Yes.” The voice belonged to a man much older than the trim mid-fifties man who had contracted her services.
“This is Rita Mars. I’m calling with an update on your case.”
“You found him.” Ellis’ voice was flat.
For an instant, Rita was confused. It sounded as though Edmund was expecting her to find his long-lost brother. But almost as quickly she made the leap to his real question.
“No, I’m sorry. I don’t have the murderer yet,” she said.
Ellis on the other end was silent.
“I’ve been in a depression,” he said after a while.
Rita squeezed the handle of her coffee cup. What was she supposed to say to that?
“I’m sorry.” Rita paused a beat and went on. “I do have some information though, and I’d like you to know where we stand as of now.”
“I have dreams,” Edmund said.
“Dreams?”
“At night and even during the day. Flashbacks, I guess.”
“Have you gotten any counseling? Families of murder victims need time and help in coping with this.” Rita watched the oils swirl on the surface of her cold coffee. She was in this conversation now and there was no way but ahead.
“I keep seeing the funeral director—he was just a kid really—pulling back the sheet. I watch his arm, like a ballet dancer, in slow motion.”
“Dr. Ellis, maybe I can call you back later if this is too painful. Or I can send you a written report,” Rita offered.
“Then I see his face. It’s white and firm, like a mask. Then I see the purple-black ring of bruises on his throat.” Ellis kept on.
Rita held her breath.
“I see it over and over.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I want it to go away.”
Rita did not respond.
“I don’t think about catching the killer anymore. All I can think about is how I want this picture to go away.”
“Have you talked to anyone else about this?” Rita asked.
“The only thing I want right now is for the last memory of my brother to go away. And I feel guilty,” he said.
Rita heard a catch in his voice as if he cried quietly. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”
“Maybe if you find the murderer, the pictures will stop.”
“I was calling to tell you where I am with that,” Rita said.
“I must sound deranged,” Edmund said. “I’m sorry. Let me know what you’ve found.”
Rita could see that magical light in the tunnel. She sat up straight in her chair and went down the list of notes she’d made for Edmund’s briefing.
She believed that Bobby’s death had to do with his investigation into backroom dealings on the upcoming healthcare agreement. She had a list of suspects. No, she couldn’t share them at this time with Edmund; she couldn’t jeopardize her case with any kind of leaks. Her strategy was to make it widely known that she was going to complete Bobby’s last article in the series and that she was well into the work he’d started. The killers might then come after her and in so doing, reveal themselves.
“Aren’t you afraid?” Edmund Ellis asked.
“I don’t think about it,” Rita answered.
♏
“Hey, baby,” Bev said when she realized it was Rita on the line. “Solve any whodunits today?”
She was at home now and getting ready for a long run on the fire trails in Gunpowder Park. Snow hung like a threat in the grey air and the wind clicked the branches of the bare trees, but she needed to run right now.
“I’m not cut out for this job,” Rita said. “Not tough enough.”
“Who said?”
“Me. I’m a fraud, Bev.” Rita tied her shoe with the phone snug under her chin.
“You think you the only one who gets the dark moment? You think you’re the Lone Ranger in the shadow of doubt?”
“No, dammit.” Rita snapped a knot in her laces. “But there’s doubt and then there’s the epiphany of self-revelation.”
“Damn, girl. You talk like an English major.”
“Well, I was one—and don’t try to make fun of me.” Rita unraveled the knot and re-laced her shoe.
“I ain’t makin’ fun, Rita Mars. I’m tellin’ you, like the person I am who loves you, you got the right stuff, honey. But that don’t mean there ain’t gonna be days like this.”
Rita sighed.
“Did you talk to Dr. Ellis?” Bev switched to her professional tone.
Rita stared out the window. The pasture was brown, the sky dead grey. “Yes, I talked to Edmund Ellis. I gave a sterling report to the good doctor that conveyed to him that I’m clueless.”
“But you’re not clueless,” Bev said.
“No, but I have a great imagination about why Bobby’s dead, and I’ve got a suspect list big enough to cast a Charleton Heston Bible movie. Hey, I’ve got two U.S. senators, the entire industrial lobby, and the State of Mexico,” Rita shouted.
When she was finished, Bev said nothing.
“I shouldn’t have called. I’m too pissed,” Rita said.
“What happened when you phoned Edmund Ellis?” Bev asked.
“Nothing,” Rita said. “I can’t tell you right now.”
“Don’t hang up yet.”
“I’m going to run. I have to,” Rita said.
“Call me when you get back. You hear me, girl?”
“I hear you, Bev. I’ll call.”
It was cold on the fire trails. The wind shook the pine needles and tugged on aging branches that creaked with every gust. Gusts stung Rita’s eyes until they teared. Still she ran for more than an hour and when she came home, she checked in with Bev, took a hot shower, fell into bed and slept a mercifully dreamless sleep.
♏
“Are you feeling any better?” Bev greeted Rita at the front door to her condo. Karin was attending an awards dinner and Rita was to pick her up later.
Rita lowered her eyes as she entered. “Ok, so I’m a big baby feeling sorry for myself.” She stood like a scolded child and waited with her coat on for Bev to acknowledge her apology.
“It’s ok.” Bev took the coat. “But beating yourself up ain’t gonna get rid of that frustration. Did the run help?”
“Yes.” Rita followed Bev into her kitchen. “I know that somewhere in my head about not beating myself up. It just isn’t strong enough to stop me sometimes. “
Bev handed Rita a wooden spoon and assigned her the stirring of the spaghetti sauce while she prepared a salad. “And what happened today? Obviously it had something to do with Edmund Ellis.”
Rita told her about his depression and flashbacks. “Edmund Ellis is eaten up with grief and guilt and I’m calling to tell him I have exactly nothing.”
“This isn’t about Edmund Ellis.” Bev held Rita‘s eyes with a fixed bayonet gaze.
Rita’s breath ran shallow. She struggled to flight, but Bev had her pinned. She heard herself say, “The man is haunted. His talk about the recurring nightmare of Bobby unveiled at the funeral home is unnerving.”
“Reminds you of something.”
“No. I feel sorry for the guy, that’s all. That image coming back over and over.”
Bev said nothing.
Rita went on. “It made his pain so real, so palpable that it came down that phone wire into me. Like in The Exorcist when the demon tries to take over the priest. The demon gets to him even though he doesn’t get control.”
“Did you ever get this feeling before?” Bev met Rita’s eyes more gently this time and gave her room for escape.
Rita looked away at the stove where the digital clock numerals gleamed in green. “Maybe it is about me. I mean all those years I spent on the newspaper. I loved the game, the hide and seek. I was a good seeker. There were a few times things didn’t pan out—I was pissed, but hell, I rode off in another direction after truth, justice and the American way.”
“And now?
” Bev asked.
Rita let out a long slow sigh. “Now I have to make this work. I have to find the answer to this riddle or I can’t do anything else.”
Bev’s face clouded “Why?”
“Because I can’t. Edmund Ellis needs to know the answer.”
“Some riddles don’t have an answer. You can’t fix Edmund’s pain. Finding the killer is no guarantee he’ll stop being haunted. He has to deal with his pain—you got to deal with yours,” Bev said.
“I’m not the one in pain,” Rita countered.
Bev placed the salads on the table. “Don’t give me that line, girl.”
After dinner they retreated to the living room, Bev on the sofa, Rita sprawled in a chair. They watched some old Law and Orders on Netflix while Rita chattered with a running commentary.
“Instant suspect,” she mumbled. “Nice and clean.”
“Play that dumb act and spend all day everyday stacking the deck against one guy.”
“Oh, a clue only Sherlock Holmes would have picked up.”
“Quiet,” Bev said after a while.
“Pisses me off the way they make it look so damned easy,” Rita said.
“I’m turnin’ this damn thing off,” Bev said.
“I’ll be quiet.” Rita slumped deeper into the chair.
But it didn’t last long and finally Bev tapped the power button on the remote control.
“Hey,” Rita said. “Aren’t we going to watch the end?”
“This is the end for me, baby.” Bev got up and went into the kitchen.
“I’m sorry.” Rita followed. “I should have stayed home and groused by myself. I didn’t mean to ruin the evening.”
Bev poured water into the coffeemaker. “Want some?”
Rita nodded. She sat chin in hand, elbow propped on the table in a pose of dejection. Then she checked her watch. She had to leave in twenty minutes to pick up Karin.
“I’m sure it’s very frustrating.” Bev measured coffee into the filter.
“I have a strong sense that the murder has something to do with a newspaper story on foreign trade—but I can’t make the connection. From there, I leap to a whole country, the U.S. Senate and God knows who else as suspects. I have assholes rearranging the furniture in my office and breaking into my house. And I can’t even find a broad named Miriam Blalock.” Rita slapped the tabletop with flattened palms.
“Now there’s a name from the past.” Bev flicked the switch on the coffeemaker and joined Rita at the kitchen table.
“What?”
“It’s the name of the vampire Catherine Deneuve played in The Hunger,” Bev said.
Rita sat up straight and stared across at her. “Did you say vampire?”
“Yes, Lord, she and that boy, David Bowie, were these—"
“Oh, my God.” Rita touched her temple.
“What?”
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Rita said, “and take a rain check on the coffee.”
♏
She’d been awake all night, waiting for the darkness to peel back. Even after she’d picked up Karin and ensconced her safely in the guest room, she could not calm down enough for sleep. She’d paced and jingled a set of keys and drank coffee. And now a thin pink streak signaled the start of the race. She wasn’t going to wait to say goodbye to Karin.
The Great White Hunter watched in detached silence as she threw open the closet door and jammed into her overcoat. He yawned as she jogged to the Jeep and warmed the engine. He curled back into sleep as she flew down the drive.
I-83 was already stirring as early commuters from just over the Pennsylvania line scuttled southward to city jobs. The Baltimore beltway was a straight shot to I-95 where she punched the accelerator and launched toward Silver Spring.
Unhindered by state trooper interference, Rita was at the private post box location a little after six. The doors weren’t open yet. The sign on the glass front said hours were six to ten on weekdays. Rita pounded on the door.
The old man whom she’d met last time took his time in getting to the lock. Through the windows Rita could see his set jaw and red face.
“Just hold your horses,” he sputtered as Rita blew by him when he turned the key and inched open the door.
“Damned pushy women.”
Rita was at the mailbox she’d stared at so futilely before. She held the unknown key on Bobby Ellis’ key lob and poised it at the lock. With eyes on the prize, she watched the little silver of sliver enter—and turn.
For a moment she stared at the papers stuffed inside. “Thank you. Thank you,” she said and pulled out the box contents with one hand.
It was freezing, but Rita opened the trunk of the Jeep. There on the empty bay she started sorting.
“Hillman dirt.” She tossed a contribution check copy.
“DeVane’s skeleton.” She placed this beside the check.
“Hillman dirt.” Another photocopied check.
“Kickback story.” She started a third pile.
She had four stacks of information when she was done, each relating to one of the stories in Bobby Ellis’ news series.
“He had a source,” Rita mused. “Somebody long before DeVane started sending him things.”
She glanced around her at the cars now entering and leaving the mailing service lot. Quickly she gathered the papers in her trunk and stashed them in the spare tire well.
“Nothing on healthcare at all,” Rita said as she slammed the trunk and locked herself into the car. “How very curious. Could the source have turned into a subject?”
She backed out of her parking space. “And who the hell is Miriam Blalock?”
Chapter 31
Snow sifted on the Capitol. The scene reminded Rita of one of those water-filled toys where you shook the plastic dome and fake flakes swirled a blizzard around a one-inch Frosty the Snowman.
One difference, this scene was busier—and noisier. It wasn’t cold enough to deter the protest group du jour. This Wednesday afternoon session was devoted to agriculture. Bundled in parkas and mittens, the marchers hoisted signs decrying the irradiation of tomatoes and such for the beautification of the local grocery’s produce displays.
“Looks aren’t everything” one sign said.
“You are what you eat” said another.
Rita skirted the band of hearty dissidents and jogged the marble steps. She wondered how those guys could keep it up. She’d walked only two blocks and already she couldn’t feel her toes.
“Got your story yet?” Kate Harrigan whispered as Rita sat down with her in the pressroom.
Rita glanced over her shoulder. Three people bent over laptops tapping out copy. One woman sat in the corner with a cup of coffee and a briefing paper.
“No,” Rita whispered back.
“Damn.” Kate appeared to lose interest.
“I need your input.”
This created new interest in Kate’s face. She whispered again. “What?”
“Just some opinions,” Rita said.
“You certainly know how to push a reporter’s buttons.” Kate frowned. “This isn’t about Bobby Ellis?”
“Not really. I was thinking about doing a profile piece for the Atlantic on the key players in the healthcare fight.” Rita smiled and nodded.
“So, what’s the deal with the Ellis case?” Kate settled her big boned frame into the squeaky desk chair.
“I’m still working on it.” Rita looked Kate squarely in the eyes.
“And?”
“And nothing. I have some leads that I’m following,” Rita looked around the room again in the way that old jockeys watch a post parade.
“Rita, you sound like some goddam police PR nerd.” Kate shook her head. “What opinions do you want?”
“The key guys on the hill in the pro healthcare camp. Windsor, Layman, Hillman and Strutt; what’s their story on why they’re backing this?”
Kate sighed, tilted her head for a moment and started speaking. “Windsor is straigh
t out of Dante’s seventh circle. An opportunist with a capital ‘O’. He has his Hill rats taking polls every five minutes to figure out which way the wind blows. With Illinois’ heavy industry rusting away to nothing, his constituents are looking for cheap medicine.”
“Makes sense,” Rita said.
“Layman, our human rights hero from the great state of Oregon believes we can cure what ails America with a coverage for all program.” Kate rubbed her thumb and forefinger together.
“Hillman?”
“Go figure. Somebody must have promised him a pork prize for Pennsylvania if he votes for this thing. All he cares about is staying in office. He’d sell the Statue of Liberty to the Chinese if they promised to give him money for re-election.”
“A true statesman.” Rita laughed.
“As are they all.”
“And how about Strutt?”
“A man without a brain.”
“Strutt?” Rita said.
“Hell, he looks good on TV and sounds good when he talks. Only trouble is he’s really a hand puppet. When you come from the kind of money he does, you can hire people to make you look like anything. He happens to look like a Senator.” Kate’s face crinkled into a sly grin.
“What’s so funny?” Rita asked.
“We had a guy just like this a little while back. They made him look like a President.”
They both laughed again.
“Nobody in it for logical, moral or economic rationale?” Rita said with a sigh.
“Honey, you worked this Hill. Is there something you forgot?” Kate checked her watch.
“Ok, I’ll get out of your hair.” Rita stood. “Thanks for the sketches. They will help.”
“Anytime.” Kate stood up with her and shook hands. “Take care of yourself. Let me know when you find something out about Bobby.”
Rita nodded. That stubborn lump rose in her throat again.
“Hey,” Kate called after her as she was leaving, “and let me know when that Atlantic piece comes out.”
Rita stuck her hands in her parka. Kate’s profiles gave her nothing concrete and the conversation served only to remind her how far she was from answers. Miriam Blalock was starting to get on her nerves.
DRIVEN: A Rita Mars Thriller Page 24