Night of the Ice Storm

by Stout, David;

  Marlee looked over to the corner, saw Will Shafer’s secretary but no Will behind the desk. Marlee dialed the secretary to see if the editor was in his private office.

  “Not here yet, Marlee. Said he had some personal business to tend to this morning.”

  “Thanks, bye.”

  Marlee tried to plan the rest of her day: she had some work to do on her next column, and Jenifer would probably want to confer with her some more. Plus Marlee hoped to see Will Shafer at some point. And Grant was supposed to stop in; no telling how long that would take.…

  So, Marlee figured, if I’m going to pick up Nigel, I should probably do it pretty soon. I’m not getting much done this morning anyhow. She called the animal hospital and said she’d be along to pick up the dog.

  “Marlee, I heard what happened the other night,” the doctor said. “That’s a vicious joke. Who would do such a thing?”

  “Darned if I know.”

  “Anyhow, the little fella is fine and dandy. I’ll give you something to put in his food for the next few days, but you should have no trouble.”

  “Good. I can live with that. I’ll be there in a little while.”

  As she was about to leave, her phone rang. “Hi, Marlee. You wanted to talk to me?”

  “Will, hi.” Marlee turned, saw the editor smiling and waving from across the room as he held the phone to his ear. “I need to discuss a story idea with you. Today sometime, maybe?”

  “Middle or late afternoon looks good, kiddo.”

  “Good, thanks.” Kiddo? Will must be mellowing out, she thought.

  On her way out, Marlee passed Jenifer, who was on the phone and taking notes. Jenifer nodded, moved her lips to mouth the words, “Talk to you later.”

  Marlee went through the back corridor, toward the loading dock. On the way, she exchanged greetings with a pressroom foreman and the head of the deliverers’ union—overall-clad, grease-and-ink people many of the younger reporters didn’t know or care about.

  She pressed the button on the wall near her car, and the big metal bay door rumbled open. The rain had stopped, but there were still puddles in the street and across the way in the parking lot.

  Marlee’s car wouldn’t start. At first, she thought it was just balky; perhaps she had driven too fast through a deep puddle and—what?—got the battery wet or some wires or something.

  She tried the ignition again, and again and again. The car would not start. Not now, anyhow.

  “Damn it. Damn it!”

  Marlee was doubly disappointed: now was a bad time for the car to fail, and she had thought Ed Delaney’s brother-in-law was a good mechanic.

  Should she go back upstairs and ask Jenifer if she could borrow her car? Or should she just try to get a cab?

  Of all the times to be held up by flooding on the Ambrose Parkway. Delaney cursed, pounded his fist on the dashboard, radioed headquarters again. Finally he was patched through to Jean Gilman, who had been at a meeting. He asked her to try to reach Marlee and tell her to wait at the Gazette for him.

  It’s been there all along, Delaney thought. All along. It wasn’t just a stupid joke from an old tape, or a couple of pictures from a long-ago party. It was the combination. Together, the tapes and pictures might show—did show—who had been at that party twenty years before, and who had made that crack about the priest’s new golf clubs.

  Delaney loathed the thought that Ed Sperl had picked up on the clue but that he himself had not. He tried not to think about it. When that proved impossible, he rationalized: Sperl had fastened onto details of cases as a hobby—a sick hobby at that. He had picked up the fact that the clubs were new, and that that little detail hadn’t been given out to the public. Where had he learned that? From Ray McNulty? Maybe. It wasn’t so much that Sperl had recognized the voice on the tape—he probably hadn’t, at first—but that he had caught the remark about the new clubs. Then he had gone hunting for the owner of the voice.

  “Son of a bitch!” Delaney threaded his car through the steaming puddles on the parkway, inching past stalled vehicles.

  At that party twenty years ago, Sperl hadn’t heard the remark about the clubs. He had only caught it at Marlee’s recent party. Whoever had said it way back then had been fairly close to the recorder.

  Delaney glanced down at the pictures on the seat. There! There was the goddamn recorder on the table, right in front of stony-eyed Marlee. Who was that dumb-looking guy holding a book and reading from a piece of paper? Delaney had no idea. And there was Grant what’s his name, with a younger version of the wise-ass smirk Delaney had seen when he’d met him.

  Delaney radioed in again, told headquarters to see to it that Grant Siebert did not get on a plane to leave Bessemer. Better yet, Delaney said, find Grant Siebert and hold him. For what? Delaney was asked. Find a reason, Delaney said. Again, he was patched through to Gilman. No, she had not been able to reach Marlee West.

  He told himself to be calm, that the woman sitting next to him was no stranger and might even be called a friend. Surely he could be calm. Surely when they stopped at Marlee’s house to leave off the dog he could find a chance to grab the tape and pictures. Or at least the tape. Later, she might wonder if he had taken it, but that was secondary. Above all, he must get the tape. It was by far the deadliest link with the all-but-forgotten sin of his youth. If he could wipe it out, no one else need know, ever. He had paid his penance a hundred thousand times.

  “I’m really glad I ran into you,” Marlee said. “I should probably take one of those night courses in auto mechanics so I’m not so helpless with cars.”

  “You work with your mind, not your hands. Remember?”

  “Right. Are you sure you have time to do this?”

  “Of course. Lucky I ran into you when I did.”

  “I’m so glad,” Marlee said. “I was just going to try to borrow a car or get a cab.”

  “You might have had a tough time getting a cab, with the rain and all.”

  “I know.”

  They were heading across town on the Ambrose Parkway. He slowed down where there was flooding. God, it was so hard to stay calm; the harder one tried, the more nervous one got. Just like in golf.

  Today might be the most important day in his life. If he could stay calm, pull it off, get the tape out of Marlee’s house, there would be nothing in Bessemer that could tie him to the bloody corpse in the basement.

  “You people were so lucky,” Marlee said. “With the rain, I mean. It could have washed out the golf.”

  “Sure as hell could have. Maybe it should have, considering how I played. At least I didn’t break any clubs.”

  Marlee chuckled. “People who play keep telling me to take it up, that it’s a game that hooks you.”

  “Worse than that,” he said. “It gets in your blood.”

  He wondered if getting the tape would stop the nightmares.

  “Huh!” Marlee said.

  “What?”

  “I thought for a second I saw Ed Delaney going by in the other lane.”

  Delaney pulled into the Gazette parking lot, found a visitor’s spot, cursed the slowness of the elevator. On the main news floor, a receptionist pointed him toward Marlee West’s desk. “I don’t see her around right now,” the receptionist said. “Maybe someone close by can tell you where she is.”

  “Well, if she left the office, would she come by here?”

  “Most likely, but there are other ways out.”

  “Terrific. Look, if you see her, make her wait. Okay?”

  “Well, is she expecting you?”

  Delaney flashed his badge. “It’s very important.” Then he saw a lovely young woman approaching him, realizing after a second or two who she was.

  “I’m Jenifer. I met you—”

  “Right. I’m trying to find Marlee. I think I have something on … Uh, can we talk somewhere?”

  “Follow me.”

  Jenifer led Delaney to her desk, which for a moment at least offered some privacy.
He flung his damp raincoat over a chair, put the tape recorder and pictures on Jenifer’s desk. “I know what you and Marlee have been working on,” he said.

  Delaney told Jenifer Hurley what was on the tape and in the pictures.

  “My God,” Jenifer said. “Wait till I tell her.”

  “Where the hell is she?”

  “Hmmm. If she’s not around, she might be picking up her dog. She mentioned something—”

  “Can I use your phone?”

  Delaney looked up the number for Bessemer Animal Medical Center and dialed. Marlee West had left a short time ago with her Airedale terrier, Nigel.

  “Was she with anyone?” Delaney said into the phone.

  “I think she was alone. At least she came in alone.”

  Delaney hung up. Then he dialed headquarters, gave a description of Marlee’s car. “Stop the vehicle and hold for further orders.” He gave Marlee’s address and ordered that her house be watched: she would almost certainly drop off her dog there soon.

  “My God.” Jenifer said. “Do you think …?”

  “It’s possible. Yes. We need to know who that voice is, need to know it right now.”

  “We can ask Will Shafer,” Jenifer said. “I know he was there.”

  Jenifer led Delaney to the executive editor’s desk. Will Shafer looked up over his reading glasses. His secretary started to say something.

  “It’s okay,” Will said. “What is it, Jenifer?”

  “Will—”

  “We need you, and we need some privacy,” Delaney said, holding up the recorder. “This is urgent.”

  “Come on.”

  Will led Jenifer and Delaney to his office and closed the door. “What’s this about?” the editor said.

  “A party,” Delaney said. He put the recorder on Will’s desk, found an outlet, plugged the recorder in. Then he put the pictures on the desk.

  “Look at those,” Will said softly, beginning to smile. “My gosh, that’s a long time ago. There I am, and—”

  “Listen,” Delaney said. “We know this is the farewell party for Grant Siebert. That’s him there. We need someone to figure out the other faces and—”

  “Well, that’s Marlee, of course. And Grant, and Charlie Buck, and some of Grant’s hangers-on. Friends, I suppose I should say.”

  “Listen, damn it. There’s a voice here, on this tape. We think it belongs to a face in one of these pictures. Now, you’re going to listen to the tape and tell us who the voice belongs to.”

  “Whose voice?” Will said. “Do you have any idea who it is?”

  Delaney resisted the impulse to say Grant Siebert. There was no telling what a defense lawyer could make of it later if he coaxed Shafer now. “You just listen,” Delaney said, “and I’ll tell you which voice we need to identify.”

  “What if I can’t tell?”

  “Don’t say that. Just listen.” Delaney pressed the play button.

  “… eat shit …”

  “I’m afraid that might be me,” Shafer said sheepishly. “Letting my guard down after a few beers, taking out some resentment.”

  Delaney nodded.

  “… putter was out his bag, if you know …”

  “You bastard.”

  “Mmmm. Charlie Buck, I think,” Will said, blushing at the foul joke heard in Jenifer’s presence. “Or no, maybe Ed Sperl. To tell the truth, I’m not sure.”

  “Betcha whoever did it is long gone.”

  “Still hacking away.”

  Will shrugged; Delaney signaled for him to listen closely.

  “… to ruin a new set of clubs on a fag …”

  Delaney pressed the stop button. “That last voice. Who is it?”

  “There’s something familiar,” Will said. “I think there is. You know, we’re like a lot of papers our size. So many people pass through here on their way to wherever.”

  Delaney pressed rewind briefly, then the play button.

  “… to ruin a new set of clubs on a fag …”

  Will sat down, put his hands over his face as he concentrated. Then he looked at the pictures. “Are there any other photographs from that party?”

  “I don’t know. I think these are all the ones Marlee had.”

  Will frowned and picked up the phone. “Rachel, I need something right away. Go to the picture archives and pull Arnie Schwartz’s shots from 1971. Or just get everything he developed in March or April of that year. Bring them to my office. Drop everything else, okay? Thanks.”

  Delaney looked at Will Shafer. “You’ve got to remember. Do you understand me?”

  “I’m trying. It could be Grant Siebert. Could be, I say. I thought Arnie’s pictures might help. He was the chief photographer back then. Used to take pictures at going-away parties.”

  “I know. Be sure now. Be sure.” Though he said that, Delaney was filled with elation that Shafer seemed on the edge of identifying the voice as Grant Siebert’s.

  “Let me hear that again,” Will said. He looked at Jenifer, saw the laser concentration in her eyes, felt silly as he realized he wanted to impress her by remembering.

  “… to ruin a new set of clubs on a fag …”

  Will leaned back in his chair. “I think, I think there’s something I recognize. God, could that be? Right after that party—I’m trying to recall—I think that’s when I went to Westchester for a management seminar. And I think he was there. His voice was different because he had an infected tooth or gum or something. He’d fallen on his face, slipped and fallen during the big ice storm, though he never said much about it until I asked him. His voice was different for a while.”

  “Who?” Delaney said quietly.

  “I really appreciate this,” Marlee said. She put her hand on his forearm and was surprised at the tension she felt in the muscle.

  “It’s okay.”

  “You’re sure you have time?”

  “I’m sure. Yes.”

  “I should have thought the doctor might give me a prescription to fill. It shouldn’t take long.”

  Marlee went into the drugstore, leaving him alone in the car with the Airedale terrier. The dog bent over the seat, sniffed his ear curiously.

  “Good fella. Good fella. Yes, I like dogs. I do.”

  The bright-eyed dog licked the back of his head, wagged his tail, sniffed his ear some more.

  “Yes, yes. I love you, too, big fella.”

  He was not sorry for the delay; he figured Marlee would take a few minutes at her house to get the dog squared away. Maybe she’d have to give the dog a pill and put him outside. That would give him a chance to get the tape.

  He closed his eyes and prayed. He did not want to kill anyone else.

  “There’s no doubt in your mind?” Delaney said.

  “No. The more I listen, the more sure I am. We talked a lot that weekend, about everything from parents to Notre Dame football. And how his father wanted to keep him close to home.”

  The editor’s phone rang. “Will, it’s Rachel. I’m sorry, but we can’t find Arnie’s pictures from then. No negatives either.”

  “Thank you.” Will hung up. “The pictures are gone,” he said to Delaney. “I guess that’s not surprising, is it?”

  “No.”

  “But I’m pretty sure that’s him,” Will said. “See, right there. Just out of focus, over Grant’s shoulder. Yep. That’s Lyle.”

  “Dear God,” Jenifer said. She sat down, her face quite white.

  Delaney had to press it. “You’re as sure as you can be that it’s not Grant Siebert? Because we think he might have driven by Marlee’s house …” Delaney stopped himself.

  “He probably just wanted to talk to her,” Jenifer said. “I know he was planning to come by and see her today before going back to New York.”

  “Why?” Delaney demanded.

  “Because,” Jenifer said impatiently, “he probably just wants to see her. Old times’ sake. Or maybe he’s sorry he never asked her out. How the hell do I know?”

 
; “Shy,” Will said quietly. “My wife thought Grant was shy.”

  “Is Lyle here in this building?” Delaney said.

  “He was earlier.” Will picked up the phone. “Hi, Gladys … Ah, he’s not. Thanks.” To Delaney, he said, “Lyle’s not in his office.”

  “Is he in the building? Do we know that?”

  “Well, I can call downstairs and see if his car is there. Oh, that’s odd. Yes, it is odd.”

  “What is?”

  “I came in late. When I parked my car, I saw Marlee’s in the publisher’s spot, of all places. Down next to the shipping bay. I thought it was strange, but I figured maybe Lyle knew his father was out today and told Marlee she could park there because of the rain.”

  Delaney was immediately suspicious. “Find out if his car is there,” Delaney ordered.

  Will called down to the security post near the loading dock. “Lyle’s car is gone,” he told Delaney. Then he said into the phone, “See if there’s a car in the publisher’s spot.… There is. All right.”

  “Well?” Delaney demanded.

  “Marlee’s car is still down there.”

  Delaney picked up the phone, dialed headquarters, told the dispatcher to forget about looking for Marlee’s car and check for one belonging to Glanford, Lyle, Jr.

  Just before he hung up, Delaney thought of something else to tell the dispatcher: “The car’s probably got one of those VIP Friends of the Police shields on the license plate.”

  “Yes, it does,” Will said.

  “That’s confirmed on the VIP shield,” Delaney said into the phone. Then, to Will, “Take me down to Marlee’s car.”

  Delaney followed the editor, who led him to an elevator, then through a maze of corridors. Delaney cursed himself for not detecting what Ed Sperl had picked up on the tape, even more for not figuring out sooner who could have squelched the homicide investigation twenty years before.

  Delaney remembered what he had seen on the sprawling lawn at the publisher’s brunch: politicians, church people, bankers, executives. It was at the newspaper where the power from all sources found a center.

  “This way,” Will said.

  Delaney followed, through one last narrow corridor. He was surprised to realize that Jenifer Hurley was a couple of steps behind them.