A Question of Fire

by Karen McCullough

  Fatigue weighed her limbs, but she dutifully went along with him and managed to compose a story for the morning's edition. She suspected, though, that if Ray hadn't been editing right behind her, the article wouldn't have been comprehensible.

  When she finally got home to her apartment, the clock said four-twenty. Cathy tore off her clothes and left them, uncharacteristically, in a heap when she rinsed under the shower, then dove into bed.

  The blare of the phone woke her shortly before seven. A local TV reporter wanted to interview her for their early morning newscast. In a sleepy haze, she told him she'd call him later and hung up, then changed her mind, took the phone off the hook and buried it under a chair cushion.

  The next time she woke, the clock read twelve twenty-three. Cathy stared at it in disbelief. Earlier, she'd been too exhausted to bother to reset the alarm. She took another shower, debated between breakfast and lunch, a semantic question since she intended to have an egg and toast in any case. Considering the hour, she decided to call it lunch. Only when a second cup of coffee hit her system did she begin to feel normal again.

  By the time she was fed, dressed, groomed, and crossing the gravel parking lot to her car, she was also working her excuses for being late into a speech that would convince Ray to give her the time and flexibility to work on the murder story. Even if she hadn't been so preoccupied, she probably wouldn't have noticed the dark gray Chrysler pull out of a space several hundred feet up the lot. Cars came and went all day long.

  The sudden, straining roar of a motor responding to a heavy foot on the accelerator made her look up. Shock froze her in place when she realized a couple of tons of glinting metal and glass were bearing down on her with reckless speed and careful aim.

  - 3-

  Thursday

  She stood transfixed, frozen like a squirrel that can't figure out which way to jump. She'd just made the decision when her body was jolted from behind, arms wrapped around her, and a lunge not of her own volition carried her out of the path of the vehicle. She and her rescuer landed together on the pavement several feet away, rolling and sliding, collecting scratches and gouges from the rough surface.

  The car roared past, out of the parking lot. Cathy twisted her neck to look at it and tried to lever herself to make out the license plate. The body sprawled across her own defeated her attempt as the two of them decided to get up at the same time and, instead, managed to end up tangled together in a knot of limbs. The man gathered his breath and collected himself enough to roll over and away, swearing fluently but without malice. He rose to a sitting position on the pavement and stayed there, surveying her with a frown which finally melted into a crooked grin. Cathy shook her hair back and pushed up to face him.

  He seemed content to examine her wordlessly, so she felt free to do the same. He was worth a stare or two. Curly black hair and aquamarine eyes graced the sort of face that belonged on a television or movie screen. He was almost too beautiful to be true, but a touch of sardonic humor in the lines around his eyes and mouth redeemed his features from perfection.

  She broke the silence when it threatened to become uncomfortable. "I haven't had much practice thanking someone who's just saved my life, so this may be less than graceful. But my appreciation is heartfelt, believe me." She rubbed a bruise on her leg. "Felt a few other places, too." She tried to finger-comb her hair back into place.

  The frown reappeared. "Are you all right?" he asked.

  "Fine, thanks."

  He got to his feet and offered a hand. She accepted the assistance and winced as he helped her up.

  He looked worried. "You're sure you're not hurt?"

  "Nothing ten minutes in a ladies' room won't cure."

  "Good." His expression lightened, and he smoothed back his own hair. "It was a near thing, though. Careless bastard, zipping along the parking lot like that, not watching where he was going."

  "Careless?" Cathy looked up and down the strip of parking spaces separating one block of apartments from another. "I wonder."

  The man stared at her. "What else could it be? Does someone have a grudge against you?"

  She shrugged. "Not that I know of, but..."

  "But what?"

  "Just... I don't know. Probably my imagination. Hey, look, I really appreciate your help. Do you live around here? I'll be glad to pay for cleaning your clothes."

  He shook his head. "I'll take care of it. No, I don't live here. And I came to see someone."

  "Oh. Well, I don't want to hold you up any longer. I'd better run, I'm late for work already, but thanks again."

  He didn't move, just watched her steadily, a small grin playing around his mouth. "You're not holding me up. You're Catherine Bennett, aren't you? I came here to talk to you."

  "Me? Why?"

  "It's a long story. Can we go somewhere more... private to talk?"

  Cathy glanced at her watch. "I owe you a lot, and I really am grateful, but I'm also really late for work. Do you think I could meet you somewhere later on?"

  The lines around his mouth tightened and deepened, but his tone remained even. "Do you get a break for dinner?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. What time? Can I pick you up at your office?"

  "You know where the Journal office is? Seven okay?"

  He agreed. Cathy said goodbye and got into her car. No one commented on her tardiness at the office. On the whole, she would've preferred they had—compared with what would be said later.

  Ray's door was shut when she arrived, and she knew better than to disturb him. A message waiting on her desk requested she call Peter Lowell's office. It didn't surprise Cathy to learn the lawyer wanted to see her. His secretary gave her an appointment for four that afternoon, which she accepted, hoping she'd be able to wangle the time off.

  She also called the police to report the attempt on her life. The officer dutifully recorded the details but warned her that, failing a license number or adequate description of the driver, they couldn't promise any results. They'd try, though. And, no, Lieutenant Norfolk wasn't on duty now. Call him back this evening.

  Ray's door remained closed, so she tackled the rest of the junk on her desk: a memorandum about leave policy, the latest update on the newspaper's group health insurance plan, assorted press releases she put aside to sort later, two letters in response to columns she'd written—one outraged, the other complimentary—and a chance to win five million dollars in somebody's sweepstakes.

  Finally, the door opened and Cathy started towards it. She stopped when she saw who occupied the other chair in Ray's office. Despite her ultra-ladylike air, Adelaide Stinson, society editor, could be a human volcano when aroused, and the noises emanating from the room indicated an eruption was pending, if not already in process.

  Cathy tried to back away, but too late. Ray saw her, gestured her into the room, and didn't ask the other woman to leave before he shut the door again.

  Adelaide was a picture in a short-sleeved knit top whose shade of pink echoed precisely the color of the flowers printed on the spring-green wraparound skirt. Pink espadrilles of the same shade as shirt and flowers completed the ensemble. Every strand of her rinsed blonde hair occupied its assigned position. Adelaide was pushing fifty, but still trying to convince the world she was under forty.

  There were three chairs in the room, so Cathy took the last one. Adelaide watched, blue eyes shooting sparks; she was the only person Cathy knew who could look demure even when furious. The woman didn't wait for Ray, but started in as soon as Cathy settled into the seat.

  "Young lady, don't you know that when the newspaper sends you to a social function in the community, it's placing the highest degree of trust in you? You occupy a position of utmost delicacy and responsibility. The people who accept your presence at their functions trust the paper will send someone who knows how to behave with decorum, someone who won't embarrass them."

  She stopped to draw a quick breath. "Last night you were placed in that position, and you betrayed th
at trust disgracefully. You created an awkward and embarrassing scene for the hosts; you completely ruined their party, in fact." Adelaide was warming to the subject. "You had no business being outside alone in the darkness, and you most certainly shouldn't have been consorting with some low type who had the bad taste to bring his sordid affairs to an event where they didn't belong."

  "Bad taste?" Cathy sputtered, torn between fury and astonishment. "Bad taste?” She drew a deep breath. “Okay, I suppose murder is in bad taste."

  Ray lowered his face into his hands and said nothing.

  Adelaide missed the sarcasm. "It most certainly is, and your part was even worse. I intend to see the paper never allows you to cover an event of such importance again. I don't know what they teach young ladies in college these days. Certainly not proper behavior."

  Cathy looked at Ray, who finally sat up. She could see the effort he expended to control his expression, and she realized what he was doing. It irritated her, but she understood. If he expected an apology, however, he overestimated her.

  "All right, Adelaide, you've made your point." Ray's patience was running thin, but he still tried to humor her. "I don't believe Cathy wants any more of those assignments in any case."

  "I expect you to be sure she isn't allowed to represent the paper at any social functions in the future." Adelaide stood up, but she wasn't quite finished. "God knows how long it'll take to restore our credibility in the community after her disaster."

  The woman turned and marched out, but Cathy couldn't resist a parting shot. "I don't want to cover any more of those affairs, thank you, but I did enjoy the caviar."

  Ray smothered a grin as Adelaide closed the door, harder than strictly necessary, but nothing so crude as a slam. "A lot of people read our paper just to see their names in her column," he said.

  "Point taken. I won't needle her any more. I'll try to stay out of her way entirely. But really, Ray: 'bad taste?' And her 'low type' makes me want to spit bullets. That 'low type' was a man who apparently struggled to get his life together, then risked it all to try to help his brother. Sometimes I could strangle the Adelaides of this world."

  "Hey, don't preach to me; I'm converted, remember? I'm just reminding you of the economic realities."

  "Sorry. I guess it was the effort of sitting quietly and letting her rip me apart."

  "Touché," he responded.

  "Ray, you're going to let me pursue this story, aren't you?"

  “Not a prayer.” He watched her face and sighed. “Hell. Do I have a choice?" He tried to raise one eyebrow, but both slid up anyway. "I expect you to collaborate with Sandy on it," he specified. "We need to preserve some semblance of objectivity. But I'm not sure how much story you've got. I talked to the police an hour ago. They think it's pretty cut and dried."

  "They do? How do they read it?"

  "Drugs," Ray said. "Bobby was arrested once for dealing. And he'd been keeping bad company recently. If he wasn't selling, he was probably leaning on old contacts for information. The police think he got into something bigger than he could handle."

  "But what about the message, his claim he had proof?"

  "You heard how much faith Lieutenant Norfolk had in that proof. The feeling is pretty general. They'll do what they can, they're not going to be accused of overlooking the possibility, but don't expect them to bust a gut looking for something they don't believe exists."

  "The case against Danny is tight," he continued. "They don't have any doubts on that score. He was found at the scene; no one else was there except the drunk upstairs, nor evidence of anyone else. Danny claims he was framed, but he's pretty hazy about the details; can't even describe the man he claims brought him to the building."

  "What do you think, Ray?"

  "I get paid to report the stories, not to speculate about them."

  "Sure," Cathy answered.

  "Okay." Ray stretched and leaned back in his chair. "Danny's story is weak, but Bobby bought it, and while he might be accused of bias, it's also true that he knew his brother better than anyone else. You tell me Bobby sounded very sure about what he had, and I trust your judgement."

  "On the other hand," he continued, "there's something to be said for the police position. That proof he had last time, for instance, was a guy he met in a bar bragging about setting a fire. Bobby neglected a few details, like getting a name, address, or even an accurate description. The cops, need I say, weren't impressed—told him to come back when he had real proof."

  "Bobby thought he'd found it."

  "Yeah, but the police are dubious." Ray reached for a cigarette, then remembered he was in quitting mode again. "They think it more likely he stirred some other soup accidentally, maybe stumbled onto something he shouldn't have."

  "Any evidence to back that up?"

  "Not much, but suggestive. The bullet they dug out of Bobby, and the fact that only one shot was fired, very accurately, in the dark."

  "Night-sight?"

  "Most likely. The guy did the job with one bullet, in the dark. Very neat, very clean."

  "Very professional?" Cathy drew thoughtful little curlicues on her notepad.

  "Seems likely," Ray agreed. "He did slip up, though. Left a footprint: Nike, size ten and a half. That’s not for publication"

  Cathy frowned over her artwork. "A professional hit? Bobby really stirred the wrong soup; or the pot he wanted to stir was a lot deeper than he realized. Why aren't the police pursuing that possibility?"

  "They are."

  "Halfheartedly?" Cathy asked. "Last night Bobby told me Danny was framed, and he wasn't saying it on faith. He knew. He found something that convinced him beyond any doubt." She remembered the way the moonlight had shined on his damp face. "Ray, somebody else knew it, too. What he found was dangerous, so dangerous someone killed him to keep it secret. I want to pursue it. I want to know who killed Bobby and why."

  Ray sucked in his lips and leaned his chair even further back. "Cathy, if you're right, then it's even more a job for the police. They get paid to do dangerous things. Let them do it."

  "I'll be glad to. If I can." She paused and glanced down at her pad, sighed and punched the point into the paper. "There’s something else you ought to know. I think somebody tried to kill me this morning."

  "What?" The chair crashed against the floor as Ray sat up straight. "Are you sure?"

  Cathy told him about the car that had nearly run her down. Just recalling her frozen terror made her chest get tight, almost choking off her words.

  "You're sure it wasn't an accident, a careless driver?"

  "His aim was too good. I'm sure."

  "Have you told the police?"

  "I didn't have much to give them. I couldn't see the driver's face—he had a cap pulled down to hide it—and I didn't get a license number."

  "Tell Norfolk when he comes in," Ray ordered. "He ought to know about this. And for God's sake, Cathy, be careful. Do you have any idea why?"

  She sighed and shrugged. "Whoever killed Bobby saw him talking to me and probably thinks he told me where to find whatever he had. He almost did, too. Damn! I know too much, but not enough. You see why I want to pursue it?"

  Ray glared at her. "I see a good reason for you to take a nice long vacation some place far from here." He watched her reaction. "Relax, I know you better. Wishful thinking. But tonight's follow-up on the murder story is going to contain a statement that Bobby didn't say anything helpful before he died."

  "I'm not going to print what he did say."

  He rolled his eyes and scratched his head with a pencil he picked up from the desk. "Did I say you should? I just want something general to let the killer know you don't have anything on him. Okay?"

  "Sure." Cathy exhaled a long sigh. "You think it'll convince him?"

  "No," Ray admitted. "But it's one thing we can try."

  "The other is to find whatever Bobby had and get it into the right hands, pronto," she added. "I suppose we can rely on the police to check the obvious
places, like the air conditioning system in his home, if there is one. It may not be so simple, though, and I'd like to pursue it if they don't find anything. I'll need some flexibility."

  Ray stared at her for a minute, making her wonder if he was trying to figure out how to refuse without infuriating her. "I suppose so," he said, finally. "I don't like it, but I'll give you as much leeway as I can. The primary races won't start heating up for another few weeks anyway. But Cathy... Be careful, please." He stopped and shook his head. "How do you plan to start?"

  "Peter Lowell left a message saying he wanted to see me. I can guess what he's after, but I need to talk to him anyway. I have an appointment in..." She consulted her watch. "Yikes! Twenty minutes. I want to find out more about both Bobby and Danny. See if maybe I can talk with Danny. I'd better get going. "

  Ray shook his head again, probably asking himself why he let himself to be talked into these things against his better judgement.

  - 4-

  Thursday

  The clock showed two minutes past four when she walked into the suite of offices Lowell's firm occupied. She would've been on time but couldn't get a parking place closer than a block away. A young, pretty secretary asked her to have a seat while she buzzed the office, then directed her to the proper door.

  Peter Lowell stood and offered a hand when she walked in, but his face showed no warmth or friendliness. There was a difference about him, but it took a moment to figure out. The heavy glasses he'd worn the previous night were gone—replaced by contact lenses, she presumed. It was an improvement; his eyes were his best feature. They were a clear bright green which might or might not be their natural color. His grip was firm but almost insultingly brief, and she had to look up to meet his eyes. Catherine stood five foot eight, barefoot, so it didn't happen very often. He directed her to a chair and didn't sit himself until she was settled.