by G. M. Ford
“Noffin goin’ on,” Jared said.
“Wait a minute. It’ll start again,” Tommy assured him.
He rubbed his knee again and struggled to his feet. Limped over next to Tommy. “Gimme a hand,” he said. Tommy reached down, grabbed his wrist, and helped him crawl up onto the teetering barrel. He put his arms over the wall to steady himself. Be lookin’ at a little enclosed yard. Businesses on three sides. Shithole hotel on the other. The van come through the alley. Scare the shit outta everybody. Dropped two cans of spray paint on top of the Dumpster he’d been standing on. On the wall above the Dumpster, the flowery F of Fury…UR…no goddamn Y completing the circle. Damn van showed up. FUR—what kind of shit is that?
The van starts to move on its springs. Bouncing like a motherfucker. “Oooooooooooooooo,” from inside the van. Worst damn sound he ever heard, and then bingo…it stops and then the van really starts to rock. A sound like somebody puking. And suddenly nothin’.
“Doan sound like no fuckin’ I ever heard,” Tommy said.
“Wid your mama, you done heard a lot of it too,” he said.
“Maybe cops do it different,” Jared suggested.
“I tol’ you, dipshit—ain’t no cop. Ain’t no cop drivin’ no piece of shit like that motherfucker.”
“I seen the hat,” Tommy insisted. “Mother either a cop or he in the army. Ain’t nobody else be wearin’ that kinda hat, man.”
“Ain’t no damn cop,” he said again.
“How he get in frew the gate, if he ain’t no cop? You fink of that?”
And then the noise started again. First like somebody humming really loud, then gettin’ higher. Then more of the rockin’. And the sound get worse, like somebody dyin’ in there. Then it stop again.
Tommy hopped to the ground. “I’m outta here,” he say.
He had to brace himself on the top of the wall and scoot over to the center.
“I ain’t leavin’ without my paint,” he said sullenly.
Jared jumped to the ground. “Let’s go over Graffiti City and see what’s happening. Gotta be better than this shit.”
“What you be wantin’ to go over there for?” he spat out. “Who the hell wanna be taggin’ shit the city say you allowed to tag? What kinda bullshit is that? Take the heart right out of taggin’, man. Ain’t got no ghetto in it at all.”
“You comin’?” Tommy asked.
“Not without my paint,” he said again.
“Catch you later then,” Tommy said.
He slid to a sitting position. Pulled his damaged knee to his chest. “No good worthless motherfuckers. No wonder they never gonna amount to shit.” When he began to massage his knee, he noticed, for the first time, that his pants were ripped.
Shit! he thought. Gonna have to listen to her shit about the pants. Gonna put on that pissy face and run her lip on me forsure. “Shit!”
His knit hat was soaked through and sliding down toward his eyes. He pushed the cap back on his head and then rubbed his nose with his sleeve.
“FUR—what kind of shit is that?”
Chapter 14
Thursday, September 20
9:40 A.M. Day 4 of 6
Dorothy Sheridan massaged her temples with her fingertips. She felt as if her skull were being flattened by a steamroller. Her field of vision had narrowed, and objects were becoming blurry around the edges. Her tongue felt furry and too big for her mouth. On nearly any other day of her life she would have gone home, lounged in a hot bath, and then medicated herself into a stupor. Not today.
No. Today was the day when she got up in front of God and everybody and told them that the press conference that they’d been promised for this morning wasn’t going to happen after all. And the whole damn alphabet soup was out there. Fox, CBS, NBC, ABC, CNN, CNBC—all of them. Hell, she’d refused an interview request from Geraldo Rivera’s staff.
And that wasn’t the worst of it. The survivors were the worst of it. Nearly a dozen of the murdered girls’ friends and relatives had already been ensconced in the front row of the media room’s spectator seats when Dorothy had peeked into the room at eight-fifteen this morning. Nearly two hours before the scheduled ten o’clock press conference. Sitting there in their Sunday suits, whispering among themselves and wringing their hands.
And she was stuck with it. Originally it was supposed to be a joint conference with the chief, the mayor, and the district attorney. No such luck. One by one they’d had their press people call to say they’d changed their minds. Finally Kesey called and told her to handle it alone. They’d have an announcement ready tomorrow. Handle it.
“You should have taken that job interview with Taylor and Abrams that Monica Stairs offered you,” she whispered to herself. “Monica was right. Private-sector public relations has so much more to offer than this. I could have…” And then the familiar voices began to drone. The cowardly talk of security and old age and of making sure Brandy had the type of stable environment that she herself had never known.
She was fodder. Thirty-six hours until Himes’s scheduled execution and Kesey was sending her out in front of the national media with a “no comment.” Dorothy groaned. Something was wrong. Something they weren’t telling her. She could feel it in her bones. She massaged her head and wondered whether or not Brandy’s braces could be repossessed. They send who? A couple of unemployed Italian orthodontists named Carmine and Guido? Oh, God.
Half a dozen orange police barriers cordoned the front doors of the Seattle Sun. A pair of off-duty King County mounties patrolled the perimeter. Corso shouldered his way past a cameraman, ducked under the barrier. He held his press pass out to the nearest cop. “That’s him,” a voice said. “Mr. Corso,” someone shouted. Suddenly the air was filled with his name. He walked faster. Cameras clicked and whirled. Above the din he heard a vaguely familiar voice call, “Frank.” He had the urge to pull his coat up over his head like a Mafia don but resisted. Corso pulled open the glass door and stepped into the quiet of the lobby.
At the sight of Corso, Bill Post absentmindedly began to massage his right hand with his left. Catching himself, he busied his hands with a travel brochure full of palm trees. Corso watched as the brochure stubbornly refused to be refolded, forcing Post to use the heel of his hand to iron a new set of creases.
“Taking a trip?” Corso asked.
The guard gave a tentative grin. “Gonna take Nancy—that’s my daughter—Nancy and my grand-daughter, Rachael, gonna take ’em both to Hawaii for a little vacation. I been moonlighting down at the hotels in the evenings. Security. You know, banquets, things like that.” He gave Corso a wink. “Food’s darn good too.”
“Been to the islands before?”
“Nope, never. Always wanted to but something always came up. The car always needed work or the house needed a new roof. Always something.”
“Isn’t that always the way?”
The old guy’s eyes narrowed. “They was gonna go once a coupla years ago, when she was still married to that bum DeWayne. He promised he was gonna take ’em but that went by the board, like the rest of his promises.”
“How long has the herd been camped outside?”
“I came on at seven and they were already here. So were the rent-a-cops.”
Corso turned and headed for the elevator. Waited for the car. Then turned back toward Post. “Sorry about the hand the other day,” he said.
Post waved a big paw. “No problem,” he said. “Good as new.”
The elevator arrived. Corso stepped in and pushed six.
The newsroom was empty. Corso crossed the room to the windows. Only Claire Harris, the arts and entertainment editor, was at her desk. She was about sixty-five. Face like a satchel. Prematurely purple hair and a big toothy grin that reminded Corso of a ’57 Chevy. Always hitting on Corso. Always wearing tall boots of some sort: Corso figured she was probably a dominatrix in her spare time. As Corso walked down the aisle, she looked him over like a lunch menu.
“The prodigal r
eturns,” she said in a rough, scratchy voice that sounded as if her throat were lined with sandpaper. “I hope you’ve reconsidered the possibilities of older women.” She gave him a lewd wink. Corso couldn’t help himself. He laughed.
“I told you before, Claire, I think you overestimate both of us.”
Before she could respond, he asked, “Where is everybody?”
“In the lunchroom. Waiting for the news conference.”
Corso moved his eyes to the end of the aisle, to Hawes’s glassed-in office. Hawes used one hand to press the phone to his ear and the other to frantically wave Corso forward. Hurry up. Hurry up, he gestured. Corso smiled and stood still.
Claire Harris checked over her shoulder to see what was so funny. She narrowed her eyes and waved a bony finger at Corso. “You really shouldn’t torture him, you know. He’s very high-strung,” she rasped.
“We deserve each other,” Corso assured her, and started up the aisle.
Corso nodded at Mary Kenny and stepped into the managing editor’s office. Closed the door. This morning’s paper lay flat on the desk. “Lie-Detector Test?” Meg’s photograph of Walter Leroy was unlike any other picture Corso had ever seen of Himes, whose feral visage was generally photographed while snarling or spewing invective. Instead, she’d caught him at a moment of uncertainty, as he was considering one of Corso’s questions, and captured a wistful, almost childlike quality in his expression.
“What can I do for you?” Corso asked.
“Another two weeks of stories like today’s lead.”
Corso figured that was as close to a compliment as Hawes was going to get.
“I got lucky,” Corso said. “I was just warming up. Himes coughed up the lie-detector test crap by accident.”
“Yeah…well…get lucky some more. Have more accidents. Circulation’s up a hundred forty percent over last week,” Hawes growled.
“I’m going to need Dougherty for as long as the story floats,” Corso said.
Hawes’s eyes narrowed. He seemed surprised. “Okay…and?”
“And we ought to pay her at least whatever Newton’s getting. No minimum-wage shit.”
Hawes sneered at him. “You know what Mark Twain said about using the word ‘we,’ don’t you, Corso?” Without waiting for an answer, Hawes said, “He said the only people who should use that word are the editors of newspapers and folks with tapeworms. I was you, I’d check my stool for a while.”
“She’s good,” Corso insisted. “That’s a hell of a picture this morning.”
Hawes admitted how it was indeed one hell of a photo. Corso was ready for a fight, but Hawes said, “I’ll take it up with Mrs. V.”
Hawes tugged the bottom of his vest back into place and adjusted his tie. “Leanne’s upstairs with Mrs. V. The cops are coming for her at ten-thirty. Gonna take her downtown for a deposition.”
Corso had an image of Leanne Samples sitting in a straight-backed chair under a harsh white light. Two cigar-smoking homicide dicks, sleeves rolled up, leaning in close, breathing smoke and fear into her frightened face. She lasts what? Three minutes. Hell, substitute Richard Simmons for the homicide dicks and she only holds out for five.
“She’s going by herself?”
“We got her a lawyer.”
Corso breathed a sigh of relief.
“What have you got for tomorrow?” Hawes asked.
“Depends on what they say at the press conference.”
Hawes rubbed the corners of his mouth with his thumb and forefinger. Put on a bland expression. “You seen the PI or the Times today?”
Corso said he hadn’t.
“Both features are on you,” Hawes said.
“I’ll make it a point not to read them,” Corso promised.
“Good idea. One of the papers went so far as to refer to you as a ‘defrocked journalist.’”
“I’ve never been defrocked in my life.”
Hawes cleared his throat. “So…I guess…since you’re so worried about how she gets paid, then…Dougherty is working out okay for you?” Something in his tone put Corso on alert.
“Why wouldn’t she?”
Hawes massaged the back of his neck. “Before I’d ever seen her—in the flesh, so to speak—you know, I’d seen some of her work, but I never put the name together with the tattoo story or anything.”
“So?”
“So, I sent her out to a society shoot at the yacht club.”
“The commodore find her a bit exotic for the yachting set, did he?”
Hawes whistled softly. “Not only that, but she ended up telling the commodore to go fuck himself.” Behind his pale eyes Hawes relived the experience. “I mean…how the hell was I supposed to know?”
“She’s doing fine,” Corso assured him.
“What have you got her doing?”
“Finishing up some work at the courthouse.”
“Looking for what?”
Corso told him. “I’m guessing we’re going to find out Walter Leroy Himes never had a chance. That’ll give us an instant backup lead anytime we need it.”
Hawes gave him a smile thin enough to pass for a scar. “Nothing like proving yourself right, is there, Corso?”
Corso pretended to think about it. “There’s simultaneous orgasms and a good piss when you really gotta go.”
Hawes made a “maybe” face and said, “Yeah, but the glow doesn’t last as long.”
Corso allowed how Hawes had a point and said, “This afternoon I’m going to work on the lie-detector test results,” he said. “I made some calls this morning. Tests are ordered by the SPD, but the results are held by the medical examiner’s office. They keep it with the rest of the forensic material. I’m going down to ask for a copy.”
Hawes emitted a short laugh. “I’ll be holding my breath,” he said.
“The sooner we start, the sooner they’ll tell us it’s lost or destroyed and we’ll have a story from that end.”
The Freedom of Information Act was a joke. Whether it was midtown Manhattan, or Husk, North Carolina, if what you wanted was something the folks in the courthouse didn’t particularly want you to have, gird your loins, Bevis, because, like it or not, you were about to dance the bureaucratic boogie. Eventually, after enough attorneys fattened their retirement kitties, you’d get some part of what you’d originally asked for. The rest? Lost. Funny how they never lost parking tickets.
Hawes nodded his approval. “You know about the media circus downtown?”
“I’m guessing they’re all over the place.”
“Like ugly on an ape. Government Park is bumper-to-bumper remote feeds, do-gooders, and death fiends. You’re getting a lot of negative national airtime from that quarter too.” He cut the air with his hand. “Dredging up the whole New York thing and all.”
Corso shrugged. “It was to be expected,” he said.
“You’ve been getting a ton of calls from the networks,” Hawes said. “I had Violet screen your calls and save the media requests separately.”
“Thanks,” Corso said.
Bennett Hawes waved him off. Walked around to the back of his desk and sat down in the oversize desk chair that he imagined made him look bigger, but which, in reality, had precisely the opposite effect.
“Mrs. V. would like a word with you,” he said. As Corso started for the door he said, “Ask her about her chat with the mayor.”
Corso took the elevator to the top floor. As he stepped out of the elevator car, Violet looked up from her keyboard. Smiled.
“So how was the room service?” Corso asked.
She frowned and shook her head. “Going to have to get myself right to the gym in the morning,” she said. “And every morning for the foreseeable future,” she added.
“It go okay with Leanne?” he asked.
“Oh sure,” she said. “She’s a very sweet girl…but…you know…for a girl her age, that poor thing has been nowhere and done nothing. Never stayed in a hotel room. Never ordered room service. Never be
en shopping without her mother. Never watched regular television. I mean…I’m all for keeping them on a short leash, but…really…I don’t know.”
“That’s how those damn fundamentalist sects operate,” Corso said. “The less stuff the kids are exposed to, the fewer things contradict the crap you’re feeding them. You control the input, you control the kid. Self-induced ignorance in the name of religion.”
Violet sat back in her chair and took Corso in. “You don’t mind me saying, Mr. Corso, but sometimes you sound like you’re mad at the Lord,” she said.
Corso opened his mouth to protest but, instead, stood staring at the woman, speechless. She bailed them both out.
“I’ve got a ton of messages for you.”
“Maybe later,” Corso said.
She arched a thick eyebrow. “Several from a woman at CNN name of Stone, who claims she was formerly your fiancée.”
Cynthia. Yeah. It figured. He almost laughed out loud.
“You can go in. Mrs. Van Der Hoven has been expecting you.”
The red leather chair Corso had occupied on Monday was now full of lawyer. He was about fifty, with a pair of upturned nostrils the size of dimes. Bald as an egg, tiny ears lying flat against his head, and a set of pinched features gathered in the center of his face like they were having a meeting. The overall effect was an expression of mild revulsion, as if someone had run something rank right beneath his nose.
Mrs. V., from behind her desk, said, “Ah…Mr. Corso. Come in.”
Leanne was kneeling on a brocade settee, her back to the door, looking out the window at the whitecapped furrows of Puget Sound when Mrs. V.’s voice snapped her head around. She dropped her feet to the floor and hurried to Corso’s side. “So there you are,” she said. She had a trendy new hairdo and a new set of duds that looked as if they came from The Gap. She also had dark pouches beneath her eyes and scaly patches where she’d been picking at her lower lip.
“Returned from the land of the dead,” Corso said.
Mrs. V. waved a hand. “Frank Corso…Dan Beardsley.”
The men exchanged disinterested nods.
