The Homicide Report: A Nell Matthews Mystery (InterMix)

by JoAnna Carl

  Mike should be here, I thought wildly. Arnie and I were hostages. Mike was a hostage negotiator. He would know what to do. I didn’t.

  I rested my head against the paper roll at my back and took several deep breaths. Mike didn’t talk a lot about his law enforcement specialty, but I’d picked up some of the principles—as a reporter and as a girlfriend.

  Don’t rush the hostage taker. That was one principle. But we didn’t have much time. The presses were due to roll soon.

  Keep ’em talking. That was another principle. Keep the hostage taker talking.

  Maybe I could get J.J. to talk.

  “J.J., why are you doing this?” I said.

  He showed his teeth, but I can’t say he smiled. It was more like the snarl of a cornered animal. He didn’t answer me.

  I tried again. “What’s all this about?”

  The teeth flashed again.

  I remembered the inky footprints on the landing, the footprints J.J. had mentioned. And I lied. “It can’t be Martina. You had no reason to kill her.”

  That time he snarled out loud. “The bitch! Everybody who knew her had a reason to kill her.”

  “Yes, but she liked you! She told me you’d gotten a rough deal. She had a lot of sympathy for you.”

  “Yeah, and her sympathy was going to send me right to prison!”

  “How?”

  “Shut up!”

  That ended the conversation pretty effectively. Arnie stirred and opened one eye. I squeezed his hand. “Shhh,” I whispered. “Shhh.”

  The eye stared around dully, and he moved again. “Shhh,” I said. “Just lie still.”

  Arnie closed his eye, then opened it again. This time the eye looked as if it was actually focusing on something; it looked alert and conscious. He squeezed my hand. His body lost its frightening limpness.

  “J.J. says we can go after the presses roll,” I said. “Just lie still.”

  A sardonic, unbelieving expression passed over Arnie’s face. I was sure he was awake enough to catch on to the situation. He knew we were hostages, that J.J. intended to kill us.

  J.J. spoke suddenly, his voice an urgent whisper, “Is he awake?”

  “Not really,” I said. “How did you get him down here?”

  He laughed. “Just like I got you down here. Sent him a message on the computer. Told him to meet you here.”

  “I didn’t know you were that familiar with the newsroom system,” I said. I tried to sound admiring.

  “It’s easy! That bitch Martina showed me how to use it when I started working on special sections.”

  “Special sections! Oh! That’s how you—” I broke off. There was no use telling him I’d figured out how he knew where Mike’s mother ordered flowers, and where Grantham’s used-car dealers kept their keys. J.J. had edited the New Homes section, and I knew it had included an interview with Wilda Svenson, one of Grantham’s leading realtors. He could easily have learned about her custom of sending flowers to clients. He’d edited the Used Car Buying section, too. So he could have visited car lots, figured out easy ways to steal first an old Cadillac and then a van to use in attacking me.

  J.J. was reading my mind. “Now you know how I got hold of the Caddy.” He laughed. “You’re a hotshot driver.”

  I shook my head. Maybe I could keep him talking. “I guess we had it all wrong,” I said. “After the shoes were found in Arnie’s desk, I figured somebody was trying to call attention to him, to link him up with my mother’s murder twenty years ago.”

  J.J. looked sharply at me.

  “But you had nothing to do with that, did you? It was in Michigan. You’ve always worked in Texas, right?”

  He showed his teeth again. “That’s right, little lady. Ah’m a Texan through and through. Born and bred. Ever since the day I turned twenty-five and got the hell out of Wichita.”

  “Wichita! You’re from Kansas?”

  Suddenly, like a voice from heaven, my name was shouted through the basement.

  “Nell Matthews. Please call extension 1110.”

  I jumped all over, and I was happy to see J.J. shrink back against the roll of paper behind him.

  “They’re paging me,” I said.

  “You’re not going to answer,” J.J. said.

  No more than thirty seconds went by before the intercom system screamed again. “Arnie Ashe. Arnie Ashe. Please call city desk, extension 1110.”

  “Both the copy editors have disappeared,” I said. “Ruth must be furious. She’ll send somebody looking for us.”

  J.J.’s grin looked almost genial. “They won’t look down here.”

  He checked his watch, and I peeked at mine. It was getting very close to press time. My heart pounded. What should I do? I couldn’t stand the thought of sitting there, idly talking to J.J., while we waited for the press to roll, waited for the noise that would cover the shots that would kill my father and me.

  Arnie’s eyes were open now, though he was still lying limply, pretending to be semiconscious. Should I shove Arnie’s head off my lap and run for it? If J.J. chased me, Arnie might have a chance.

  Down at the other end of the basement, the door to the break room opened and shut.

  J.J. lifted the pistol, his face grim. “Quiet!” he said.

  I sat rigid. I knew the door wasn’t a chance at rescue. People went in and out that door all the time. They used it to cut through to the ground-floor loading docks as well as to reach the basement.

  But the noise of the door made me look that way, and for the first time I realized that I could see part of that landing and the stairs. Because of some weird variation in the way the paper rolls were stacked, there was a crack that let me see out into the yellow walkway, and at the end of that walkway was the circular metal staircase that had been a deathtrap for Martina.

  Ed Brown was standing on the landing, clutching his clipboard.

  I looked at J.J. He had gotten to his knees, only a few feet away. The pistol was aimed at Arnie’s back, almost touching him. No, I didn’t dare move.

  J.J. whispered. “Quiet!”

  I sat paralyzed. Ed kept looking around the basement. He didn’t go down the stairs, and he didn’t go into the warehouse, and he didn’t go back into the break room.

  J.J. was holding his breath, but he aimed his pistol at Ed.

  And Arnie casually rolled over and sat up. He held his hands out in front of him.

  “What the hell is going on?” he asked. “My head is killing me. And why are my hands tied like this?”

  Chapter 28

  I think Arnie’s very casualness kept him from being shot. J.J. simply gaped.

  Then Arnie pulled his bound wrists up to his chest, almost prayerfully. He reached the fingers of his right hand into his shirt pocket, pulled out a cigarette and a throwaway lighter. And he flicked the lighter into flame.

  That got a reaction. J.J. whacked his arm with the pistol, and the lighter went flying.

  Arnie clutched his arms against his chest. “Sorry,” he said. “Is this the no-smoking section?”

  “Shut up!” J.J. hissed it out.

  I pressed myself back against the roll of paper. Had Ed Brown seen the lighter’s glow? Had he heard our voices across the length of the basement? Could he have heard the click of the lighter? Would he know that someone was hidden in a cubby hole between the massive cylinders of paper? Would he guess that it was Arnie and me?

  I looked down the slit between the rolls of paper, and I saw that Ed was still standing on the metal landing, still clutching his clipboard and looking around the basement.

  The basement probably looked entirely normal to him. He hadn’t seen the lighter’s flash, hadn’t heard our voices.

  Ed turned around and went back into the break room. I was sure he wasn’t going for help. My heart sank.

  J.J. looked at his watch, and his action made me check mine. The press was going to roll at any minute. We had only seconds before the pressmen put on their earmuffs and punched the proper
buttons. The noise from the press would fill the basement. The noise and the ear protectors would provide all the cover J.J. could want for gunshots.

  We had only minutes to live.

  If only Ed Brown had seen us, if only he’d known we were there. If only he’d realized we were hostages—he could have called Mike.

  Hostages were Mike’s specialty. He would know what to do. I felt absolutely helpless.

  Then Arnie spoke to J.J. “Is it this lousy headache, or do I not know you?”

  J.J. sneered and smiled. “I’m sure your daughter won’t mind introducing us,” he said.

  Arnie slowly turned his head toward me. “He knows the big secret, Nell. So who is he?”

  “He’s one of the Gazette’s ad men,” I said. “He does all the special sections. His name is J.J Jones.”

  Arnie’s head yanked back in J.J.’s direction. Then he groaned and held it again.

  J.J. laughed. “You didn’t recognize me? Fair enough. I’d never have recognized you if Martina hadn’t figured it out.” He carefully aimed the pistol at Arnie. “But you remembered the name, huh?”

  “I remember the name Jimmy J. Jones.” Arnie frowned. “But what did it matter if I remembered the name? I was the one Martina could send to jail. Not you. You weren’t around when Sally was killed.”

  J.J. laughed.

  I couldn’t face dying with my curiosity unsatisfied. “Who is he?” I asked Arnie. “Who was he?”

  “Jimmy J. Jones was my boss when we were in Michigan,” Arnie said. “He worked out of Memphis as area manager for Gordon Enterprises, Inc. They owned the Jessamine Journal.”

  He raised his head and looked at J.J. levelly. “In those days he was also the son-in-law of the chain’s owner. What happened to your soft spot, Jimmy? Did your wife toss you out? And the job went along with the marriage?”

  “Thanks to your slutty little wife!”

  Arnie’s fist clenched.

  “I don’t understand all this,” I said. “Were you involved with my mother? Did you have an affair?”

  J.J. turned and glared at me. “No! That’s the irony of the whole thing. The little bitch led me on, but she never came through.”

  I heard Arnie exhale a long breath. It was almost like another groan.

  “How did you even know her?” I asked.

  “He met her when he came to Amity to interview me for the Jessamine job,” Arnie said.

  “Yeah,” J.J. said. “And she was really interested then! All over me. So what was I supposed to think when she called me, wanted me to meet her in Holland!”

  “She called you?” Arnie sounded amazed.

  “Sure. When I named a motel for a meeting place, she didn’t even hesitate. Said yes right away. Said she’d be there. She was a tease! Just a tease!”

  Arnie was clenching his fist again. I put my hand over it, and I spoke. “Yes, I think she probably was a tease, J.J. Everyone agrees that she was cute and flirtatious.”

  “But she didn’t mean anything by it,” Arnie said.

  “No, she didn’t,” I said. “She simply thought she could use her cuteness to get what she wanted. And right then she wanted out of Jessamine, Michigan.”

  J.J. didn’t speak.

  “That’s why she wanted to meet you, wasn’t it?” I said. “She wanted to get a transfer for Arnie—for Alan.”

  J.J. laughed harshly. “I drove all that way, put the motel on the extra credit card—the one my bitch wife wasn’t supposed to know about—and all she wanted to do was talk about her husband.”

  I glanced at Arnie. A tear was rolling down his cheek.

  J.J. waved his pistol back and forth, aiming first at Arnie, then at me. “But she still managed to ruin my life!”

  “How did she do that?” I had to keep him talking.

  “She called my office two days later. Left a message. And when I called back, she threatened me! Said she’d tell her husband about my ‘improper proposals,’ said she’d make sure my wife and my goddamn father-in-law found out unless I got that transfer for Alan! She had me in small trouble.”

  There was that expression again! I gasped. “You! You’re the one who called the house the night before she was killed. You’re the one who said that on the phone! It wasn’t my dad!”

  J.J. didn’t answer, but he looked at his watch again. “I can’t wait any longer!” he said. “Why don’t they start the press?”

  Arnie inhaled, as if he was going to speak, but at that moment we heard footsteps on the back stairs, the ones I’d come down.

  “Quiet!” J.J. craned his neck, trying to see between the rolls of paper. I looked through my own crevice. I saw one of the younger pressmen. He came down the back stairs and went past us and toward the pressroom.

  “This is the last plate!” he called.

  J.J. leaned back against the paper behind him. “It won’t be long now.” He muttered the words to himself.

  It takes only seconds to fit a plate on the press. We had only seconds to live.

  I guess I should have folded my hands and made my peace with God. Instead I stretched out my fingers and rebelled. If I was going to die—if Arnie was going to die—I wasn’t ready for us to die meekly. If I was going to be shot, I wanted to be shot with my hands around J.J. Jones’ throat.

  I got to my knees. “Arnie,” I said. “It’s been nice knowing you.”

  He seemed to understand immediately. “Right,” he said. He got to his knees, too.

  “Stay still.” J.J. snarled and raised the pistol.

  And then everything happened at once.

  I heard the final bell that signaled that the press was about to run, followed immediately by the rumbles and the clicks that meant it was starting up.

  The break room door opened again, and Mike came through it. He didn’t pause on the landing. He started right down the stairs, and he didn’t slow down until he was around the first curve. Then he stopped to look around.

  J.J. raised his pistol and pointed it at him. I knew Mike was a clear target, an unmoving target, the kind J.J. might be able to hit.

  I shrieked. “Mike! Get down!”

  J.J.’s pistol went off. Mike did a sommersault over the railing. I couldn’t tell if he landed on his feet or in a heap, dead on the concrete floor.

  The press began to gather speed. Like a train leaving the station, it grew louder.

  And Arnie jumped up and butted his bald and bleeding head into J.J.’s side.

  The two of us jumped on him. Arnie’s hands were tied, and I’m not the most coordinated person in the world, and J.J. was desperate. It wasn’t easy.

  Our fight was surreal. I’m sure we were all yelling, and once I saw a blackened hole appear in a roll of paper, so I know J.J. fired at least one shot, but the thunder of the press kept us from hearing anything.

  Then J.J. used his pistol to whack Arnie in the head again. Arnie sagged. J.J. rolled him aside, and he whammed me back against a roll of paper. He was on his feet.

  I rolled over, and another blackened hole appealed just over my head. I tried to remember how to be a moving target, but J.J. had dashed out of our box canyon and was headed back toward the circular iron stairway.

  I was flooded with relief. Then I remembered that Mike was down there. Mike had fallen off the iron stairway and might be lying helpless on the basement floor. He might already be dead.

  I tried to follow J.J., but Arnie jumped up, too. He and I tried to get out of the narrow passageway at the same time, and it didn’t work. By the time we got out into the yellow walkway, I could see J.J. waving his pistol and looking up at the tops of the rolls of paper.

  This section was only one roll high—about four feet. And Mike was on top of it. He was running along, bent over to keep from hitting his head on a plumbing pipe or getting tangled in the wiring that drooped from the ceiling.

  J.J. was standing still and raising his pistol—belatedly realizing that he might actually hit something if he took a steady aim. Mike was lopin
g along, dragging his knuckles like a chimpanzee, headed toward J.J.

  I started to run at J.J., ready to use any method to disturb his aim at Mike. But Arnie used his bound hands to punch me and shouted, “Come on!”

  By a fluke J.J. was near the section of the basement in which the paper for tomorrow’s press run had been placed. The rolls were stored on their sides, ready to be maneuvered onto the paper carts and shoved into the pressroom.

  It took Arnie and me only a second to get to the giant rolls. As the two of us pushed, we were able to rock the roll of paper, all three-quarters of a ton of it, and move it forward enough to get behind it. Then we ducked down behind it and shoved, rolling it ahead of us like a lawnmower.

  Mike could see what we were doing, and his face grew horror-stricken. It must have been his expression that made J.J. turn halfway around.

  He fired a shot, but he fired it at the roll of paper. And a bullet is meaningless when it comes to stopping three-quarters of a ton of newsprint wound solidly around a cardboard core.

  The giant roll of paper whacked J.J. down like a cartoon character.

  But it didn’t leave him flattened into a spot of grease. It stopped after it ran over his right leg, like a rolling pin crushing cracker crumbs. It crushed his right leg to the knee.

  What followed was extremely confusing. Mike jumped down from the top of the paper rolls.

  I yelled at him. “What were you doing up there?”

  Mike yelled something back, but of course, I couldn’t understand him. He pointed at me, then to the circular staircase. He used his thumbnail to trace “911” on a roll of paper.

  As I got to the break room, Jim Hammond came running in, and he and Ed Brown told me to make the ambulance call myself. They rushed to the basement, and when I followed them a few minutes later they were standing on the metal grid, waving their arms and arguing about what to do. Then Ed climbed into the forklift and used its arms to lift the roll of paper off J.J.’s leg.

  J.J. had fainted. His pain must have been excruciating, but I can’t say I felt very sorry for him.

  Arnie put his arms around me, and I sat on a half roll and shook. And still, at the other end of the basement, the pressmen in their earmuffs went about the business of printing the Gazette. The first-edition run was nearly over before the ambulance came.