by Susan Rohrer
“Just now.” Joe masked his mouth with his hand. No sense in letting her pick up from his expression that he wasn’t buying this.
“Actually, I was told that part yesterday.”
Joe nodded, playing along.
“Just now, He said you haven’t been on speaking terms for a very long time.”
His eyes widened a little. He couldn’t help being taken aback. “You’re telling me you just heard those words.”
“This time, yes,” she said. “But it can be so subtle. Sometimes there aren’t words or pictures. Sometimes it’s just a pull I feel, like I’m being turned so I see something in a way I normally wouldn’t. That’s when it’s easiest to ignore.”
Joe took it in as credibly as he could. Maybe it wasn’t an act after all. It was possible that her delusion was so deep that she actually believed it was real. Either way, he wouldn’t be taken in by anything this woman had to say. Charlatan or certifiable, what had gone on with the defrocked Tom Zoring taught Joe just how convincing these sorts of people could be.
Joe brushed a leaf off his shoe. “No disrespect intended, but...I don’t believe in, uh...God, actually.”
She looked him full in the face. “You did once.”
“You’re not telling me anything you couldn’t have deduced.” Deliberately, he broke her gaze. He was running this interview. And he would not be manipulated. “You’re wrong. I never believed.”
“I think you did,” she said. “Kind of hard to be as mad as you are at someone you don’t believe in.”
It was the strangest feeling, the way she got under his skin. It reminded him how much he loathed dealing with this type of subject.
He sat up straight. “Look, this is all very fascinating, but...it’s not why I’m paying you.”
Laurel lowered her head. She drew her jacket closed. “You aren’t paying me yet.”
Ah. This was about the money for her. It was always about the money for these people. “I haven’t paid you yet. But I do assume you want to be paid.”
She tucked her hands below her thighs and looked up, her eyes softly glistening. “I’m not sure that you get how mortifying this is for me, really. But—bottom line is—I need the money. For the series exclusive, like you offered.”
Joe reached into his breast pocket. “Will you take a check?”
Almost imperceptibly, she nodded. “Actually, if you could make it out to my lawyer.”
He stifled a smirk. She was going to dodge her taxes on this.
Laurel took a business card out and showed it to him. Bennett Flynn, Esquire. Not anyone he’d ever heard of before.
“You can assure your accounting department that I’ll declare it as income,” she said, “but this way I won’t have to wait for the check to clear to get him started.”
He’d believe that when he saw it. Joe copied Flynn’s name onto the payee line of the check. “And you’re not talking to anybody else...besides this Flynn guy?”
“Only what I have to tell the police. There’ve been other calls, other offers...and I don’t know why. But somehow it seemed like I should talk to you.”
Joe handed her the check. Knowing Lou, he’d capture that moment with his lens. No doubt. Time to divert her attention. “Are you a suspect?”
Laurel folded the bank note. “I don’t know.”
“Should you be?”
A look of disappointment flickered in her eyes. “You think I’d be talking to you if I had anything at all to do with this?”
Joe raised his hands. “You’re the psychic. You tell me.”
Laurel quietly recoiled. She tapped the check against her palm. “As much as I need this, we can stop this right here and now if you’re going to call me a psychic. That’s to my face or in anything you print. I thought I made that clear.”
He stretched a hand in her direction. “I’m sorry, Laurel. I apologize. What are you?”
Laurel sat quietly for a moment. A tender smile lightened her. “I’m a mother.”
Joe strode back through the newsroom. The sooner he grabbed the archives on the Fischer divorce, the sooner he could get out of this place. He could write from home. Why had he pitched Laurel Fischer on a series instead of just a one-shot deal anyway? The answer to that was easy. Series sold papers. They got noticed by bigger papers. Ambition always sucker-punched him that way.
For Debra, a series meant three to five articles. At least twice more he’d have to meet with that unsettling woman. Admittedly, she was easy on the eyes, but enough already with the whole visionary vibe. Life was far too short for that lunacy. Problem was, it was exactly the brand of nonsense Kickerton’s readers ate up. And he could forget about this series buying him an ounce of credibility, even if editors from more legit papers did read it. Inside, Joe kicked himself. If there were any way out of this, he’d take it. In a heartbeat.
Debra snagged his arm. “That was quick.”
Joe stopped. “Yeah, she had to zip off and spend the money I gave her. Said she’d meet me tomorrow for the next installment.”
Debra’s gaze narrowed. “What’s your gut?”
Joe shrugged. “She’s a spook. No wonder he divorced her.”
“Think she did it?”
“Don’t care.” He let out a breath. “Don’t want this story. Give it to Adele if she’s so hot.”
“I told you. I already have Adele on Zoring.”
“So, we swap. I’ll take Zoring.”
Debra sniffed. “Like he’s going to talk to you.”
“Fine.” Joe put out his hand. “Give me something else.”
“No.”
Joe felt his fingers clench. “What do you mean, no?”
Debra batted her charcoal-lined lashes. “I mean drop Zoring, take the Fischer story and run with it or start looking for another employer.” She hiked her brow victoriously and sauntered away.
Laurel tied her apron around her waist. Here, her shift at the Blackberry Grille was just starting, and already she was faint from exhaustion.
Mary Jo pulled her aside with a nod toward the far end of the counter. “Company again.”
Laurel followed Mary Jo’s gaze to Detective McTier. This couldn’t be good. Not at all.
Before she knew it, McTier had downed his coffee and was headed her way.
Mary Jo leaned in for a whisper. “Boss isn’t so hot on all your visitors.”
“Neither am I.” Laurel glanced over at Ralph. He tracked McTier, all the way over to the register.
The detective handed some cash to Mary Jo. “Keep it.” He stepped over to Laurel.
Laurel bussed dirty dishes off the counter. “I need my job, Detective. I can’t keep doing this.”
McTier perched on a stool. “Tell you what. One quick question.”
Laurel glanced back at Ralph. At least for the moment, he was back at the griddle. “What?”
McTier picked up a menu, as if he might order again. “We got a look at Frank’s phone records. I noticed that he called you a little after one a.m., not so long before he was killed.”
Laurel felt the blood drain from her face.
The detective leaned over toward her. “Care to say what that was about?”
Respectfully, Laurel looked at McTier. “It was a private discussion. I don’t see where it has bearing on the case. So no, I don’t care to talk about it.”
“Did you know he was back in town?”
Ralph swung through the kitchen doors and set his hands on his hips. Apparently, he wanted to monitor the conversation.
Laurel lowered her voice. “No. I didn’t realize where he was. As you already know, he called from his cell.”
McTier’s brows hiked with interest. “In the middle of the night. When he just happens to be away from home.”
Ralph tapped Laurel’s shoulder. “Any chance you can wrap this up?”
“Two seconds.” She glanced at her boss, then turned back to the detective. “Look, you said one question. I have to get back to work.”
>
McTier conceded with a tip of his head. “Okay. I know where to find you.” Finally, he strolled out the front door.
She turned back to Ralph. “I’m really sorry.”
Ralph scratched the top of his head. It seemed that he was doing his best to understand. Then, he looked right at her. “I offered you time off, Laurel. You turned me down. I’m not without sympathy, given your situation and what all. But when you’re here, you work. You got that?”
“Absolutely.”
Ralph brushed by her and slapped through the doors into the kitchen.
In all the time Laurel had worked for Ralph, she’d never once heard him take that tone. She’d better hurry to her station. This wasn’t the best paying job in the world, but Ralph had been the only one who would take her on after all the bad press from the divorce.
There was no way she could afford to get fired. Surely, the court would revisit custody arrangements soon. She’d have to be gainfully employed, to prove that she could somehow provide for her daughter. That is, if she wanted even a prayer of getting Grace back.
seven
In the seclusion of his apartment, Joe perused the archived Fischer files. Photocopies of dozens of articles, spread across his kitchen island, followed the story. Sure, he could have just pulled them up on his laptop. But the tactile sensation of paper and ink still appealed to Joe, more than any electronic mash of ones and zeros ever could.
One after another, headlines jumped off the pages: Psychic or Psycho: Anatomy of a Divorce; Father Wins Daughter; Councilman Candidate Weds Heiress.
An ambitious colleague had bylined the whole Fischer series, back at the Times. Not that Joe had been gung ho for the assignment. It had seemed all too sensationalistic at the time. The series certainly had signaled a turn of the tide for him at the Times. Apparently, that was when he stopped being their go-to reporter, at least for stories that sold papers the way that story had. Things sure had unraveled from that point.
It was ironic, really. The series had been such a sore spot. In protest, he’d barely skimmed any of these articles at the time. Now, from his lowly, precarious perch at Kickerton Press, Debra was compelling him to follow up on this very same story. That was, if he wanted to keep his lousy job.
Joe rested his chin in his palm and stared at the mix of articles before him. He would have to read them all, every lurid detail, word-for-word. Why life was so bent on badgering him, Joe didn’t know. It was poetic injustice.
His cat batted at the corner of a page hanging off the side of the counter. “Cut it out, Stella. No.”
Stella cowered away. She didn’t like being scolded, but he had work to do.
A key sounded in the lock. Groan. Clay was home. A little peace and quiet was going to be too much to ask for that night.
Clay shuffled in and set down his duffel bag.
“You’re back early,” Joe said. “You get canned?”
Clay pulled off his Marilyn wig. “No, but I appreciate your sensitivity.” He removed the skull cap and set it on his bag. The thing looked like it never got washed.
Clay stretched. “So, I get all the way down there to the club and there’s a sign out front. Health Department shut them down. Indefinitely.”
“There’s a loss.” Joe turned back to his papers.
“After the big quarantine, somebody reported them about that stench in the back. Remember I told you it reeked?” Clay wandered over toward the kitchen. “Turns out there were all these rotting rats, like a hundred of them, decomposing in disgusting little piles behind the walls.” Clay shuddered. “To think I used to get dinner there.”
Clay eyed Joe’s array of paperwork as he approached. “That printer toner is just laden with all kinds of nasty toxins, you know.”
“Not like I’m going to eat it.” Joe gathered his collection of articles. “But speaking of restaurants, you might want to stay clear of Oliverio’s.”
“Why?”
“They have this co-op deal with the half-way houses. Zoring is there washing dishes, earning his social security.”
Clay settled onto a stool. “So they know.” He swiped a pear from Joe’s bowl and polished it on his sleeve. “Did you wash these?”
Joe nodded. “And yeah, the owner knows. Though I’d imagine he’s keeping it low profile with the customers.”
Clay bit into the fruit hungrily. “That whole parole thing is such a crock. They let him out early because he admitted to everything, but that doesn’t mean the debt is paid. It’s like, say you’re sorry and, poof. Every revolting thing you’ve ever done just vanishes? Travesty.” Clay propped himself on an elbow. “You going to write something about him?”
Joe shook his head. “Virginia Woolf took me off the story. Gave it to this rookie, Adele. She can have it for all I care.”
Clay’s lips curled with fascination. “Oh, I like that name. Adele. Adele... Maybe Adele Aaronson, Abernathy, no simpler... Adams. Adele Adams.” A drop of pear juice splashed on the counter.
“Her name is Stedler. Adele Stedler.” Joe stashed his work in a file.
“Too clunky.” Clay tapped his chin. “I’d rather go with the alliteration.”
“Because...?”
“My first big soiree is Saturday night. I need a stage name.”
Joe groaned. This Marilyn thing was getting way out of control. “Tell me you’re not doing this.”
Clay rose defiantly and sauntered away. “It’s five bills a night. What do you make?”
The massive historic cathedral loomed over Joe. It was an ominous sight. The music of Mozart’s Requiem wafted from the sanctuary, reverently sung by choir, accompanied by pipe organ.
Joe’s stomach churned.
Decades had passed since Joe had so much as set foot on the grounds of that parish. In a moment, it all flooded back. With everything that had gone down there, it half surprised Joe that the place was still standing. If he’d had a say in the matter, that cathedral would have been toppled, stone by stone.
And yet, there it stood tall, taunting far more than it inspired.
Left to his own devices, Joe would never have returned there, not if Debra hadn’t insisted. She was right, of course. Though the diocese had declared the Mass itself off limits to their cameras, Frank Fischer’s funeral was shaping up to be a major media event. It would be a pivotal point in the slain councilman’s story. National news teams rubbed elbows with regional reporters, behind a velvet-corded barrier.
Lou trained his lens on the graceful bell tower, its spires rising toward the heavens. “Some tower.”
Joe grunted. It was bad enough that he had to be there. He didn’t have to look up at that horrid belfry—that place where everything that was once sacred in his world had come crashing so violently to the ground.
Lou clicked off a few shots, then lowered his camera. “You could go in, you know. Might get a little face time with the Cardinal.”
Darkness settled over Joe like a thundercloud. “No, thanks.”
Adele Stedler leaned against the back of a bus bench. She pulled an image up on her cell, then checked it against the guy she saw passing out flyers in front of Oliverio’s downtown eatery. A handmade placard hung over his back. Scrawled in red marker it said: Do you REALLY want to eat here?
No question. That had to be Joe Hardisty’s younger brother, Clay—the star witness that had cinched Tom Zoring’s conviction, and a total no-show at his parole hearing.
From a discreet distance, Adele watched as Clay succeeded in turning quite a few customers away. Granted, Joe was a top-notch reporter. He’d been nice enough to mentor her with tips along the way. But in this instance, Debra had been shrewd about him. Following Zoring’s parole had posed a major conflict of interest for Joe. He’d been way too close to cast an objective eye on this story. She would take it to a level Joe couldn’t.
An effervescent tingle ran through Adele’s chest. Debra would be so impressed. She had only been expecting a short blurb on Zoring’s recent employ
ment at Oliverio’s. Not the juiciest tidbit in and of itself. Ex-cons got hired for menial labor all the time. Even Joe had taught Adele to look for something more, some spark of human interest. Now, this former victim’s protest could add a juicy new angle to the story.
Adele fired off a text to Debra: U R not going 2 believe this. She stifled a grin as she sent it. How could she have gotten so lucky? Then again, maybe it wasn’t luck at all. Maybe it was the dues she’d paid.
She counted back in her mind. So much had led to this moment. There had been eighteen mortifying months worth of paper cuts in the mailroom. She’d spent the next two ulcer-inducing years as an administrative assistant. Top that off with nearly five more years of humbly editing other people’s copy, and now finally, her time had come. She would make Debra celebrate the day that she’d given her this break. And if she played her cards right, at long last, she might actually pay off her journalism degree.
Adele tucked her phone into her bag. She moved toward Clay just as he handed a flyer to a man who had a wife and two children in tow.
“Excuse me, Ma’am.” Clay handed another flyer to the mother. “Before you take your kids in there, you might want to read this.” He turned to Adele as she neared him.
Adele extended her hand. “Adele Stedler. Kickerton Press.”
Clay’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding, right? My brother works there. I’m Clay Hardisty. First of three counts on Zoring’s sentence.”
Adele nodded. “So I hear.”
His mouth dropped. “This is crazy. I mean, Joe was just telling me about you. He said you’re taking over the story since Zoring got sprung.”
“Yes, yes. That’s me.”
Clay pointed into the restaurant. “Did you see? He’s right back there, in the kitchen.” Clay did a double take. “Wait. Are you going to interview him?”
Adele returned a wry smile. “Actually, right now, I’d love the chance to interview you.”
