by D. F. Bailey
“What about the list itself? Do we identify all twenty-four names?”
Fiona raised a finger in the air and leaned in. “In the last four months ISIS has published nine kill lists. The latest had eighty-three hundred names. So far no one’s been harmed. But this”—she lifted the sheet of paper in her hand—“this is different.”
Wally nodded to acknowledge her note of caution. “Okay, you can mention the list but don’t identify anyone on it until I check with Lou Levine in Legal. All right, what else you got?”
Finch looked away, then turned back to Wally. “I’m going to call the four other reporters named on the list. Just feel them out, try to get their angle on this thing without letting them know our concerns. Not yet, anyway.”
Wally pondered this and then nodded. “Be careful. I don’t want anyone to break the story ahead of the eXpress.”
Finch winced at this. There was no changing Wally. The veteran news man always put the story ahead of the people involved. Including Will himself.
“All right. I get it.” Finch felt a wave of adrenaline surge through his chest. “But there is something else. Something I’ve got to talk to you about. Alone.”
※
After the others left the room, Finch closed the boardroom door and sat beside Wally.
“Look, this isn’t just another story,” he said and rapped his knuckles on the desk top.
“Yeah, obviously.” Wally waved a hand as if he wanted to dismiss his last comment about breaking the story. He closed his eyes and looked away. “I know. It’s a direct threat.”
“You ever get in a fight so desperate you knew from the start someone’s going to die?”
Wally balled his right hand into a fist and gently covered it with his left hand. “In Vietnam. We had more than a few days like that. Same as you in Iraq, I guess.”
Finch nodded to acknowledge their common bond. “And then with Witowsky and Malinin.”
“Yeah. Right.” Wally’s face softened as he recalled Finch and Eve’s battle last year. “That’s what this is like, isn’t it.”
Finch gazed through the interior window that looked from the boardroom onto the bog. Fiona stood with a hand perched on her hip as she talked to Brian Stutz and Jenny Wengler, likely coaching them on the stories Wally had assigned to them.
“This time I’m not going to wait for it, Wally.” He kept his eyes on Fiona. She leaned over Stutz’s desk and pointed to something on his computer. “I’m not going to let them bring this into my home. Not to Eve.”
Wally uncurled his fist and set his hands flat on the table.
“Not after what Toby Squire did to her last year.” Finch turned back to Wally and narrowed his eyes. “I’m not going to let anything like that happen again.”
“No.” Wally leaned forward, just enough to divert Finch’s penetrating gaze. “So what are you thinking?”
Finch stood up and walked to the window, then turned back to Wally. “I’m going to run this fucking ball into their end zone. First, I’m going to write these stories to flush them out. Get the cops and FBI focussed on them. Let them feel some heat. Then after their next hit, if it comes”—he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again—“when it comes, I’m going after them.”
“Mmm.” Wally’s voice had a note of resignation. Then he said, “What can I do?”
Finch walked back to the desk and leaned toward Wally. “You can keep Eve here. Do not let her follow me. Get her to do the background digging with Fiona and Finkleman. Get her to bridge into the SFPD and FBI. And Interpol if it comes to that.”
Wally smiled with a look of forbearance. “You think anybody can hold her back? I tried to do that after you were accused of assassinating Senator Whitelaw.” An expression of hopeless folly crossed his face as he recalled his efforts to keep Eve at bay. “And we should both thank God that she didn’t listen to me.”
“Not this time, Wally.” He inched forward so that his boss couldn’t mistake the expression on his face. “This time, I’m counting on you to keep her here.”
※
It took Finch two hours to write the story that he hoped would break open the case. The key to everything was the list itself. After he named the first three victims he continued the article by describing the supporting elements. The suicide of Toby Squire, his involvement with Raymond Guzman and their method of surveying public washrooms and mugging unsuspecting loners between scheduled security checks. He identified the Armani jacket, the gun, the undisclosed sum of cash in Squire’s possession. The missing link was the identity of John Doe, the mugging victim and quite possibly Martin Fast’s murderer. A killer still at large.
As he sat at his desk in the bog reviewing his article, he could hear Fiona talking to Stutz and Wengler. They were working out the details about their sides of the story, the backgrounds on the two other victims. As he listened to them grappling with the journalistic fundamentals to the crimes—who, what, where, when, why and how—he realized the scope of reporting on the murder spree was expanding. But where was the center to it all?
The question brought him back to the morning of Martin Fast’s murder. The string of events began at City Hall and his acrimonious debate with Kali Rood. The virgin queen. It was Jayne Waterston who’d come up with this moniker—and Jayne herself was on the hit list. Number eight. Could she provide some insight?
He checked his watch. Coming up to five—eight o’clock in New York City. He made a mental note to contact Waterston in the morning. By then Lou Levine would likely green-light the publication of the twenty-four names and Finch could begin to call all the people on the list—beginning with the identified journalists. He’d start with Waterston and see if she’d be willing to collaborate with him. If she felt vulnerable, she might even share her sources, especially if he could convince her to work together with him. Share the by-line, share the source. A common quid pro quo amongst writers of every stripe.
※
That evening Finch returned to the cottage on Alta Street before Eve. She had to settle the final legal issues with the Parson brothers that would complete her purchase of ten percent of the eXpress. While he waited, Will sautéed some prawns and scallops, stirred them into a fresh marinara sauce and brought a pot of water to a boil, then set it aside and grated two cups of parmesan cheese. Once Eve arrived he’d prepare the pasta and they could enjoy the meal on the rooftop deck. She loved shellfish and he wanted the dinner to be special. He knew it might be their last meal together for some time. For how long, no one could predict.
With the meal preparations completed, he climbed up to the second floor and unloaded his courier bag on his office desk. He removed all the non-essentials and carried the bag to the bedroom and began to rummage through his dresser and closet. He packed the bag with two clean shirts, a pair of pants, hiking shorts, three pairs of socks and underwear. He tossed his razor, toothbrush and toothpaste into an inner pouch. The basics. When he was satisfied he returned to the office and added the tools of the trade that he would normally carry on a road trip: his laptop, coiled notebook and pen, the charging cords for his phone and computer, latex gloves, two or three evidence sample bags, a multitool knife, his lock-pick wallet, micro-zoom binoculars, flashlight, Ray-Bans.
In an afterthought he took his passport from the strong box in the office closet, along with the forged identity and credit cards for Joel Griffin. He’d acquired the phony IDs last year after he and Eve had to travel incognito from Washington following Senator Whitelaw’s suicide. At the time he determined he’d never be caught in the same predicament again. He now knew it was the right decision.
He double-checked the documents and ID cards then zipped them into the inner pocket of the courier bag. Then he walked down to the main floor and stowed the pack in the hallway closet. It was better that Eve didn’t observe him making these preparations. The last thing he needed tonight was an emotional distraction.
A moment later he heard the key turn in the fro
nt door lock and Eve entered the hallway. She smiled. A look that said, mission accomplished.
“You get your ten percent of the eXpress?”
“Yes!”
She slipped her arm around his back and kissed him on the cheek. He turned his head to one side so that their lips joined in a warm kiss.
“Then let’s celebrate,” he whispered in her ear. It would be a good night for both of them, he thought, and he kissed her again.
“Let me get dinner going first,” she said and pulled free of his arms.
“Nope. Already done.” He smiled again.
“Really? So, that’s two reasons to celebrate.”
They sat on the roof deck in the Adirondack deck chairs that Eve had purchased at FL!PP, a used furniture shop in Russian Hill, and ate the pasta dinners with the plates perched on their laps. The prospect overlooked the financial district. Beyond lay San Francisco Bay and in the distance—on a clear day, at least—they could see the hills rising over Berkeley. But this evening they could only imagine the panorama; a pack of heavy clouds had gathered above the basin and obscured the distant views.
As they ate Eve talked about the details of her purchase of the eXpress. Just ten percent, but a legitimate piece, she argued, of what one day might become a bigger slice of the pie. Especially if she could help Wally re-orient the paper to the new reporting mandate. They both knew the opportunities were limitless. However, corporate criminals were usually so devious, so smart, so well-funded that it would take an equally savvy and well-resourced investigation to bring the culprits to light. As she finished her meal, she began to focus on their current situation.
“So before I left the office,” she said as she dabbed at her lips with a napkin, “Wally said your latest story is causing a stir. Trending somewhere in Twitter’s top twenty. It also looks like Lou Levine will give the go-ahead to publish the names on the list.”
“Good.” Will set his plate on the deck and folded his hands together. “Maybe it’ll be enough to flush these bastards out.”
“Maybe.” She shrugged with a hint of uncertainty. “One thing’s for sure, you’ll flush out the SFPD and FBI. Now that we’ve established criminal plausibility, they’ll have to respond. They’ll want the list, the jacket and an interview with you.”
“Let Wally give them the list.” He tried to smile. “And I’ll talk their ears off if it’ll help.”
She looked away. “I’m not sure that it will.”
“And your suggestion is?”
“That you get a gun.”
“You know my answer to that.”
“Don’t be a fool.”
He scoffed at that. Over the years he’d seen how weapons only increased the danger around him. As soon as someone pulls a gun other options tend to narrow. With two guns in play, the event horizon becomes one-dimensional. Someone either gets hurt or dies.
“Then at least you should hire some protection.”
He glanced at her with a look of surprise. “You can’t be serious.”
She rolled her lips together and considered the alternatives. “So what are you thinking?”
As he studied her their eyes wove together.
“You’re not going to like it.”
“No?” Her face took on a worried expression.
“The next time there’s a hit, I’m going after them.” He waited a moment and then added, “Alone.”
She let out a wary laugh. “No, you’re not. It doesn’t work that way.”
“Yes, it does. I need you to handle everything here. The SFPD, the FBI—whatever. I need someone to crack the research open on this. You and Finkleman. Your friend, Leanne. Look Eve, we have no idea where this is headed. But it’s not going to be like before. With Toby Squire—hell, you almost died.”
“So did you.”
“Yeah, but this time I have no choice. You do.”
She stood up and walked to the rooftop railing, inhaled a long draught of the evening air, then turned back to face him. “You know it’s crazy, don’t you?”
“What’s crazy?”
“Your idea that anyone you love has to die.”
Finch walked across the deck and stood beside her. He put his arm around her shoulder and toyed with the collar on her blouse. “No one has to die,” he said in a quiet voice. “It’s just that too often, they do. So it’s all about being safe. Making you safe,” he added.
“Well, I suppose I should be flattered.” She turned to one side so that his arm slipped away from her.
“Flattered?”
“Maybe. If this is your way of telling me you love me.” She looked at him and waited. When he failed to reply, she continued. “Do you know that you’ve never told me that? That you love me.”
He nodded with a look of regret. “Of course I do. You have to know it.”
“Know what? That you love me. Or you can’t admit it.”
He smiled, an acknowledgement that she’d cornered him in her little web of words.
“That I love you,” he said with a light gasp. Why had he held this back for so long? After all, it was true. In an instant he felt the foolishness of his on-going restraint, then the guilt for the pain he’d caused her.
“What?” She held a hand to her ear. “Sorry, I missed that.”
He let out a chuckle. She was pulling this off with more class than he could muster. Time to capitulate, he decided. Wave the flag of surrender and marshal all the pomp and circumstance of a complete confession of love. He dropped to one knee, took her hand in his and gazed up at her.
“Eve Noon,” he began, “I love you more than the day itself. I love you and I promise with my life to keep you safe.”
She smiled. Her face flushed with a warm radiance, as if she’d finally won a prize that had been out of reach for far too long.
“Okay. That’s enough.” She pulled him up by the hand and into her arms. “But don’t ask me to marry you. I won’t have it. Not from anyone.”
He nodded with a sense of empathy for her. No matter who she loved, or for how long, Eve would never surrender her freedom. And thank God for it.
“Isn’t this when we’re supposed to make our way to the bedroom and shut off the morning alarm?”
“It could be,” she whispered and kissed the side of his throat. “But why no alarm?”
“Because I’m going to make love to you straight through the night. There’ll be no sleep for anybody.”
She laughed and pulled him toward the staircase that led down to their room. “Darling, you have only the smallest idea what it takes to love me all night long.” She paused on the steps to kiss him again. “And you are about to learn a lesson you will never forget.”
※ — ELEVEN — ※
THE EARLY MORNING rain-showers relieved some of the humidity and smog in midtown Manhattan. But it offered little redemption from the unrelenting heat that had gripped the Eastern Seaboard from Florida up to Boston over the past month.
Jayne Waterston sat at the desk next to her apartment window overlooking East Seventy-third Street and watched the raindrops drizzle against the windshields of the passing cars. She took another moment to study the bronze Cadillac parked across the street in front of the Bohemian National Hall. Most days parking was impossible on Seventy-third, but somehow the same Caddy had steered into the same parking slot the last three mornings in a row. Either coincidence or good luck. Or maybe a personal situation arranged by the manager of the Hall, Georg Svoboda, whom Jayne had interviewed when she was writing the feature article about Syrian refugees scrambling up the chain of east European countries last fall.
She shrugged off the thought and turned her attention back to her laptop. Today she had to finish the story on Donald Trump’s latest allegation of “Crooked Hillary’s” email scandals. The FBI and Justice Department had concluded that no criminal charges were warranted against Clinton. Trump charged the system was rigged. And journalists everywhere eagerly reported the ongoing circus.
Jayne, how
ever, couldn’t be more exasperated. She’d hoped to challenge the candidates’ positions on climate change policy and green science. But before she could pitch a string of article ideas to her freelance employers, the election had dissolved into a series of ad hominem attacks, rumors, libel and slander. A reality-TV election. If that’s what the media wanted, that’s what they would get. And contrary to her best intentions, Jayne was up to her nose in the slime.
When her phone rang she paused. It could be a welcome distraction, but the call display showed a 415 area code. San Francisco? Why would Robert be calling her now—after two years? She clicked on the third ring and waited to hear the voice on the other end of the line. If it was Robert, she’d tell him to go screw—
“Hello? Is Jayne Waterston there?”
She paused for a beat. “Sorry, yes. Who’s calling?”
“This is Will Finch from the San Francisco eXpress.”
“Will Finch?” She switched the phone to her good ear and set her elbows on the table. “Hi, how can I help you?”
“I’m calling about a couple of things. Uh, listen, give me a sec, I just need to go somewhere more private.”
“Sure.”
Will Finch, she thought. Do I actually have the Will Finch on the phone? She glanced at the coffee table. She’d just bought his book at Barnes & Noble on Saturday. Hadn’t started it yet, but—
“Sorry,” Will said. “I’m just in the office and something’s going on in the bog, so I had to grab my editor’s office.”
“The bog?”
“Our newsroom. Speaking of which I just heard you left The Village Voice. Their receptionist passed on your number.”
“Yeah, since last fall. After three years it was time to move on. By the way, it’s strange that you called me. I mean, last weekend I bought Who Shot The Sheriff? I haven’t started it yet, but the reviews are through the roof.”
“Right.” He sounded distracted, she thought, as if he’d forgotten why he’d called. Then in a subdued voice he continued. “Look, something troubling has come up here.”
