“There now,” says Smith, putting an arm over the reporter’s shoulder. “We’ve snatched victory from the jaws of disaster. You’ve got a few more days to get the poop on Zarnik and determine whether Cain is being set up for something.”
Manning grins. “Does that mean you’re taking me off the Nolan story so I can focus on Zarnik?”
“You want me to?”
“No, Gordon.” Manning laughs. “These two mysteries were made for each other. As I’ve already told you, I think the answer to one is the answer to both.” Exchanging a nod, they’re about to step away from the tobacco shop and return to the newsroom when Manning halts, frowning. “Hold on,” he says. “Something’s bugging me. What about all that computer business?”
As he asks the question, he notices someone inside the shop—a tall man, vaguely familiar—who may have been watching them. Or was he merely skimming the magazine covers displayed inside, below the window?
“What about the computers?” asks Smith.
“When we met with Cain four days ago, he claimed total ignorance of computers. Today he was talking like a techie. I didn’t know he could even type.”
The man in the store is now at the tobacco counter, his back to the window. The clerk hands him a foiled pack of imported cigarettes. He glances about the room.
Smith says, “Wasn’t Lucy supposed to be giving Nathan lessons? ‘Remedial training,’ I think he called it.”
“She’s damn good if she can bring him up to speed that fast.”
The man in the store has lit one of the cigarettes, which he puffs from a six-inch holder. Even from behind, Manning can tell from the man’s posture, from the way he holds the cigarette, that his mannerisms are decidedly effeminate. And his face, what Manning can see of it, is familiar.
“She may well be a computer wiz,” says Smith, “but she’s one weird woman. Lucille Haring gives me the chills. Your first hunch may have been right, Marko—maybe the Pentagon did plant her in Cain’s office to facilitate some hidden agenda.”
Manning’s attention is diverted by the man with the cigarette holder, who leaves the shop and brushes past them, apparently miffed at something. He does not make eye contact with Manning, but Manning gets a good look at the man, who limps through the lobby toward the street door. It is Victor Uttley, Chicago’s cultural liaison to the world.
He twirls through the revolving door and disappears into the crowds on Michigan Avenue.
Shortly after six that evening, Manning returns home to the loft. The sultry morning became a sweltering afternoon, and Manning was grateful for the air-conditioned privacy of his car during the short ride home—pity those crammed into buses or dashing through crowds to catch trains in this weather. Environmentalist dictums notwithstanding, public transportation is a bitch.
In the hallway outside the loft, he slides his key into the lock, turns it, and opens the front door. Cool, dry air greets him like a hug as the security system beeps its warning—he’s first to arrive, Neil’s not home yet. He taps in the code that disarms the alarm, closes the door behind him, and heads for the kitchen, tossing his briefcase on the counter.
Cocktail time. Manning doesn’t make a habit of fixing a drink every time he walks through the door at night, but this was a tense day, a hot one too, so he feels no qualms about digging from the freezer the bottle of Japanese vodka that is always stored there. He fills a short glass with ice and has begun stripping a sliver of peel from an orange when he hears a key in the door.
“Honey, I’m home.” It’s Neil, of course. The running gag line acknowledges that their household is anything but conventional. At the same time, it attests to a mutual commitment far more genuine than the cardboard marriages that populated the sitcoms of their youth.
Manning rattles the glass of ice, calling, “Drink?”
Silly question. Neil heads straight for the kitchen, dropping his briefcase next to Manning’s. Manning plops ice into a second glass as Neil grabs his waist and plants a kiss on his mouth. “Hi there.”
“Hi there. How was your day?” Manning pours the Japanese vodka and twists the orange peel. This has been “their” drink since Neil introduced him to it on the night they first met.
“Busy,” answers Neil, “but productive. Come hell or high water, Celebration Two Thousand will be launched this weekend.”
“Bravo,” says Manning, handing him one of the glasses. Then he lifts his own. “Compai.” They skoal, then drink.
“And how was your day?” Neil asks.
Manning suggests that they sit down. When they have gotten comfortable on the sofa, looking out over the lake, Manning recounts to Neil his early-morning visit to Nathan Cain’s office. He concludes, “So even though I was dreading Cain’s reaction to Sunday’s story, the upshot of the meeting was better than I’d hoped—I’m still on the story, with Cain’s unequivocal support and pontifical blessing.”
“All’s well that ends well.” Neil sucks an ice cube into his mouth.
“It’s hardly over,” Manning reminds him. “I still need to do a lot of digging on the Cliff Nolan story, and my reputation is on the line with this Zarnik business. It’s a challenge that’s mandated not only by my own professional curiosity, but now by Cain’s as well. He said there was no deadline—but the pressure is on.”
Manning swirls the ice in his glass, then drinks a hefty slug of vodka. He continues. “My suspicions about Zarnik got some reinforcement today from a linguistics professor down in Urbana. He’d seen my weekend story and was intrigued by Zarnik’s use of the word pfroobst, so he did a little research. Not only is the word unknown in Zarnik’s native dialect—it’s not in the lexicon of any known language. It’s a total fabrication. I might have guessed.”
“What’s next, then?” Neil’s tongue is numbed by the ice, so his words are barely intelligible, but Manning gets the drift.
“It’s time to talk to Zarnik again. I’m not ready to confront him, but I want to see if he manages to come up with any of the missing facts he promised. I’ve tried reaching him all day, but he’s been ‘unavailable.’ If I can’t get through to him in the morning, David and I will just head over to the planetarium and camp out for him.”
Neil rattles the remnants of chomped ice in his glass. He tells Manning, “You’ve turned Zarnik into such a celebrity, no wonder you can’t reach him. His aides, ‘his people’ are probably screening calls.”
Manning snickers at the irony of it. “Zarnik’s not the only one who’s hard to reach. You’ll never guess who came to see me at the office today—Victor Uttley.”
“Get out.”
“No, really. We had the strangest encounter—or non-encounter. Gordon and I were in the lobby discussing the meeting we’d just had with Cain, which had put me in a suspicious mood that bordered on paranoia. As we talked, I realized that this peculiar man was watching us from inside the tobacco shop. At least it seemed he was. I couldn’t get a good look at him till he left the shop and limped past us through the lobby. That’s when I realized it was Uttley. When I returned to the newsroom, there was a message that he’d come to see me.” Manning laughs. “So I guess he wasn’t there on a spy mission, but I don’t have a clue as to what he did want. I phoned several times. He was ‘out.’”
Neil has listened with interest. “That’s not surprising. Victor’s never in his office—he’s out pestering other people, like me. But I am surprised that he came to see you. Could it have something to do with that ad he ran in today’s Journal?”
“I doubt it.” Manning finishes the last of his own drink. “I have nothing to do with advertising at the paper—he surely knows that. And besides, the ad ran in the Post as well.”
Neil takes Manning’s glass. His expression asks, Another? Manning nods. Sure. Rising with both glasses and crossing to the kitchen, Neil tells him, “I wouldn’t lose sleep over it. Victor’s something of a flake, and that’s putting it charitably. Even when you do reach him, I bet he won’t remember what he wanted.
He’s up to his ears working out logistics for the opening ceremony—the laser show and all.”
“That reminds me,” says Manning, rising and following Neil, “I saw the damnedest thing from Cain’s office this morning. There were workers outside the building hoisting one of the projectors up to the tower’s mast platform. Have you ever seen one of those things?”
“Nope.” Neil twists orange peel over the vodka he has just poured.
“It looked downright diabolical,” says Manning, still confounded by the machine’s appearance. He tries to be more precise: “It looked like some exotic piece of military hardware—it was even painted olive drab.”
Handing Manning his drink, Neil shrugs. “It is, after all, some sort of laser gun. What’s it supposed to look like?”
Manning sips from his glass, thinking. Then he tells Neil, “That’s a good question: What’s it supposed to look like?” He seems suddenly, calmly enlightened.
“You’ve lost me,” says Neil.
Manning continues, “You’re involved with all this. Is there any way you could arrange for me to get a look at a laser projector on one of the other towers?”
“What for?” Neil drinks.
“Just curiosity.” Manning also drinks. He sits on a stool at the kitchen’s center island. “You know—nosy me.”
Neil is still confused. From the opposite side of the island, he asks, “What do the projectors have to do with Zarnik?”
“Nothing whatever. Let’s just say that the Zarnik affair has piqued my interest in scientific reporting. Once the public sees the laser show, there’s bound to be widespread interest in the technology behind it. It’ll make a good story, and I’d like to get a jump on it.”
Neil rarely has the opportunity to assist Manning on a story, and he’s glad to have the chance. “I’m in no position to arrange it directly, but I know someone who could pull a few strings—Victor Uttley.”
“Oh?” With heightened interest, Manning leans forward with his arms on the countertop.
Neil places his palms on the counter to lean closer to Manning, explaining, “Victor’s got ‘access.’ Granted, he’s just an overpaid bureaucrat in some dreamed-up job, but he can open doors.”
“If he wants to,” says Manning.
“Exactly. So find out why he wanted to see you today, help him out with it if you can, then ask him to return the favor. He might play along.”
“I like the way you think,” says Manning, stretching to lean farther over the counter till he’s nose-to-nose with Neil. With an exaggerated pucker, Manning gives him a kiss, then relaxes again on the stool. “I’ve already left a stack of message slips for Uttley, so it’s his turn to respond.”
“Speaking of messages,” says Neil, glancing at an answering machine that sits on the counter near the kitchen phone, “it looks like we’ve had a pile of calls.” A little red light blinks drowsily.
Manning sighs. “We need a secretary.” He pulls a notepad from the briefcase he dropped there when he got home.
Neil corrects him, “We need a vacation.”
“Good idea. Let’s talk about that—next week.” He unscrews the cap of his pen and begins jotting some notes, plans for the investigation he will pursue during the next few days.
While Manning concentrates on the details of his schedule, Neil tidies up the minor mess of their drink-fixing and taps the button to play their phone messages. There are six or seven.
Several are from people who serve on Neil’s festival committees. He nods while listening to the litany of ongoing projects and crises, reminding himself that a week from now, it will all be over—he will indeed get his life back. There are a couple of calls from friends thanking Manning and Neil for Saturday’s party, suggesting future social engagements to repay the evening. There’s a message for Mr. Manning from someone at Visa who wants him to return the call to Michelle at an 800 number. She has an exciting offer regarding a “buying club” that he’ll surely want to join! Mr. Manning snorts with contempt—these people just won’t give up. And there’s a message from Roxanne in Door County. It’s a long one, and Manning’s attention drifts back to his notes—he’ll deal with her vacation-and-romance gossip later. Neil listens while polishing the stainless-steel sink with a dish towel. Then he stops and turns to Manning with his mouth agape.
At that point, Manning realizes that Roxanne’s tone has shifted from chatty to urgent, and she’s not finished—her message has been left in installments. He tells Neil, “Better play that over.”
Neil presses the “repeat” button. The machine beeps. They hear Roxanne’s voice.
“Hi, guys. It’s me, Roxanne. We made it up to Baileys Harbor safe and sound. The resort is a hoot—sort of a throwback to the fifties—but it’s really quite lovely. And the weather’s much cooler up here. Sweaters at night.
“I tried calling you at work, Mark, but you were out, and I didn’t want to leave this message on your voice mail there. It’s afternoon now, and I assume you won’t hear this till tonight, at home. Obviously. That’s where I’m calling.
“Something, well, strange happened this morning that you need to know about, Mark. Carl and I got up early today (we haven’t quite programmed ourselves to relax yet), took a long walk, then went to breakfast. The dining room is in this separate building, sort of lodgelike, and breakfast is a big deal. The eggs Benedict, by the way, are fabulous.”
The machine cuts her off. A moment later, there’s another beep.
“Me again. Part two. Anyway, when we returned to our cabin at about nine, the message light on the phone was flashing, so Carl called the desk. He picked up a pencil and was ready to take notes, but he just nodded while he listened, thanked the desk clerk, and hung up. It was clearly business, and I frankly didn’t care who it was, so I didn’t ask. But here’s where it starts to get weird.
“Carl went out to the car to return the call. I mean, Carl Creighton and I work together, I’m a partner in his firm, I’m privy to all of our clients’ business. When he came back inside, he said, ‘No point in squandering money on hotel long distance’—as if cellular rates are a bargain. At that point, of course, I was plenty curious as to what the call was about, but my instincts told me not to ask. I’d wait.
“Later, we went out for a nice lunch, and near the end, there was an awkward lull. He took my hand across the table and, apologizing profusely, told me that he had to drive back into the city tomorrow—Tuesday—for an important conference, returning to Door County on Wednesday. He offered no explanation, while sweetly insisting that I remain up here to ‘enjoy’ myself.”
The machine cuts her off again. Manning and Neil exchange a quizzical shrug that asks, So what? Big deal. A moment later, there’s another beep.
“Part three. I’ve got to wrap this up. This’ll sound nuts, Mark, but I’ve done a little sleuthing, and I need to see you—up here, tomorrow, while he’s gone. I know this is short notice, and I know it’s a long haul, but I’m telling you, it’s important. I’ve reserved a cabin in your name. I’ll check with the desk later to see if you’ve confirmed the reservation. Don’t phone me tonight—Carl will still be here. Now I’m on the car phone, so anyone could be listening, and I can’t go into more detail.
“But I will say this: It involves the Z-person. And I’m scared. So get your ass up here. Ciao.” There’s a click, then a dial tone. The machine shuts off, signaling with a series of beeps that there are no more messages.
Manning and Neil stare at each other in silence for a few seconds. Neil asks, “What do you make of that?”
“For starters,” says Manning, “the Z-person is obviously Zarnik.”
“Obviously.”
“As for the rest, it all sounds pretty goofy.”
“Sure does,” says Neil, “but she was clearly upset, and Rox is as levelheaded as they come.”
“Now that she’s sober.” Manning adds, “Just kidding.” He pauses in thought for a moment. When he speaks, his tone has turned serious. �
��There’s something I haven’t told you about the files I found in Cliff Nolan’s desk yesterday.”
Neil draws his brows together. “What? You told me he was keeping embarrassing dossiers on people. Cliff was a cad. So?”
Manning looks Neil in the eye. “One of those files pertained to Carl Creighton.”
Neil’s astonished look asks for details.
“The file indicated that Cliff had recently met with Carl, and there were notes containing cryptic references to dates thirty years ago when they were both apparently students at the University of Chicago. My impression was that there may have been a cheating scandal.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Uh-oh is right. Carl’s file was only one among dozens that Cliff kept, so I convinced myself that I needn’t be concerned about it. But now these developments with Roxanne. …”
Neil sits on the stool next to Manning’s and spreads his towel on the counter, folding it into progressively smaller rectangles. “So,” he asks, “are you going?”
Manning exhales a noisy, frustrated sigh. He taps a finger on the schedule he’s been drafting. “This is exactly the time when I can’t afford to drop everything and spend a day or two at a resort just because a friend wants to ‘talk.’ Then, too, she raised some enticing possibilities, and she’s not willing to elaborate on the phone, so I guess I’d better go. Funny,” he says, laughing more at the irony than at the humor of the situation, “Nathan Cain all but ordered me to do some traveling this week.”
“What’s left to decide?” Neil asks, unfolding the towel and smoothing its creases with his palms. “Looks like you’re getting a little vacation sooner than you thought.”
“Hey.” Manning’s eyes widen. “Come with me. You could use a little time off.”
“Not now I couldn’t,” Neil dismisses the suggestion. “These days, I barely have time to eat, let alone travel. Don’t get me wrong—I’d love to tag along, and I certainly don’t care for the notion of you and Roxanne spending a night alone together.”
Eye Contact Page 15
