by Brad Meltzer
Devin turned and walked slowly back to her chair, pleased to hear the heavy silence in the courtroom. She'd made her point. Now she had to sit back and see what Hot Tub Trent had up his sleeve.
"Very well," Judge Hardy said. "WeVe still got an hour before lunch. Let's get started."
Patrick Roswell had learned to read the signs of his editor's irritation many moons ago. It started with the tiny crinkles around his eye sockets. It continued with the subtle flush of color in his cheeks. It flourished with the trembling in his jowls. And it proved itself beyond all doubt when the man began screaming.
"Roswell, what the hell am I looking at?"
Patrick bit down on his lower lip. "It--it--it's an article I wrote up. F-for the paper."
"For the paper? For my paper?"
Y-yes, sir.
The editor, John Whitechapel, stared at the thin manuscript clutched in his hands. He had a squarish head with an extreme buzz cut, flecked with gray on both sides. " Tun Freezing Facts.' What in God's name am I supposed to do with this?"
Patrick pushed his thick glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I--I was thinking you might want to run it on the front page. P-perhaps in a boxed sidebar."
"You thought I'd run it on the front page. Of my paper?"
Y-yes, sir.
"What do you think I'm publishing here, Scientific American* This is a newspaper. A smallish, local newspaper, true. But we still print news. Hence the name."
"B-but this is news. Or at least--it relates to news."
"What news?"
"The Cryogenic Killer."
"Granted, the Hightower murder is hot stuff. But people don't wanna read about cryogenics. They wanna know who did it! How was it done? Was there a lot of blood? Not what's the perfect temperature for the preservation of human flesh!"
"I wanted to interview the family, but you wouldn't allow it."
"The Hightowers don't advertise in the Gazette. Berkowitz Refrigeration does."
"So as long as I was at the cold storage plant--"
"Where I sent you to sell ad copy, Patrick. Did you forget about that little detail--your job? You're not a reporter, Patrick. You need to get past these Clark Kent delusions. You sell advertising. And that's important. Cryogenics I can skip, but without advertising I got no newspaper."
"I can do more."
"I don't want you to do more! I want you to sell the blinking ads!" Whitechapel grabbed an open bottle of Maalox on the corner of his desk and drank it down, straight from the bottle. "Look, Patrick, I know you can do more. I run your crossword puzzles, don't I?"
True enough. Patrick had always been fascinated with puzzles, and a couple of years ago, when he turned thirty, he started trying to construct them. Within a year he'd had his first two puzzles published by the New York Times. Here at the Long Island Gazette, however, there was greater resistance to publishing his creations. Whitechapel feared there would be mass reader rebellion if he stopped printing the brainless NEA syndicated puzzle he'd run for years, which was boring, themeless, and wouldn't challenge a well-read five-year-old. Finally, after months of effort, Patrick persuaded Whitechapel to give his own puzzles a try. And as predicted, there were some strong initial objections. Within a month or so, however, all that faded away, and Patrick had a loyal following for his homegrown puzzles. Now if he could only get Whitechapel to pay him for them.
"Yes," Patrick said, "you run my crossword puzzles, and they've become very popular. I know people who subscribe to this rag just for my puzzles. Think what might happen if you actually let me write some articles!"
"Patrick, listen to me. You're a nice boy. I've known you since you were a baby. I knew your mother in high school. I almost asked her to the prom, and I probably should've, except I was all hung up on this cheerleader ..." Patrick's attention began to wane. He'd heard this story several thousand times too many. ". . . and I want to see you do well.
But your highest and best role in the life of this newspaper is selling advertising. You're good at it. I need it. It's a perfect arrangement."
"Just let me take one assignment. One lousy story. You can pick it."
"Patrick--"
"I'll do anything. Garden parties. Dog shows."
"Patrick, have you been out to Hargrove Printing yet?"
"Well, no--"
"Jack Hargrove is one of your biggest accounts, Patrick. You need to take care of him."
"I can still--"
"Have you been out to Mrs. DeBrook's Flowers? Picked up the ad for the Sunday paper?"
"No, but. . ."
Whitechapel straightened. "Patrick, I need you to do your job. If you want to keep your job." He pointed toward the door. "Now go."
The tiny, somewhat shriveled man sitting on the next bar stool spoke so softly Patrick had trouble hearing him. From the man's roaming eyes and furtive manner, casual observers might guess he was passing on illegal racing tips, or possibly insider stock-trading data, or at the very least, secrets of state. They would be wrong.
"So," the man whispered, "what about thirteen down?"
"What's the clue?"
" 'Nutcracker suite.' Four letters. Last one's T. "
Patrick thought for a moment, then smiled. "Nest."
The little man anxiously scribbled down the word. "What about twelve across? 'McDonald's lid.' Three letters. Starts with T"
Patrick barely hesitated. "Tam." He had to hand it to Will Shortz. He came up with some pretty clever clues to spice up the Times daily puzzle.
The little man, known to one and all at Murray's Bar & Grill as Henry, continued scratching down words while frequently craning his neck to check the front door. As Patrick knew, it was about time for Henry's new fiancee to drop by Murray's for lunch. Henry liked this woman a great deal, but she was smart and well read and, in his own words, probably out of the reach of a night watchman at Miller Tool and Die. Except that he had managed to convince her he was some kind of mental giant. Which he had accomplished by showing her a fully completed New York Times crossword every day. Which he would never have been able to do if Patrick hadn't come to Murray's for lunch every day.
"One last clue," Henry said. "Thirty-two across. Four letters. 'Peter or the Wolfe.' That's Wolfe with an E on the end."
"Piece of cake. It's Nero."
Henry finished the puzzle, then slapped the paper down with satisfaction. "Thanks, Patrick. You're a lifesaver. What a break for me, havin' a world-famous crossword constructor around."
"I'm not famous. I publish puzzles under a pseudonym--it's kind of a tradition in the crossword world. Mine's Tristan."
"Tristan? Why'd ya pick that?"
"It's a tribute to my idol: the greatest living puzzle constructor-- Isolde."
"Tristan. Isolde. Whatever. I'm just grateful you could help."
"My pleasure. If Cordelia's happy, I'm happy."
"Cordelia's a great gal," Henry said in a dry, raspy voice. "Very classy. Hell of a lot classier than anyone I ever expected to be hitched up with. She makes me laugh." He winked. "And she's a tigress between the sheets."
"Really, Henry, you don't have to tell me everything."
"But she's not interested in gettin' stuck with some dummy. So what could I tell her? I didn't go to college. I don't read much. I don't go to museums and I don't know those ten-dollar words. I thought it was hopeless. Till I remembered my buddy at Murray's who makes puzzles for that big-shot New York City paper."
Patrick smiled. Buddy was a bit of a stretch for a guy you only saw at the other end of a bar, but whatever.
"Once I started showin' her those puzzles you helped me finish, she was putty in my hands. You've never seen a girl get so excited about a completed crossword."
No, he certainly hadn't. But he could dream . . .
"Once we're married, I figure I can slack off. But till then . . . lunch at Murray's?"
"Of course. Hey, next week, let's do a British-style cryptic crossword. That'll really blow her away."
His eye
s widened. "You think?"
"I know."
The middle-aged woman behind the bar, who Patrick felt certain was not named Murray, brought his cheeseburger and fries. He was starving. Nothing like a big argument with your boss to work up an appetite. Even if it was an argument they'd had a dozen times before.
At the first bite of the hamburger, Patrick felt as if he'd achieved an altered state. Nirvana, perhaps. Nothing in the world was as good as a good cheeseburger. Nothing. He was gratified that Murray's had such delicious food, especially since he was more or less obligated to eat here every day until Henry finally got Cordelia down the aisle.
The woman behind the counter glanced sideways at him. "Mind if I turn on the tube?"
Patrick shook his head. " 'Course not."
The black screen flickered to blue, then displayed the face of a female news anchor. She was recapping the main stories of the day, using that stilted TV-newscaster voice that always made Patrick cringe.
"... And today opening arguments were delivered in the high-profile Hightower murder case. The prosecution is expected to put on its first witnesses tomorrow morning. Julia Conners Hightower is on trial for her life, accused of murdering her late husband, multimillionaire oil tycoon Arthur Hightower. Mrs. Hightower allegedly killed her husband with a blunt instrument and stuffed his body into an oversized food freezer, where it was discovered by her son on Thanksgiving Day. Mr. Hightower was thought to have been on a business trip since November second, but it is now believed that he spent the weeks before Thanksgiving--" The anchorwoman paused and looked wryly at the camera. "--in cold storage."
Patrick heard Henry make a snorting sound. "Never ceases to amaze me how much them reporters get wrong. Makes you wonder who you can trust."
"Get wrong? What did they get wrong?"
"That whole business. Rich guy bein' stuffed in the freezer."
"Are you saying he wasn't stuffed in the freezer? 'Cause I've seen pictures back at the paper."
"Naw. I'm sure he got stuffed in the freezer--sometime. But they keep sayin' it was on November second. They say the wife bumped him off and told people he was on a business trip. That's why they accused her of murderin' him. But the man wasn't dead on November second."
Patrick turned slowly. Was it possible this bar rat actually knew something about the murder? "Have you talked to the police?"
"Tried. They told me to go away. Said I wasn't a credible witness. They already had their case worked up against the widow, and they didn't want me messin' things up."
"What did you tell them?"
"What I knew. That Arthur Hightower couldn't've been dead on November second--'cause I saw him alive on the fourth of November. Up at the old Sweeney Hotel. Cordelia and I checked in for the weekend so we could . . . well, I spect you can imagine."
"I expect I can. What exactly did you see?"
"Well, it was late, like two in the morning, but we were still awake, and we heard this huge big thumpin' noise from the next room. Shoutin', footsteps, and a lotta other hullabaloo I didn't know what was. So I put on a robe and went out in the hall thinkin' I'd ask the neighbors to keep it down. And who do you think I saw leavin' the room in a great big awful hurry? Arthur Hightower, that's who."
"You're sure it was Hightower?"
"Positive. Absolutely certain. Alive and well, two days after his wife supposedly offed him. And you wanna know somethin' else I'm certain about?" He leaned forward. "He wasn't alone in there."
Chapter 2.
MORGY-"
"Hmmm?"
"Morgy-Worgy, I was just thinking ..."
"Oh, don't do that."
Morgan Hightower was in mid-brush-stroke. He didn't take his eyes from the canvas. His wife obviously mistook his muted response as an invitation to continue. "I mean, watching you paint. There's just something so very . . . exciting about somebody dying, don't you think?"
Sissy would have been completely nude except that around her lovely neck she wore a string of Mikimoto pearls that was a perfect match for the necklace that had apparently been the last thing grasped by her grasping late father-in-law. Reclining on a white leather couch with her magnificent breasts exposed in the firelight, she lifted the head of the polar-bear-skin rug from where her husband had placed it between her legs.
"Please don't move!" Morgan snapped in his peevish way.
"But it's so hot there," Sissy replied. "If I just throw off this rug--"
"Even when you have no clothes on, you want to take off your clothes."
Sissy pouted. "There are a lot of men who wouldn't object, you know." The moue gave way to a smile. "Of course, if I get too hot--"
"It's not that." Morgan didn't want to go down that road, not again. "Its the art. Youll ruin the effect."
It was the middle of February, around eight-thirty in the evening. The trial of Julia Hightower had begun that day, and both Morgan and Sissy had been in attendance.
Now, back home, they were in the Rotunda. This was Morgans artist studio atop the tower that presided over the grounds from the north end of the Hightower Mansion. Arthur, back when he still enjoyed the sensation of being rich and powerful enough to do whatever he damn well wanted to do, had built the structure--a glaring eyesore hard up against the neoclassical lines of the mansion--for the fun of it.
The Rotunda was a large, circular room, entirely enclosed in glass except for an enormous riverstone fireplace that now roared and crackled, giving off an amber light by which Morgan attempted to paint. Outside the wraparound windows, a winter storm had blown down from New England with an arctic chill, high winds, and whiteout conditions. But here in the Rotunda, it was warm and cozy.
Between brush strokes, Morgan was drinking Remy Martin XO Cognac from an oversized snifter. He sipped now and looked beyond the canvas to his wife's undeniably attractive body. For an instant, he thought of putting down both his easel and the snifter and replacing the Polar bear's head with his own, but then Sissy opened her mouth and ruined it again. "But don't you think, Morgy?" she asked in her maddeningly ambiguous way.
"Think what, dear? Please don't touch your breasts. I'm trying to paint them."
Sighing, Sissy gave a little last pinch to her right nipple, then extended her arm along the back of the couch. "That death is so exciting. I mean, before your father died, you hadn't painted in years and years, and now, ever since--"
As usual, Sissy didn't finish her sentence. Morgan wondered if her thoughts ended that way, too, but then realized the implication of that--that she had thoughts. No, he decided. It couldn't be that. "It's not death, Sissy. It's Arthurs death. That's what freed me up. I never understood how much I was afraid of losing the money. Not that money is important to me, of course, not like art is." He sipped his cognac, wondering what was driving him to reveal so much. "But you know IVe never had any luck selling my work, or making any money really. If Arthur took it all away, I don't know what we would have done." He took in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "Now that the worry about that is gone, it is liberating. My creativity can flow freely again. I can actually feel it coursing through my veins."
Sissy had begun, absently, to massage the area around her cute little navel. "And its good, too, you know, about Julia."
Morgan had started another brush stroke, and this time he did stop midway through it. "What about Mummy?"
"How they won't find her guilty, so it was smart of you to let her . . . oh, Morgy, you know."
"Why won't they find her guilty, Sissy? What did I let her do?'?
A look of utter vacancy. "You know, let her get charged and all. When you did it."
"What are you saying?"
"Come on, Morgy. You know!" She threw the polar bear rug to the floor and sat upright. "Yuck! I just hate it when I get all stuck to that leather like that. Maybe we could put a sheet down or something."
"Are you saying you think I killed Arthur?"
Palms upward, she squeezed her breasts together with her elbows. "Well, duh, M
orgy. It's not like he didn't deserve it anyway. And you didn't hurt him."
"I didn't kill him, Sissy."
"Oh," she said, obviously unconvinced. "Of course. You have to say that. I know. But I was thinking and I finally figured it out, why you had me go to the Sweeney on the fourth of November. You were trying to protect both me and Julia at the same time."
"No I wasn't. I was planning to meet you there, but my other plans ..."
"I know. That's what you said, with Joe Kellogg. But I wanted to tell you I knew, so you could tell me if you did. Kill Arthur, I mean."
"I didn't."
A knowing smile. "Okay, Morgy. No big deal. Really. I didn't mean for you to get upset." She let her generous body fall back onto the leather again. "But no rug over me anymore, okay. I really am hot, Morgy. So hot I may need that big old fire extinguisher pretty soon."
"It's my civic duty, Janie. I know it's a little bit of a hardship, but--"
"It ain't no little bit of nothing, Jack." Janie knew that her husband Jack Powell hated it when she talked "black," and this was why she was doing it now. She was angry angry angry, and she wanted him to know it without a doubt. "This ain't likely no little bit" she repeated, and then reverted back to her normal diction. She was, after all, making an argument here, and she wasn't going to win by making her husband mad. "Really, Jack. This is a big bit of a problem for us. How are we supposed to get by when you're making eight dollars and forty-five cents a day on this jury duty? Who knows for how long? And how's our new shop that we've worked and saved and slaved for going to have any kind of fighting chance if you're not here to work it?"
Jack had come to his place of business--Jaksnakshak--directly from the courtroom after the Hightower trial had adjourned for the day, and now he stood in his shirtsleeves behind the deli case. Thirty-three years old, he was six feet two inches tall and weighed 220 pounds, all of it muscle.
