Exposé: First of the Sally Harrington Mysteries (The Alexandra Chronicles Book 5) Page 6

  I sigh.

  Because I know I will go.

  "Pete?" I ask tentatively, squishing my way through the smelly mud bank in the pair of Wellingtons I always keep in the Jeep. Thank heavens I had thought to spray Cutter's on me, too, because the gnats are swarming around here.

  I look at my watch. Two minutes to noon. I dial my office on my cell phone to see if Pete has left a message. No message.

  I keep going until I'm standing under the old railroad trestle. Years ago a train ran twice a day to and from the quarry to de­liver stone to the main line. That's why the mountains on this side of town look so odd; about a fifth of the mountainsides can be seen in the form of elegant, turn-of-the-century brownstone houses on the west side of Manhattan.

  I look around. There are the remains of fires and beer cans. Graffiti is spray-painted on the concrete reinforcements of the trestle.

  And then I see it. A body. Lying on the other side of the tres­tle.

  8

  I don't recognize the dead man. He looks to be around forty­-five, heavyset, black hair with a little gray. His eyes are brown; 1 can see that because they are wide open.

  Someone shot him in the chest and left him there, on his back, eyes wide open, staring up at the sky. He is most definitely dead.

  I call Devon and tell him to get up here. Then I call the police.

  One of the more gruesome aspects of writing for the paper of a small city is that death is big news and so we are sent to any unnatural deaths the city desk hears about. You can't imagine how much mangled human carnage I've seen in the last two years on the interstate highways that run through Castleford­—91, 15 and 84—and so, in an odd way, looking at this dead body is a lot easier because it's at least intact. (I miss working at Bou­levard, where the closest we ever got to death was the photo morgue.)

  At this point, I guess, a dead body doesn't upset me the way it should. It is, to me, the mere shell left behind after the spirit has moved on to the next phase. (I do believe that; I sense my father "living" on another level somewhere.)

  I respect the police enough not to touch anything, but I do take a very good look at the man while 1 debate whether or not I should tell the police who it was that told me to come here. Why Pete would have killed this man, I can't imagine, but I have a horrible inkling that maybe one of his conspiracy theo­ries finally went terribly awry.

  The guy is wearing a short-sleeved sport shirt; his upper arms are straining the sleeves. He is wearing, like everybody else these days, khakis. He is stocky and strong. He has a gold chain around his neck and is wearing a large gold signet ring with a diamond in it.

  And then I experience a scare. A young voice from behind me gasps and says "Wow!" and I wheel around to see two boys, maybe twelve years old, who have fishing poles over their shoulders. I immediately step between them and the body, holding my arms out, trying to make them back away.

  "This is not something you want to see," I plead, grabbing the t-shirt of the more curious of the two and yanking him back in front of me so he can't see.

  "Is he dead, is he murdered?" he wants to know. His friend, pale beneath his freckles, turns around and is vol­untarily walking away.

  "There's been some kind of accident," I say. "I'm afraid he is dead and the police are coming, boys, so we need to go over there and wait for them."

  "Oh, come on, can't I see?" the one kid persists, trying to get around me again.

  "You can ask the police," I say, pulling him back.

  His friend is now retching in the bushes.

  Gore does not faze the curious one, but the sight of his friend throwing up does, and so, in sympathy, he suddenly bends over and starts throwing up, too.

  So when the police arrive, among the muck and mire and gnats and vomit and blood, we have quite a bit of sorting out to do about who saw what and when and why any of us are at the pond. Devon also arrives and manages to get some pictures be­fore the officers shoo him away; he happily runs back to the pa­per to develop them.

  The police officer in charge is Detective Buddy D'Amico. I know him very well, for we not only went to school together, but he kissed me once in first grade behind the supply-closet door during reading. I tell Buddy the truth immediately, that Pete Sabatino left a number for me to call and when I did, some­body at Casey's Diner told me I was to come here at noon. I came and this, the body, is what I found.

  Buddy looks at me funny and asks me if I'm sure. I say yes.

  By now the police have quarantined the area with yards of yellow police crime scene tape; the state police arrive with the county coroner. The boys are taken home, but Buddy holds on to me and I make some notes while Buddy alternately ignores me and then asks me the same questions over and over again. An assistant D.A. from Doug's office, Patricia Murray, arrives from New Haven. I actually know her fairly well. She asks me some questions.

  It's nearly five o'clock when Buddy lets me go, and only then with a warning that I am not to leave town. Remembering my appointment in New Y or k tomorrow, I beg for permission to go and he gives it, but says he will be checking to make sure I'm back in town by two. Relieved, I walk oft but then Buddy calls my name again and trots over.

  "Look, Sally, if you hear from Pete—"

  "I'll tell him to contact you."

  He smiles slightly. "No, you call me, and we'll come get him."

  "Ah,” I say, and I think, Oh, Pete, what have you done?

  I go back to the office and report in to Al who has already as­signed Joe Bix to another angle of the story. I go into my cubicle to bang out my version of events. Here I am, right in the middle of the biggest story of the year in Castleford, and I am having trouble concentrating because a packet of information about Cassy Cochran is sitting in my in-box. I finally stick it in my briefcase and return to the story at hand.

  It doesn't take long for me to get back into the murder piece. After all, I am a player in this one. Devon stops by and slides an envelope across my desk.

  "The victim?" I ask.

  He nods.

  "Don't tell Al we have it yet,” I murmur, and he nods again, salutes and slides off. I call Buddy D'Amico. "If you had your wish, Buddy,” I say, "how much about the dead guy would you want in tomorrow's paper?"

  "The least amount possible."

  "And what will I get in return if, say, we don't print that he's five foot ten, has black hair with a little gray, is about forty-five, has brown eyes, is stocky and is wearing a gold chain and a gold signet ring with signature diamond in it? And we don't run a picture of the body?"

  "Come on, Sally."

  "Come on, Buddy,” I say.

  He sighs. "How about I'll release his identity to you first. And a picture of him in better days."

  "I'm not sure that's enough, Buddy."

  "You'll be the first to know when we make an arrest?"

  "Done," I tell him. I hang up and revise tomorrow's piece to read, "I found the man's body. At the request of the police, this reporter will withhold a description of the victim until he is identified and his family is notified of his death."

  I'm finally done about seven, my story is put to bed and I am able, at long last, to head home. I have retained a retired neigh­bor, Mr. Quimby (it is always Mr. Quimby, for he is a proper gentleman from Maine and I dare not ask his first name since he has never offered it), to let Scotty out twice a day. If I am going to be very late, he comes over and feeds Scotty and often stays with him for a while, watching TV and allowing the deliriously happy dog to snooze on the couch with him—where Scotty is otherwise never allowed.

  Scotty goes romping outside and I quickly read the fax my lawyer friend has sent me back from L.A. The agreement with Expectations, he says, is fine as worded and far more generous than their standard contract. He wants to know who I'm sleep­ing with.

  After I let Scotty back in the house I sit down at my desk and start reading through the new research packet I have on Cassy Cochran and make some notes. I still haven't decided
whether I will risk driving into Manhattan tomorrow morning for my meeting with Verity Rhodes or take the train.

  The phone rings and I answer.

  "My God, Sal," Doug's voice booms, "you found that body over in Castleford? Why didn't you call me?"

  "Oh, I meant to," I say lamely. I am still digesting an article that says Cassy Cochran's first husband, Michael, had been fired from his job in New York because of excessive drinking. I have also made a note about her father's early death, and the fact that in everything I have read thus far, the cause has never been given.

  "Does anyone know who the victim is?" I ask absently. There is a pause and then he says, "What is the matter with you? You're supposed to be finding out who he is!"

  "I don't have time," I say. "Joe's on it."

  "The biggest story of the year and you're focusing on some crap for Expectations?"

  The hostility and sarcasm wake me up. I guess he's changed his mind about wanting me to work in New York after all. Okay then, I change mine.

  "That's right, Doug," I say, and I hang up on him.

  A little after eleven o'clock, while I am laying out my clothes for tomorrow's appointment, someone knocks on the kitchen door and Scotty goes nuts. I know it isn't Doug (he always comes in the front door) and only as I cross the kitchen do I re­member that there is a murderer running around Castleford and perhaps I should be a little bit careful.

  Well, if Crazy Pete Sabatino murdered the guy in the woods today then I should be extremely nervous, since it is Pete who is pressing his nose against the glass in my kitchen door.

  "Pete," I say, holding Scotty by the collar. Pete pushes the door open and rushes past me to shut off the lights. "Can you close your drapes?" Pete whispers loudly. "They may be watching."

  I think a second. "Sure," I finally say, dragging Scotty with me into the living room and pulling the curtains closed over the picture window and the smaller windows in the dining nook that serves as my office. "It's okay, Pete, you can come out now."

  He darts out from the kitchen, looking around. "Let the dog go."

  "But-"

  "He won't bite me."

  I let Scotty go and, sure enough, after barking furiously for a few moments, he suddenly runs over to the hand Pete offers him and licks it, tail wagging.

  Pete does not look so hot. He is sweaty and pale and dirty. Of course, he is a fugitive from the law. I ask if I can get him some­thing to eat and he is grateful, so I tell him to relax and I go back into the kitchen to fix him a ham-and-cheese sandwich and po­tato chips and a tall glass of water. I bring it back in and urge him to eat first, and while he does, I'm afraid (the creep that I am) I start my voice-activated tape recorder and stick it in the bookcase behind him where he can't see it.

  When he has finished eating, I say, "Well, you've had quite a day. Have you seen the police yet?" He shakes his head vigorously and then scoops up the glass of water to drink thirstily. "They're looking for you. I'm afraid I had to tell them I was out there at Kaegle's Pond to meet you."

  He puts the glass down. "I didn't kill him."

  "I didn't think you did. I just wondered how it happened."

  "They killed him," he says with a straight face. "You know that."

  "Who?"

  "The Masons."

  " Ah." I nod. "Do you know how he was killed?"

  He nods. "5hot with the same gun he was going to use on me. He came to find me at home this morning, only I ducked him."

  "Who?"

  "A man."

  "Can you describe him?"

  "Not really. He was big, though, you know, fat with muscles. I only got a glimpse. He came in a white Dodge Ram van, though, no front plate. That's all I saw before I got out the back of the house."

  "How old was he?"

  "I don't know. But young, beefy."

  "Was your father there?"

  "No; he was at the senior center. It's War Day."

  War Day was when older veterans went to the senior center to talk about World War II or Korea, watch a film or listen to a speaker and then have lunch. There were quite a few WACs and WAVs and Red Cross babes who also attended. It was a lively weekly event.

  "So who do you think the victim is?"

  "I don't know!"

  "And what do you think he was doing there?"

  "Obviously he was waiting to kill me!" he nearly wails.

  "So who killed him?"

  "The guy! Because he couldn't find me and knew he could get me out of the way by framing me for the murder."

  I'm not so sure about that. From his description of the man who came to his house this morning, I strongly suspect that he ended up being the victim, not the assailant. "Okay, Pete," I say patiently, "let's slow down and go over all of this. First of all, why is anyone after you?"

  "Because I know too much, and as long as I didn't say any­thing to anyone that could hurt them, they didn't care."

  "Do you know who any of these people are? I mean, the ac­tual individuals?"

  He thinks for a moment, frowning slightly. "Well I know George Bush is one of the heads of the whole thing."

  Inwardly I groan. "I mean locally, Pete. Are there any indi­viduals you can identify by name?"

  "Well, the Masons," he insists. "The Masonic Temple is right there in the middle of town."

  "Pete," I say, suddenly tired of this, "my father was a Mason and—

  "I know," he says, interrupting me, "that's why it was so bad when they killed him. Those people know something about that."

  "What people?"

  "The ones looking for me."

  I stare at him coldly. "Pete, look, my father died in the flood when the wall of the high-school gym collapsed."

  Pete leans forward. "That's what they want you to think."

  Now I am mad. "And how the hell do you know that?"

  "I just do," he insists. "I've heard things."

  "From who?"

  "Just around," he says.

  I rub my eyes, trying not to lose it. "Okay," I say, lowering my hand, "let's start again. Who came to find you at your house this morning?"

  "A big beefy guy I've never seen before."

  "And who is the dead guy in the woods?"

  "I don't know."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I haven't seen the body!" he cries.

  "So you never went to the woods today?"

  "No."

  I look at him. "So Pete, you sent me out to the woods to meet with the big beefy guy who was chasing you?"

  "No! Yeah." He is perplexed.

  "You wanted me to meet him," I offer. "And find out who he was, and what he wanted, right?"

  He nods vigorously. "Yes. I called you because I knew he would be there. I thought you could talk to him and get to the bottom of this."

  Do I dare ask? I have to. "Get to the bottom of what?"

  "He knew a lot," Pete tells me.

  "Did he know something about my father? Is that why you wanted me to see him?"

  "He knew a lot," Pete whispers, nodding. "I think he knew about the Swissair crash. They couldn't find the bodies in the wreck, remember? I knew where they were. I think he knew, too."

  I narrow my eyes. "The alien vortex."

  "Yeah," he whispers.

  9

  By five-thirty the next morning I have talked Crazy Pete into meeting one of New Haven's better criminal attorneys at the police station. In the meantime he has napped, eaten again and I have filed another story on the murder for the Herald­-American, based on the more sensible things Pete has told me about the victim appearing at his house.

  I shower and dress for my interview with Verity Rhodes. I drive Pete downtown, park in front of the police station, escort him into the lobby, intro­duce him to his attorney, introduce Pete and his attorney to the sergeant on desk duty and announce I will be available to an­swer Detective D'Amico's questions at the paper after one o'clock. Then I jump in my car, stop at Quik Mart for coffee and a Herald-American (that has my
face plastered across the front page: Reporter Finds Murdered Man) and hit the road.

  Driving into New York in the summer is a pain in the neck because it doesn't matter what road you take in Connecticut or New York, all of them are always under construction, night and day, and somebody invariably has an accident and a thousand people always have to stop and look at it. This morning is no exception, and I end up having to call Doug on my cell phone to have him coach me through the surface roads of White Plains, Yonkers and the Bronx to get into Manhattan. (Doug has season tickets to the Knicks and never gets there late.)

  I nose the Jeep into a parking garage (that I cannot believe is twenty-four dol­lars for two hours!) on Fifty-Third Street, walk over to a coffee shop where I order bacon and eggs and then call Castleford for messages.

  "Dear," my mother's voice says, "I hate to sound like a spoil­sport, but do I have to read the paper to learn that my daugh­ter's found a murdered man in the neighborhood?" Pause. I can visualize Mother reading and shaking her head over Devon's pictures of the crime scene. "This is ghastly, just ghastly. How awful. That poor man." Pause. "That poor man's family." She clears her throat. "Well, I just wanted to check on you, Sally, and find out how you are after your ordeal." Pause. "Your brother used to play hockey on Kaegle's Pond. I love you."

  "Mother," I say moments later to her answering machine, "I am just fine. I'm sorry about not calling you, but I'm actually in New York this morning talking to Verity Rhodes about writing that piece for her. I'll be back in Castleford around one and I'll call you. And I love you, too."

  I open my briefcase and try to reread my notes on Cassy Cochran.

  It is not easy to refocus when I am nearly sleepless and my head is churning with visions of murderers and aliens. ("Of course," Doug said to me earlier, "your friend Pete may have simply freaked out and killed the guy.")

  Security at the entrance of the Bensler Building directs me to a large man sitting behind a desk. When I respond to the gen­tleman's query regarding who it is I am here to see by saying, "Verity Rhodes," I swear the guard straightens up a little and smiles

  "I'll check," he promises, and after a quick call he tells me it's okay, I am to go to the thirty-fourth floor, and he slaps a badge into my hand that has my name and a number on it.