The Homicide Report: A Nell Matthews Mystery (InterMix) Page 4

  “Whew,” I said. “Wes gave you the full tour. Impressed?”

  “Mystified.”

  “Mystified? What do you mean?”

  “The pressroom supervisor and the building manager have both told us they don’t see how Martina’s accident could be accidental. And if the system works the way they say it does, I don’t see how it could be, either.”

  I stared at Mike. Then I laughed.

  “You’re joking, Mike!”

  He shook his head.

  I laughed again. “But who would want to harm Martina?”

  “According to you, everybody who knew her.”

  “That’s silly! True, any one of the reporters or editors might yell at her—she’s absolutely maddening—but none of the pressmen even know her. And they’re the only ones who would know how to pull this particular stunt.”

  “You know a lot about the press. I’ll bet people who’ve been in the newspaper business longer than you have know even more.”

  “Probably so. But, Mike, it’s out of character. None of us likes her, true. I suppose someone might go berserk and hit her with a—a dictionary or something. But laying a trap for her—it just doesn’t seem possible.”

  Mike was still frowning. “I guess she’s safe at the hospital,” he said.

  I took his hand. I led him to the stairs, and I stepped up one, then turned to face him. Since Mike is ten inches taller than I am, this position brought us almost nose to nose.

  “I’ve got to go upstairs,” I said. “May I have a good-bye kiss?”

  “If you’ll promise to be careful,” Mike said. “Stay out of that basement ladies’ room and other lonely spots. Let’s make sure the Gazette doesn’t harbor a mad maniac with a yen for smothering copy editors.”

  “The Phantom of the Hellhole? Do you suppose he wears a mask?”

  Mike moved against me and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “As long as he doesn’t play the organ.”

  Then he got down to the business of saying good-bye. After a few minutes, Mike looked at his watch over my shoulder. “I don’t do my best work under a deadline,” he said. “And you’ve got to get back.”

  “I know.” We held each other. “Listen,” I said. “I forgot to make my bed this morning. Mind if I use yours tonight?”

  “If you won’t be lonesome. I won’t get home until sometime after seven.”

  “You could nudge me when you come in, and I could fix you some scrambled eggs. If I’m still sleepy, I could go back to bed. Or something.”

  I could tell Mike was responding positively to that idea. “Do you have your garage door opener?”

  I nodded.

  “Then it’s a date.” He peeked at his watch again. “I guess I’d better leave.”

  I leaned forward for one more kiss, but then I jumped back. Over Mike’s shoulder I could see that the door at the other end of the hall—the door to the Hellhole—was swinging open.

  I managed to be several steps up by the time J.J. Jones came through it.

  Mike and I nodded to him, then walked sedately on up the stairs. I opened the door to the hall, crossed the back landing and let Mike out into the alley. I could see Mike’s black pickup on the ground level of the parking garage.

  We said another good-bye—one appropriate for viewing on the security camera over our heads. Then the door closed behind Mike, and I turned to go back upstairs.

  But J.J. Jones was coming out onto the landing, and he spoke. “Miz Matthews? Can I consult you about a problem?”

  I glanced at my watch. “If it’s not a serious problem. I was due in the newsroom ten minutes ago.”

  He frowned. “Well, it might take a few minutes. Will you be takin’ another break this evenin’?”

  “If I find time. Why?”

  “Well”—he turned it into two syllables—“Miz Nell, I jes’ wanted to ask you a coupla questions about the Grantham po-lice.”

  “I’ve been off that beat since November. Just what did you want to know?”

  He cleared his throat with a sound like molasses pouring over magnolias. “Jes’ some background information I told an advertiser I’d dig out. It’s a mite complicated. If you take a break, when would it be?”

  “I often don’t get around to taking one, J.J. If we’re busy.”

  “I know, and they keep y’all as busy as three windmills in a tornado.”

  I laughed, even though I was beginning to feel as if I was getting the treatment J.J. gave his ad clients. “Well, as my old granny used to say, I’d better get back to my rat killing,” I said. “If I get a break, it’ll be in a couple of hours.”

  “I’ll be in the break room, hopeful as a young boy on his first date, Miz Nell.”

  He almost bowed as I turned and walked rapidly away. I shoved him out of my mind. And I pushed down the strange remarks Martina had made under the influence of blanket wash. I simply didn’t have time to think about Martina or J.J. Jones right then. I knew Jack Hardy would be wondering where his copy editor was.

  Back up in the newsroom, a couple of reporters wanted a firsthand account of what had happened to Martina. But Jack shooed them away. The “proof” file, the computer category for local stories, was full. I worked pretty hard for the next hour and a half.

  The only break came when Ruth called Jack from the hospital. As Mike had predicted, Martina was improving rapidly.

  “Ruth says they may let her out in an hour or so,” Jack said. “Ruth’s going to hang around to take her home. So I’m in charge until the presses roll tonight.”

  “You’re doing fine,” I said. “I’m nearly caught up. I’d hate for Ruth and Martina to find out we can manage without them.”

  Then the next bombshell hit.

  I saw it coming as soon as the door to the back stairs opened. Bob Johnson—the short, broad pressman who’d been glaring at Mike and me—shot into the newsroom, aimed toward the copy desk.

  Chapter 4

  I watched Bob come. He was short but hulking, with broad, muscular shoulders and forearms like Popeye.

  The pressmen rarely come into the newsroom. It’s not off limits or anything, but it’s three flights up from their basement hideaway, and they usually don’t have anything to do up there. If the newsroom and the press room interact, the interaction is usually down in the break room and takes the form of a casual nod. Or else it’s by phone and takes the form of editors yelling about color quality or pressmen screaming about missed deadlines.

  However, I knew Bob Johnson, because I’d once interviewed him. Bob Johnson was president of a middle-aged motorcycle touring group, and the members had gotten all bent out of shape over something we’d run about motorcycle gangs and crime. To soothe them I was given the assignment of writing their organization up and explaining to the public that not everybody on a Harley was a hoodlum. I guess I’d done all right, because since that time Bob Johnson had thought we were friends.

  He was about as tall and about as big around as a full-sized roll of newsprint. I didn’t know if he lifted weights or hoisted his Harley with one hand or what, but Bob was a mass of muscle, topped off with a round head and black hair. He had always gone out of his way to speak to me and tell me jokes. That’s why I had been so astonished earlier that evening when he glared and snarled at Mike and me when we toured the pressroom.

  I remembered that one of the original atomic bombs had been nicknamed “Little Man.” As I watched Bob come toward me, he looked like five feet, four inches of nuclear destruction headed in my direction. Crew cut bristling, he marched toward my desk, face grim as death, brows beetled, and anger in every swing of his arms. He stopped in front of my terminal.

  “What’s this crap about negligence?” he said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your detective boyfriend claimed that a box of rags had been left in that back hall. Ed Brown thinks that was the cause of Martina Gilroy’s accident.”

  “Bob, I don’t know what happened. I do know that whe
n Mike and I smelled the fumes, we looked back there, and there was a heap of rags—those red industrial rags—right in front of the door to the lounge. They looked as if they’d fallen out of a box that was lying on its side.”

  “Well, where have those rags gone? Where did that box go?”

  “I don’t know. Mike covered the rags up with the box, but we left them. We concentrated on getting Martina and ourselves out of there. The fumes were about to overpower us, too.”

  “There are always fumes in that part of the basement when they’re using blanket wash!”

  “I know. So maybe Martina lay down in her cubby hole, thinking, ‘Gee, the blanket wash smells strong tonight.’ She could easily have drifted off to sleep and not realized the smell was getting stronger and stronger.”

  “I was in charge of cleaning the press, and there was no box of rags left out in that hall!”

  I was beginning to get really mad. “If it wasn’t there, Bob, how come I saw it?”

  “Are you sure—”

  I cut him off before he could finish the question. “Yes, I’m sure of what I saw! And of what I smelled! And, yes, Mike saw and smelled it, too.”

  Bob glared. “The rags weren’t there by the time I ran back to check. And that wasn’t more than five minutes after this rescue the big hero claims to have made!”

  “Mike sure didn’t haul Martina out of there on his back just to show off his muscles!”

  “You and your boyfriend made up that part about the rags to get me in trouble!”

  “Bob!” Now I was getting loud. “What conceivable reason would Mike and I have to want to get you in trouble?”

  “That’s what I want to know!”

  That’s when Arnie entered the fray.

  He popped up suddenly, almost between Bob and me, and he looked so mad I thought he was going to punch one of us out.

  “Listen, you!” He stabbed a finger at Bob. “What the hell do you mean, coming up here and yelling at Nell? Hit the road, buster!”

  I was absolutely astonished. I hadn’t seen Arnie coming, and I wasn’t very happy to see him arrive.

  I jumped up, sending my chair rolling, and yelled.

  “Cut it out! Both of you. Bob, lay off! Arnie, butt out!”

  I don’t know if I was loud and authoritative, or if Arnie had surprised Bob into silence. But neither of them said anything. We all stood there and looked at each other.

  The police scanner crackled, and I realized that the newsroom had become completely silent. The few people there that late were staring at us, craning their necks around partitions and rolling their chairs into the aisles for a better view.

  “We’re acting like some stupid situation comedy,” I said. I sat down and stared at my VDT’s screen. “I have to get back to work.”

  From the corner of my eye I saw that Arnie had turned red, clear to the top of his bald head. But he didn’t move. Bob Johnson ignored Arnie. He leaned over the top of my VDT and spoke ominously. “If you and your cop boyfriend found a box of rags in that hall—and they disappeared by the time I went to look for them—then somebody put them there on purpose and then took them away. That would mean what happened to Martina Gilroy wasn’t an accident.”

  He pivoted like a robot and marched stiffly out of the newsroom, leaving inky footprints.

  Arnie muttered a few words. The only one I caught was “Sorry.” Then he went away, still red from shirt collar to crown.

  I stared at the VDT and pretended I was reading copy. I felt completely humiliated, and I wasn’t sure why. I hadn’t started the fracas, but I thought I had been holding up my end. I didn’t know if I was madder at Bob Johnson for coming up there and yelling at me or at Arnie for interfering.

  What gave him the idea that I needed help fighting with a pressman?

  I heard Jack Hardy giggle. Despite his recent promotion to assistant city ed, Jack’s one of our goofier staff members—outwardly. When it comes to noticing what’s missing from a story, he’s tack-sharp, but he has a nervous snicker that sounds as if he’s just heard a dirty joke. He used it now.

  “What’s eating Bob? Does he think he’ll be blamed for Martina’s accident?”

  “I don’t know what’s going on. And I don’t really care. One of the names in this United Way story looks crazy. Do we have a list of Grantham social services?”

  “Look in Martina’s files.” Jack dug through a rack of manuals, directories, and loose sheets on Martina’s desk and pulled out a red-backed book. “Here’s the Grantham Community Directory. That’s as close as we come.”

  The reporter had spelled an agency director’s name almost right, the equivalent of being a little bit pregnant. Just as I found the correct version, Jack spoke again. “Have you read the story about the homicide in Audleyville?”

  “No.” I turned back to the proof file.

  “Give it a look-see. I’m not sure what Arnie made of it.”

  I opened the file and read the story. “Well, it’s okay,” I said. “Of course, Arnie’s new around here. He didn’t know to call the Highway Patrol.”

  “Get him to rewrite.”

  I buzzed Arnie’s phone, in the police reporters’ pod of desks. No answer. So I punched the extension for the break room and asked for him. He came to the phone immediately.

  “Arnie Ashe.”

  “Arnie, this is Nell. You need a little more background on this Audleyville homicide.”

  “Be right up.” The phone went dead. Arnie hadn’t argued or asked to finish his cigarette. Good. And he hadn’t acted huffy because of our argument. Good again. Arguing or getting hurt feelings—that’s one mark of an amateur to me.

  When Arnie came in the door from the stairwell two minutes later, he walked straight to my desk. “What’s the problem?”

  “Your story’s fine, Arnie, but you don’t know the trash on Audleyville.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Audleyville’s traditionally the spot where Grantham gangs bury the bodies. So if they find a body down there—and it seems like they’re always finding one—you need to ask about gang connections.”

  He nodded. “I’ll call the sheriff’s office back.”

  “Don’t bother. They’ll never tell you anything. Or they wouldn’t ever tell me anything. They’re very touchy down at Audleyville. But the Highway Patrol supervisor for that district is one of the good guys. He’s usually ready to talk. His name is Doc Blaney, and you can find him through the troop office.”

  “Got it.”

  “Tell him I sent you. And tell him I want to know how his son’s getting along in college.”

  Arnie grinned widely and went away chuckling. I didn’t know just what I’d said that was so funny. But at least Arnie seemed to be over his fit of poking into my business. I was relieved. We had to work together whether we annoyed each other or not. Bob Johnson I could ignore. Arnie I couldn’t.

  In twenty minutes, Arnie had an improved story that hinted at gangland connections and cited previous killings with similar M.O.’s in the Audleyville area. I deduced that he’d not only called Doc Blaney, but had also gone to the Gazette library for background. He stood at my left shoulder while I read the story.

  “Good job!” I said.

  Arnie chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?” I said.

  “Oh, nothing.” But he was still grinning. “Doc Blaney says his son made the dean’s list.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Nell, I owe you an apology. And I have a few questions about the cop beat. When you take a break, let me buy you a Coke and pick your brain.”

  “Sure. In fact—Jack, would this be a good time for me to take a break?”

  Jack was on the phone again, but he checked the proof file with one eye and nodded. So I followed Arnie down the back stairs.

  “I don’t know why we don’t take the elevator,” I said.

  “This is the only exercise I get,” Arnie said. “That and shuffling cards.”

&
nbsp; “At least you should have nimble fingers. And knees.”

  As we entered the break room, I saw J.J. Jones. He was sitting near the back door. I’d forgotten all about him.

  “Rats,” I said.

  “What’s the matter?” Arnie asked.

  “I’m so popular tonight that I forgot I already promised to talk to somebody on my coffee break.” I waved at J.J. “One of the ad guys. I’ll see what he wants. In fact, he wanted to talk about the Grantham P.D. We can sit with him.”

  “He’s in the non-smoking section.” Arnie’s voice had an annoyed edge. He pulled change from his pocket. “Diet Coke? Is that what you were having earlier?”

  “Sure.”

  I filled a styrofoam cup with ice and turned toward J.J. Or rather, I turned toward where J.J. had been. He was no longer there.

  “What is the deal?” I could tell that my voice sounded annoyed. “The guy says he needs background on the Grantham P.D. for some advertiser. Then, when I’m ready to talk to him, he runs out.”

  In fact, to do his disappearing act J.J. would have had to run out the back door, out the door that led to the Hellhole. The door I was now thinking of as Martina’s door. The door he had avoided earlier in the evening.

  “Did you particularly want to talk to him?” Arnie asked.

  “No. He wanted to talk to me. And now he’s gone.”

  “Strange.” Arnie shrugged indifferently, then handed me the Diet Coke can and put money in the coffee machine. “Do you mind sitting in the smoking section?”

  We sat, drank our drinks, and talked about the Grantham P.D. I gave him a brief rundown on the recent scandal in the Amalgamated Police Brotherhood, the local police union, which had resulted in the suicide of a member of the force and other excitement. Then we discussed the department’s recently appointed public information officer, who—so far—didn’t know from up. The cop reporters were trying to get him trained.

  While we talked, Arnie kept fingering the deck of cards in his shirt pocket.

  After about ten minutes I pointed at the deck. “I don’t mind if you play sol while we’re talking.”

  “It’s a dumb habit,” he said. “But it keeps me to two cigarettes per break. And sometimes it helps me think.”