through the newsroom: Stone has a crackpot theory that Randall didn't jump. But Leo signed on; what the hell does that mean? He's probably just humoring her. Because, you know, of her and Harry. Leo? You must be crazy. Then Jesselson's piece ran this morning, and agnosticism replaced atheism: might be something there, I mean, Leo's got Jesselson on it, too, let's see what comes next.
Leo grunted, a sign he'd heard Laura and that was all for her. But before he could draw down on his next target, words from the other side of the room: “Laura? Write this down.” Hugh Jesselson, rumpled in gray slacks and wrinkled white shirt, propped up the far wall. “Angelo Zannoni. Sergeant, retired, 124.” Glancing at a three-by- five card in his hand, he pounded out a phone number. Laura scribbled it down, then looked at him inquiringly. “Arresting officer,” he said. “Mark Keegan, 1979. Expecting your call.”
Laura smiled. “Thanks, Hugh.”
Jesselson shrugged. “Thanks for yesterday.”
A snicker wiggled around the room. Laura flushed. Jesselson's mouth turned up at the corner, which didn't help.
It had been Laura's idea to run this morning's story on the investigation of Harry's death under Hugh Jesselson's byline. “We can make it look like the cops care. Maybe scare someone out of the woodwork. Let Hugh have it,” she'd argued to Leo. He sat lodged behind his desk, rendered as close to wordless as she'd ever seen him by the spectacle of a reporter offering a front-page byline to someone else.
Jesselson, summoned by sapphire, read her copy. “Doesn't sound like me,” he'd objected.
“Rewrite it,” ordered Leo.
So he had, and Hugh Jesselson, after eight years with the
Meeting concluded, reporters and editors went back to work. Laura dropped into her chair and dialed the number Jesselson had given her.
Four rings, then a growled “Hello.”
“Angelo Zannoni?”
“Who the hell is this?”
“Mr. Zannoni, I'm Laura Stone of the
“He suggest you call me at suppertime?”
Laura glanced up to the newsroom clock. The hour hadn't occurred to her, and in the face of the important work she was trying to accomplish, she was surprised to find time mattering to anyone.
“I'm sorry if—”
“Yeah, sure. You want to come out here?”
“Yes. Yes, if that would be—”
“1491 Fitzgerald, Pleasant Hills. Think you can find it?”
“Yes, I—”
“I'm here.”
Laura took the receiver from her ear, replaced it on its console. She might as well; Zannoni had already hung up.
MARIAN'S STORY
Chapter 10
“It was Jimmy, wasn't it?”
For the second time since she'd entered Flanagan's, Marian felt conversations stopping and eyes turning their way. This time she was wrong, though, and she knew it immediately. The beat of the music continued, the talk and the laughter. No one had heard her words but Tom; no one's eyes burned, no one stared silently, but Tom.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“It was Jimmy who killed Jack.” She'd never said this before, though she had somehow always known it, known it since Jimmy stumbled, wordless, through the first numb days, sweated and could not lie still beside her through the first sleepless nights. She had known it and never said it and now she was terrified that dragons and fire- spitting serpents would come screaming down from the sky, that the enclosing, sheltering walls would crash down and bury her in endless, crushing darkness.
“You're shivering.” Tom's hand was on hers. What would Vicky think? Marian wondered, absurdly. But Vicky and Tom weren't together anymore, hadn't been for years, so why would it matter? She'd just slip her hand out, pretend she wanted to lift her wine to her lips (and drinking wine was not a bad idea right now, her glass was almost empty, where was the waitress so she could order another?); or she could turn her cold palm to Tom's warm, strong one and hold tight to him, and that was what she did.
“Marian . . .”
He said no more. She reached for her wineglass with her free hand. As she took an emptying sip, Tom signaled the waitress and another was on the way.
“Marian, why are you saying this?”
