He shakes his head. “Nope. I did my job and didn't bother nobody.”
“What about the needle marks on your arms?”
Willie reacts to this, tensing and flaring up. “I never took no drugs. Never.”
This, of course, doesn't make any sense. I saw the marks on the police photographs. “Then where did the marks come from?”
“You know what ‘never’ means? I
We question Willie for another hour, but it basically gets us nowhere. He never saw Denise McGregor before, has no idea what happened that night, but can't believe that he could have killed someone. It's not exactly a compelling case to present to a jury.
I arrive at home to something less than a standing ovation. Tara seems happy enough to see me, wagging her tail and graciously accepting her evening biscuit. Nicole is somewhat more reserved, having not yet gotten over the answering machine incident. I have to admit that I'm not quite over it either, and I double-check all the doors and windows to make sure they are locked.
We eat in, since Nicole doesn't seem anxious to go to a restaurant with the most famous pimp in New Jersey. That's fine with me, since I've got a briefcaseful of work to do. I'm still doing it at one o'clock when I fall asleep on the couch, Tara's head on my thigh. A boy and his dog.
I take stock of the situation the next morning, and I'm not pleased. I've learned almost nothing to help Willie Miller, and the trial is fast approaching. I also have no idea what secrets lie behind the picture and my father's money, nor do I know why I'm being harassed and threatened. So far, so bad.
The one germ of a clue so far is Vince Sanders's mini-revelation that Denise was working on something secretive and exciting to her when she was killed, and that for the first time in her career seemingly didn't take notes. It's not a stunner, but it is interesting and probably worth checking out further. At least until something better comes along.
I go back to Vince Sanders's office, not bothering to stop at the reception desk since I now know the way. I enter through the open door and find Vince throwing paper airplanes into a wastepaper basket. I should teach this guy sock basketball.
“A dedicated journalist,” I marvel, “working tirelessly to preserve the people's right to know.”
He keeps throwing the planes. “Next to the right to hire a hooker, it's one of our most sacred traditions.”
“You know that was a setup,” I lamely respond. “I thought I was helping out a friend.”
“Really? That's too bad. It made a good story. Sold a lot of newspapers.”
“You are a media leech.”
He nods. “Always have been. Always will be. By the way, could you get me a pair of twenty-one-year-old coed twin hookers for tonight? Figure about ten o'clock?”
“No problem. I'll take care of it.”
“Great. And tell them to call me Lord Sanders. No, change that. Dress them in Indian outfits and name them Little Feather and Babbling Brook.”
“Okay.”
“And tell them to call me Chief Broken Rubber.”
“Done. Now you owe me one.”
I take out my father's picture and put it on the desk. “Let's start with this.”
“What about it?” he asks.
I point to my father. “That's my father almost forty years ago. I want to know who the other three are.”
He looks at it for a moment. “No sweat. We'll just run it through our super-duper face computer.”
“This is important,” I tell him. “If my hunch is right, it might even have something to do with Denise's murder.”
He stares at me for a few moments. “I think you're just about the dumbest pimp I've ever met.”
“Thanks for your support.”
I prepare to cajole him to use his sources to check into this further, but I don't have to, since he looks at the picture again and points to the fourth person.
“You know, that guy looks real familiar.”
“Who is it?”
He doesn't answer, just goes to the intercom and presses the button. A female voice asks what he wants.
“Ask Carl to come in, will you?” Then, to me, “Carl will know for sure.”
There's no sense asking Vince who he thinks it is, since Carl's on the way in anyway, and Carl will “know for sure.”
Carl comes in. He's in his late fifties and wears a suit and tie. Isn't anybody in the newspaper business ink- stained anymore?
Vince doesn't bother to introduce me, and Carl doesn't seem to notice I'm even there. Vince hands him the picture.
“Does this guy look familiar to you?” He doesn't even have to tell him which guy he's talking about.
Carl takes out a pair of glasses thicker than the Hubble Telescope. He puts them on and peers at the picture for no more than three seconds.
“He should. I used to work for him. That's Mike Anthony.”
Vince smiles at me triumphantly. “I told you so.”
“Who's Mike Anthony?” I ask.
Vince says, “He used to be an editor at a small paper in Essex County. Let me tell you something, he was a little nuts, but one hell of a newspaperman.”
Carl nods his agreement. “One of the best.”
“Is he retired? Where can I find him now?” I ask hopefully.
Vince says, “At that great newsroom in the sky.”
“Dead?” Why can't we catch a break?
Carl jumps in. “He committed suicide. I think we ran the piece maybe six, seven years ago.”
I look to Vince to understand what piece Carl is talking about. He explains. “Carl runs the obit page. We write them and hold 'em until the person kicks off. Wanna read yours?”
“No, thanks,” I say.
Carl says, “Are you sure? I'm working on it today anyway. I'm adding the pimp thing as the lead.”
“Turns out he denies it,” Vince says.
“Lucky I don't have to include the denial. Dead guys don't sue much.”
Carl laughs at his joke and leaves. I can still hear him laughing as he walks down the hall. I'm glad that my pain can bring some joy into his life.
I ask Vince where I can find Denise McGregor's family, on the off chance that they can tell me something. That's if they agree to talk to the scumbag representing their daughter's killer.
“I think her father lived in South Jersey somewhere; I should be able to get you the address from personnel. I don't think she ever mentioned her mother.”
“Is her father still alive?”
“I don't know, but …” He seems to drift off, lost in thought.
“But what?”
He says, “Maybe it's a coincidence, but I remember Denise asking me a bunch of questions about Mike Anthony. At the time I figured he had offered her a better job, and she was checking him out, deciding whether to take it.”
“Was it around the time that she died?”
He nods. “I think so.”
I pump him for a while, trying to get more information, but he doesn't have any more memory to jog. I feel like he's given me a major piece of the puzzle, though I'm still not sure how it fits in. But one thing I'll bet on: Denise sure as hell
