'No.'
'Then they won't think the killing was drug-related, unless they figure it for a case of mistaken identity, and maybe that's what it was. It doesn't matter. Either way they'll handle it by the book and run down whatever leads they've got. My guess is they'll find the shooter and close the case.'
'I hope so. Matt? Why should it matter to me? It's not going to bring him back.'
'No.'
'And it's not like I've got this thirst for revenge. I don't hate the man who killed Byron. For all I know he did him a favor. He was at peace, Matt. He treasured each day, but I already said that, didn't I?'
'Yes.'
'He was still able to get out of the house. He could still go to meetings. He had to use a cane, but he would walk the few blocks to Perry Street, and there was always somebody who would give him a seat.
That was the other good thing about AIDS, he said. No worries about skin cancer, and you didn't have to get to Perry Street an hour early to get a good seat. He could joke about it, all of it. I guess it's bad when you can't.'
'I guess so.'
'There was a friend of mine at work. When he couldn't come to work anymore I used to visit him. Until I couldn't take it anymore. It destroyed his mind, but not all at once. He would go in and out of dementia.
I couldn't bear to be around him. It's not as though I was deserting him, he had a lover who was taking care of him, and dozens of friends. I just knew him casually, from the office. Listen to me, will you?
Always having to explain myself.' She stopped to draw a breath. 'I found myself looking for signs of dementia with Byron. But he was spared that.'
* * *
I read the coverage in the newspapers, and I was watching New York One, the local news channel, when Melissa Mikawa did a stand-up in Jackson Square in front of the very bench where Byron Leopold was shot to death. The cameraman provided a shot of his apartment building directly across the street, and Mikawa pointed as the camera panned to indicate the killer's escape route.
Then she went on to something else, and I hit the Mute button and answered the phone. It was Adrian, with a couple of new jokes and the wistful report that, once Will had you in his sights, everybody else wanted to draw a bead on you. 'The Fourth Estate is hot for me,' he said. 'If I had the stomach for it, I could be on the tube eighteen hours a day and spend the rest of my time talking to print reporters. Of course everybody wants to marry a virgin.'
'How's that?'
'They want an exclusive. Remember what the fellow said after they tarred and feathered him and rode him out of town on a rail?'
'Something about honor, wasn't it?'
' 'But for the honor of it, I'd have preferred to leave town in the usual manner.' I may not have it word for word, but since it's an apocryphal story, how could anybody have it word for word? It's nice to be wanted, but I'm finding it easier and easier to say no. Except for McGraw.'
'What did he want?'
'What they all want. An interview.'
He said something else, but I didn't catch it. I was off chasing an errant thought, trying to run it down. I said, 'No private meetings.'
'Come again?'
'I wouldn't see anyone,' I said, 'without your bodyguards present in the room.'
'Not even a fat old newspaperman, eh?'
'Not even the cardinal.'
'Really? There's something about the guy that inspires confidence.
I guess it's the red hat, makes him look like one of the Guardian Angels.'
He laughed and I laughed with him, and he told me to relax. 'The cardinal hasn't called,' he said, 'and Marty didn't want a meeting, just a phoner. Five minutes of my time, and could I please hand him something his and his alone that he could make a column out of. I don't think I gave him anything, but he can always spin a column out of thin air. He's done it often enough in the past.'
We told each other good-bye and I hung up the phone and turned off the TV without finding out what the silent figures were chattering about. I had an idea, and I sat there and let myself play with it. It seemed farfetched, and it struck me as something the police would have long since ruled out, but you never know. If nothing else, it gave me something to do.
* * *
As it turned out, a few hours on the telephone put me right back at square one. You couldn't say it was pointless, in that I was now able to let go of a stray thought that had come my way, but neither could I get much feeling of accomplishment out of it.
Meanwhile Marty McGraw did manage to conjure up a column out of what Adrian had given him, a ruminative piece on the pluses and minuses of celebrity status. Another columnist in the same paper started out musing on the fate of Byron Leopold, but after a paragraph or two he went on to something else, and so did I. I could hardly claim close ties with Byron, I hadn't even known his last name, and the apprehension of his murderer was the responsibility of the fellows at the Sixth Precinct.
They could handle it just fine without any help from me.
