We reached St. James and pulled up next to Frank’s old Volvo.
“You be careful, Irene,” Rachel said as I got out of the car. “Frank told me about last night. Call if you need us — don’t go wandering around on your own, okay?”
I thanked them and said good-bye. As they drove off, I could see them through the car’s rear window, having one of their typical conversations — both talking at once, gesturing to one another. It’s a wonder they didn’t wreck the car.
21
WHEN PETE CALLED ME that afternoon, I was working on two different versions of the election story. In one, Montgomery won; in the other, Henderson. I left a couple of open paragraphs at the beginning for victory or concession speeches, vote tallies, and quotes. But the rest of each article would capsulize what had been written about the race in the last few months: background on the candidates, highlights of the campaigns, analysis of their areas of support.
“Got the registration on that limo,” Pete said. “Our boys were interested in this too. It belongs to Malcolm Gannet Enterprises. Carlson will not be thrilled if he finds out I told you that.”
“Malcolm Gannet. Well, what do you know.” Gannet was a real estate developer. His group had changed the skyline along Shoreline Boulevard, and he had made a mint doing it. Mrs. Fremont had been actively antidevelopment, fighting a largely hopeless battle to preserve some of the examples of the 1920s and 1930s architecture of downtown Las Piernas.
“Something else, Irene.”
“What?”
“I talked to Hernandez about the little door prize you got last night.”
I braced myself. Dr. Carlos Hernandez was the coroner. “And?”
“And it’s definitely a human heart. Human blood, too.”
“Oh. Well, I guess I knew it would be.”
“Sure. But the logical conclusion is, whoever it belongs to ain’t doing so hot right now. So until we figure out who put it on your doorstep, you better watch out. Are you listening to me, Irene?”
“I’ve heard every word.”
“Yeah, but I know you. Hearing is not enough. Listen, for once. I know you want to get nosy about this, Irene, but it just isn’t smart. We can handle it.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Look, you don’t see me walking down there and trying to be a reporter. So don’t you go trying to be a cop, okay?”
“They’re just trying to scare me, Pete.”
“So be scared, would you?”
“It makes me angry.”
“Crimeny. You got anger? Go see a shrink. And while you’re there, ask him why you don’t have the sense God gave a rabbit!”
“Pronunciation needs some work,” he said grumpily. “So you want it in Italian?
“Okay, thanks.”
“Shit. I’m wasting my breath.”
“Probably.”
“Shit.”
“Bye, Pete. I’ll be careful.”
I went back to my stories. Stacee and I also put a piece together on GOTV or “get out the vote” workers. Those folks who call you two dozen times on election night to make sure you voted. We were covering the system, from the professional campaign consultants to the leagues of volunteers who do everything from going door to door over a precinct or two to driving people to their polling places. We filed that story in the late afternoon.
I had some time to kill before going down to Cliffside, so I tracked down our real estate editor, Murray Plummer. Murray is the Clark Kent of real estate writers. With his baby face and oversized glasses, he looks like he just got out of a high school physics class. But he always manages to keep up with — if not one step ahead of — the wild and woolly world of commercial real estate in our town. He has published stories about deals before the principals have finished reading each other’s faxes. I’ve often wondered how well his abilities could be used in other kinds of reporting, but he will have none of it. He loves his work.
His section comes out three times a week, so when I found him, he was finishing up material that would run in Thursday’s paper.
“Hello, Irene. Where’ve you been lately?”
“Election time, Murray. You know where I’ve been.”
“I guess I do, and I don’t envy you. Take a look at this copy — what do you think? We’re featuring the Sheffield Project on Thursday.”
“That’s the one someone wants to put up over by the cliffs? Where the old Sheffield Estate used to be?”
“Yes, they plan a luxury hotel.”
“Is it a done deal?”
