the meantime, we need to stay ahead on this story.'
'Stay ahead? What do you mean?'
He took another sip and looked at me. And for the first time since I'd known him, Jack O'Donnell looked worried.
'Paulina,' he said.
'What about her?'
'She's selling newspapers.'
'Well, that's her job,' I said. 'From what I hear she just didn't fit at the Gazette. '
'Maybe not,' Jack continued, 'but if the Dispatch beats us to this story, they could see a double digit circulation growth by the end of the year.' I stayed silent. 'What that means, in lay terms, is we'd be fucked.'
I considered this. 'I know the Dispatch' s circulation is up since she joined the paper, but I mean…'
'There's been a three percent swing this week alone,
Henry. Whether it's our reporters getting beat to the punch or her articles attracting our readers, it's happening. These three murders are the biggest story of the year, everyone with a pen and a brain trying to get a piece. There's going to be a clear winner and loser here. We need to make sure we're not the ones holding the silver.'
'They weren't beating us to the punch when I reported
Athena's murder the morning she died,' I said, my voice coming out angrier than I'd hoped.
'That was days ago, Henry,' Jack said. He sighed, sank into the couch. 'Since then it's neck and neck. Nobody is getting new scoops. So it comes down to juice, plain and simple. Paulina has it, we don't. People want salacious stories, headlines in bold, and photos of celebrities in bikinis. Only thing that can distract them from that is real, honest-to-God news. And until we get that, we're going to get creamed every day. If two people are tied during the race, everyone stares at the one wearing flashier clothing.'
'I prefer jeans,' I said.
'Don't be a smart-ass. And listen, Henry, you should be aware of it…Paulina knows you were at the crime scene today. Knew it before we did, actually.'
'What-how is that possible?'
'I think she has some chumscrubber tailing you. But she's mentioning it in tomorrow's article on the Lourdes murder, claiming you always find yourself at the scenes of brutal crimes. Between Fredrickson, Mauser, your quote being found at Athena's crime scene and being seen talking to a witness today, she's got enough paint on her brush to level some pretty brash accusations.'
'That was a coincidence. I was talking to a friend. Any decent reporter would have done the same thing.'
'A friend. You mean the cop.'
'Yes, a cop friend, Curt Sheffield.'
'I know Curt. Seen that recruiting poster everywhere but my refrigerator.'
'Whatever,' I said. 'Bottom line is I have a lead on a hell of a story.'
'You know, I thought you might.'
'That gun, the one the killer is using, there's a reason he's using it. I'm going to find out what that is. Paulina doesn't have that. Combine that with this new quote, it's going to fit somewhere.' I sat there silent. Watched Jack rattle his empty glass.
Then he stood up, tipped his cap at Amanda, nodded at me.
'Find the story,' Jack said. 'Behind every murder is a motive. The cops don't care about that right now, they just want the man. Motive will come later, once they can be sure there aren't any more high-caliber bullets aimed at anyone's skull. So keep on keeping on.'
'I will.'
'Important work is silent until it needs to be heard. Keep that in mind. Other people want this story, too.' Then he left.
I turned to Amanda. 'Your history professor,' I said. 'You think she's still awake?'
18
The headline read, Head Of Franklin-Rees, Now Without
A Head.
Even I was shocked by the tactlessness and audacity of the
Dispatch' s front page. The lead story, naturally, was the murder of Jeffrey Lourdes, accompanied by a gruesome photo of the man's legs with blood pooling around them. In Technicolor.
The paper neglected to mention how Jeffrey Lourdes had revolutionized the magazine industry in the early seventies with several titles that captured the zeitgeist with aplomb and erudition, how he'd mentored many of the country's most talented writers and journalists from scruffy-haired hipsters to men and women who changed the face of American culture. Instead the Dispatch focused on rumors of money laundering, infidelity, drugs and under- the-table deals. It noted how, over the last decade, Lourdes had been accused of letting his legacy go to seed, eschewing strong journalism for salacious stories and shoddy reportage that his younger self would have thrown in the fire. It also noted how, despite
Lourdes's rumored twenty-million-a-year salary, circulation for Moss was way down, and the magazine had long ago ceded any cultural impact.
They would have had you believe Lourdes was as dirty as they come, a common rat working in an ivory tower.
Our article for the Gazette painted a more accurate, more even picture. Giving Lourdes credit where he deserved it. I expected the Dispatch to kick our asses at the newsstand.
If I didn't know any better, the Dispatch was suggesting that the magazine industry was better off with Jeffrey Lourdes dead.
At the same time, I knew I was on to something, that there was an even bigger story surrounding the deaths of Athena
Paradis, Joe Mauser and Jeffrey Lourdes. I needed to find out why someone had murdered a famous socialite and a publishing magnate, and tried to assassinate a government official mere days apart, and why the killer seemed to be using weaponry and ammunition completely impractical for someone who was smart enough to carry the murders to their grim conclusion.
I'd spent all night poring over the details given by
Lourdes's assistant regarding the gun she saw, the man she saw wielding it, as well as the info Curt Sheffield gave me about the ammunition caliber. At eleven-thirty I'd left a message for Professor Agnes Trimble. I name- dropped
Amanda, her former student, said I needed to talk to her about an important story. She called me back within fifteen minutes.
'I don't have much of a nightlife,' she'd said. If what
Amanda said was true, and she collected firearms, I wasn't totally surprised. But could a college professor help paint a clearer picture of a murder suspect?
I squinted as we walked toward the subway. Agnes was expecting us at eight-thirty sharp. Not much of a nightlife, didn't care much about sleeping in. No wonder Amanda liked her so much.
'So you're sure Trimble isn't just someone who has a strange gun fetish,' I said. 'You really think she can help?'
'No, I just like spending my free time with old teachers,'
Amanda offered. 'Trust me, if this thing has a trigger, she can help. Not that you learned anything at whatever that school was.'
Guess it was that simple.
We took the 4 train down to West Fourth street and headed toward the NYU College of Arts and Sciences, located in downtown Manhattan by Washington Square South.
