Silent Partner

I drank coffee. “No.”

“Then what’s so personal?”

“You’re a very nosy young lady.”

“Goes with the territory, Dr. Delaware. And if it’s so dangerous, how come it’s okay for you to snoop?”

“I’ve got police connections.”

“Police connections? That’s a laugh. The cops are the ones covering up. I found out- through my connection- that they’ve done a total Watergate on Ransom. All the forensic records have disappeared- it’s as if she never existed.”

“My connection’s different. Outside the mainstream. Honest.”

“That gay guy from the molester case?”

That caught me by surprise.

She looked pleased with herself. A minnow swimming happily among the barracudas.

I said, “Maybe we can cooperate.”

She gave me something-intended to be a hard, knowing smile. “Ah, back-scratching time. But why would I want to deal?”

“Because without dealing, you’ll get nowhere- that’s a promise. I’ve uncovered some information you’ll never be able to get hold of, stuff that’s useless to you in its present form. I’m going to follow it up. You’ll have exclusive rights to whatever I come up with-if going public’s not hazardous to our health.”

She looked outraged. “Oh, that’s just great! It’s okay for big strong brave to go hunting but squaw must stay in teepee?”

“Take it or leave it, Maura.” I began clearing the cups.

“This stinks,” she said.

I waved goodbye. “Then go do your own thing. See what you come up with.”

“You’re boxing me in and pulling a power trip.”

“You want to be a crime writer? I’m offering you a chance- not a guarantee- to get a crime story. And live long enough to see it come to print. Your alternative is to barrel ahead like Nancy Drew, in which case you’ll either end up being fired and sent home on a supersaver flight, or shipped back in the baggage hold in the same physical state as the Kruses and their maid.”

“The maid,” she said. “No one talks about her.”

“That’s ’cause she’s expendable, Maura. No money, no connections- human garbage, straight to the compost heap.”

“That’s crude.”

“This is no teenage sleuth fantasy.”

She tapped her foot, chewed a thumbnail.

“Put it in writing?” she said.

“Put what in writing?”

“That we have a deal? A contract? I have first dibs on your info?”

“I thought you were a journalist, not an attorney.”

“Rule one: cover your ass.”

“Wrong, Maura. Rule one is never leave tracks.”

I carried the tray into the kitchen. The phone rang. Before I could get to it, she’d picked up the living room extension. When I came back she was holding the phone and smiling. “She hung up.”

“Who’s ‘she’?”

“A woman. I told her to hold on, I’d get you. She said forget it, sounded angry.” Cute smile. “Jealous.” Shrug. “Sorry.”

“Very classy, Maura. Is total lack of manners part of your job training?”

“Sorry,” she said, looking, this time, as if she meant it.

A woman. I pointed to the door. “Goodbye, Ms. Bannon.”

“Listen, that really was rude. I am sorry.”

I went to the door and held it open.

“I said I was sorry.” Pause. “Okay. Forget about the contract. I mean if I can’t trust you, a piece of paper would be worthless, wouldn’t it? So I’ll trust you.”

“I’m touched.” I turned the doorknob.

“I’m saying I’ll go along.”

I said, “Back-scratching time?”

“Okay, okay, what do you want in return?”

“Three things. First, a promise to back off.”

“For how long?”

“Until I tell you it’s safe.”

“Unacceptable.”

“Have a nice day, Maura.”

“Shit! What do you want!”

“Before we go on, let’s be clear,” I said. “No drop-ins, no eavesdropping, no cute stuff.”

“I got it the first time.”

“Who’s your contact at the coroner’s? The person who told you about the missing file.”

She was shocked. “What makes you think he- or she- is at the coroner’s?”

“You mentioned forensic data.”

“Don’t assume too much from that,” she said, struggling to look enigmatic. “Anyway, no way will I divulge my sources.”

“Just make sure he- or she- cools it. For personal safety.”

“Fine.”

“Promise?”

“Yes! Was that Two?”

“One-B. Two is tell me everything you’ve learned about the connection between Ransom and Kruse.”

“Just what I’ve told you. The dissertation. He was her supervisor. They had an office together in Beverly Hills.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

I studied her long enough to decide I believed her.

She asked, “What’s Three?”

“What was the dissertation about?”

“I told you I’ve only skimmed it.”

“From what you’ve skimmed.”

“It was something on twins- twins and multiple personalities and, I think it was, ego integrity. She used a lot of jargon.”

“Three is make me a photocopy.”

“No way. I’m not your secretary.”

“Fair enough. Return it where you found it- probably the ed-psych library at the University- and I’ll make my own copy.”

She threw up a hand. “Oh, what the hell, I’ll drop off a Xerox tomorrow.”

“No drop-ins,” I reminded her. “Mail it- express it.”

I wrote down my Fed-Ex number and gave it to her. She stuck it between the pages of the Wambaugh book.

“Shit,” she said. “Are you this authoritarian with your patients?”

I said, “That’s it. We’re in business.”