may have surfaced suggesting that Sissy James may not be the real killer.”
Jamie Stokes asked Tish to, “Keep us posted.” To which Tish promised, “I’ll be working through the evening on this exclusive breaking story and I’ll have the very latest on 21 at Eleven.”
“We’ll look forward to it,” Bill Callucci said. Swiveling in his chair to take advantage of a new camera angle, he said, “Speaking of confessions, I must confess my weakness for blueberry pie.” It was his segue into TV 21’s coverage of the Bowenville Blueberry Festival.
When Aubrey finished writing her story, Tinker and Bob took her upstairs for another two hours of planning. It was eight o’clock before she came down, sticky with exhaustion. She apologized profusely for stranding me at the paper all day. We drove to Lipini’s for pizza and then at nine started for my house.
When I drive home at night I always take West Tuckman. It’s wide and well-lighted and the neighborhoods for the most part are safe. Aubrey that night took West Apple, which, although a much straighter shot across town, slices through some very iffy neighborhoods. It even intersects with infamous Morrow Street, where the hookers Aubrey wrote about do their business.
While her old Escort looked a lot worse than it drove, I was still nervous and checked the door locks I don’t know how many times. That got on Aubrey’s nerves. “Will you just relax?”
That’s about when the flashing blue lights appeared in the rear-view mirror and Aubrey hissed the f-word. She slowed down until the lights were right behind us, then pulled into an abandoned gas station. We were just two short, dark, rundown blocks from Morrow Street. “Be careful,” I said. “Two years ago some nut pretending to be a cop raped six women before he was caught.”
Aubrey adjusted her mirror and studied the car pulling in behind us. “Looks like the real deal,” she said.
“So did the rapist’s car,” I said.
“Will you just stop it, Maddy? I’ve been going through red lights since we left the paper.”
Aubrey was reacting calmly, though I did notice that she still had the car in gear, to speed off, I suppose, if it wasn’t a real police officer-not that a Ford Escort is actually capable of speeding off.
The officer was suddenly at Aubrey’s door, rapping on her window with his knuckles. She opened her window about three inches. The jibber-jabber of the police radio on his belt calmed me a little, but I still kept my hand on the door latch in case I had to go running into the night and hide in a dumpster or something. “Sorry to say you went through a couple of red lights, ma’am,” the officer said. He was young and chubby and friendly looking. “May I see your license and registration?”
Aubrey dug them out of her purse. The officer thanked her and took them back to his cruiser.
“I’ve been through this routine a billion times,” Aubrey said, finally turning off her engine. “He’ll come back in three minutes and say, ‘Ma’am, this isn’t the best of streets at night, and I know you were probably nervous. So I’m going to let it go. Take West Tuckman next time.’”
“Which you should have,” I said.
Fifteen minutes later we were still waiting and Aubrey was hissing the f-word again.
Another police car pulled in. Its lights were not blinking. The two officers conferred for a minute or two, then strolled side by side to Aubrey’s car. “Would you please step out, Miss McGinty?” the newly arrived officer said. “You too, ma’am.”
We got out. The friendly chubby officer gave Aubrey her license and registration and retreated to his car. We were alone with the new officer.
We recognized him immediately. It was 3rd District Commander Lionel Percy. He was not a tall man but he was muscular. He was wearing his hat but you could see around his temples that his head was shaved. His uniform was impeccable, as if he’d just taken it out of the dry-cleaning bag.
“How lucky can a man get,” he said, “the famous Aubrey McGinty running red lights in my district.”
“Let me guess,” Aubrey answered. “You’re going to put the fear of God in me.”
“It is good to fear God,” he said.
Aubrey smiled and tucked her fingers under her arms defiantly. “Especially when he’s in uniform?”
“Cute,” he said.
“And so are you,” she said, trumping him again.
I could see the frustration in Percy’s eyes. He’d undoubtedly been waiting for this chance to intimidate Aubrey for weeks. Her stories on the police reorganization plan, and then on his district’s prostitution problem, had caused him a lot of grief with the mayor and City Council. And now he had her trapped in an abandoned gas station, on a dark empty night, and lo-and-behold, she was giving back better than he was giving. He must have been going nuts inside.
Percy tried again. “You know Miss McGinty, I’ve been a police officer in this city longer than you’ve been alive-”
“Which ought to bring you pretty close to retirement age,” Aubrey said.
“-and I’ve suffered through my share of newspaper reporters. Squeaky clean white kids from the suburbs. For you, the inner city is just a place to play make-believe. Write about all the shitty things the degenerate city people do to each other. Prove your moral superiority. Make mama and daddy proud. Win a bunch of journalism awards you can roll up and diddle yourself with.”
“That’s pretty much why I do it,” Aubrey said.
“Write what you want, Miss McGinty. The mayor’s going to howl and the council’s going to squeal, and the chief’s going to salute and click his heels. But nothing’s going to happen. Lionel Percy is, and will remain, commander of the 3rd District. And you’ll be left dangling out there all alone, lots and lots of people mad at you.”
Aubrey slowly opened her car door and leaned on it. Even leaning she was taller than Lionel Percy. “And you won’t come riding to my rescue? How disappointing.”
I hurried around to my side of the car. Our doors slammed at the same time. Aubrey put the key in the ignition and closed her eyes. “Please start,” she said.
The Escort did start and we chugged away. “Now wasn’t that something,” Aubrey said coolly. Her long legs were shaking.
Chapter 18
Monday, July 3
Aubrey started calling Marysville at a quarter to eight Monday morning. She was hoping that some efficient soul in the warden’s office would pick up the phone before starting time. She did not want Tish Kiddle talking to Sissy before she did.
At three that afternoon she was still trying to get past the voice mail. At five she finally spoke to a real live person and made her request for a visitation.
TV 21 did a follow-up story on its six o’clock, news. Tish had nothing new, just old footage of Buddy Wing staggering backward into the fake palms. “What are the police saying?” anchorman Bill Callucci asked Tish as she stood in the empty parking lot at the Heaven Bound Cathedral. “Well Bill, in an exclusive interview with TV 21, Hannawa Police Chief Donald Polceznec told us exclusively that his department has no plans to reopen their investigation-at this time.”
“So they might reopen it in the future?” asked anchorwoman Jamie Stokes.
“That’s clearly a possibility,” Tish answered.
“And you’ll keep us posted?” Bill Callucci asked.
“Will do,” answered Tish.
Tish’s lazy reporting delighted Aubrey. Tinker, too.
Aubrey’s story for Tuesday reported that while police stated publicly they had no immediate plans for reopening the case, the Herald-Union had learned that Chief Polceznec had asked the department’s top homicide detective Scotty Grant to review Tim Bandicoot’s statements to see if a further investigation was warranted.
