“Ethan was awesome. He called and whoever answered said Mr. Yeager was with guests-some kind of party he’s having tonight. Ethan says, ‘Yes, I know, I’m supposed to be there now. Please ask Mr. Yeager to come to the phone. Tell him it’s Mr. Harmon from Eden Supply.’”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph…”
“Yeager comes on and Ethan apologizes for getting him to the phone in that way, and quickly gives Yeager this story about how he-Ethan, I mean- was your worst enemy, and everyone on the Express hated Ethan because of what he had done, and how it made him feel sympathy for Yeager, because the Express was so unfair to both of them. If he could stay on staff, he’d try to tell some of these stories about Las Piernas’s past from a perspective Irene Kelly might not like, but he needed a really good interview to do that, and he was hoping Mr. Yeager would grant him that favor.”
“Yeager fell for that?”
“No. But then he kept him on the phone somehow, hinting around about a bunch of stuff, and ended up saying, well, okay, he probably wasn’t going to be able to continue to be a reporter, so he’d have to look for some other way to support himself. Which was too bad, because he was good at interviews and learned things that other people might not know. And oh-that reminded him that Bennie Lee Harmon said Eden Supply was a good company, and that Bennie Lee would give Ethan a reference if Ethan ever contacted his boss. Yeager told him that maybe something could be arranged, but he was entertaining some people this evening.”
“And that was that?” I said, hoping against hope.
“No, Ethan said matters were a little rushed, so Yeager said to come over at eleven, they could talk then.”
“Oh, shit…” I looked at my watch. It was eight-thirty. Still plenty of time to talk Ethan out of this.
“At first I thought he had faked the whole phone call,” she said. “I didn’t believe him-told him Yeager’s butler probably hung up on him two seconds into the call, and I was just hearing more bullshit from him. Ethan got really mad. He said fine, he’d tape-record the whole interview, and he’d get DNA from Yeager if he had to reach across the desk and stab him with his pen to do it.”
I resisted my own impulse to do the same to her. “Where is he now?”
“I’m not sure, but I think he’s at his place.”
“Do you know Ethan’s home phone number?”
“Not by heart, but it’s listed. I’ve got his cell number.”
“Okay, I’ll call information, you call the cell phone. If you reach him, hand the phone over. If you don’t, leave my cell number on his voice mail and tell him it’s urgent-that he must talk to me before he sees Yeager. Tell him it’s seriously a matter of life and death.”
She called. As I was reaching information, she got voice mail. She left a message. I could hear in her voice that she thought the life-and-death bit was overly dramatic.
I got Ethan’s number and asked if there was an address listed as well. “Oh yes,” the operator said, and gave it to me.
Oh hell, I thought, as I wrote it down.
I called. He answered. That in and of itself nearly made me speechless with relief. Nearly. “Ethan? Irene. Do you want to keep working at the Express?”
“Hailey is such a little-”
“Never mind that, and it really doesn’t matter who told me. You and I must talk face-to-face this evening. Immediately. No choice-you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a deadbolt lock?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Bolt the door. Turn on your cell phone, because you may need it. Do not let anyone but me in the door. If your own mother comes to the door-”
“She’s dead, so I’ll assume it’s just a zombie pretending to be my mother. But I won’t let anyone else in. I won’t go out in the corridor, even if someone sets the building on fire.” His tone was flat-he sounded resigned, a little too resigned.
“Thank you. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Don’t you need directions?”
“Still living on Chestnut?”
“Yes-oh, you got it from the phone book. Apartment eight.” He paused. “You think someone else could get my address the same way.”
“Exactly. If someone tries to get in, call the police. Don’t hesitate.”
I hung up, then asked Hailey, “Did Yeager know you were there when he talked to Ethan?”
She shook her head. She was looking a little pale. I think she was starting to get the bigger picture.
“I want you to promise me that you will never, ever attempt something so stupid as going one-on-one with Mitch Yeager.”
She promised. She promised to be careful driving back to the paper.
“Ask security to walk you out to your car when you leave,” I said.
I tried to call Frank. His cell phone wasn’t on, and he wasn’t back at his office yet. I left a message on both voice mails, telling him I needed to talk something over with Ethan and would be home late, but he could reach me on my cell phone if needed. I also gave him Ethan’s home number. “It’s a long story, but-it might be a good idea for him to stay with us for a few days,” I said. “Would that be okay? Let me know.”
Ethan lived in an old apartment building in a tough part of town. I found a street lamp and parked beneath it. As I locked the Jeep up and set the alarm, I prayed I wouldn’t have to call LoJack to find out where it was later that night.
The building was long and two stories tall, a flat-roofed Spanish-style structure, probably built in the 1930s. The mailboxes at the entrance indicated there were sixteen units in the building.
Although it was moving toward nine o’clock on a weeknight, I could hear voices and music and laughter coming from the building. A party palace. The noises coming from it were the kinds of noises you might hear in the hallway of a college dorm on a Friday night-a confined space occupied by individuals watching a dozen different television shows at high volume, listening to just as many different kinds of music, each trying to hear their own above others-apparently, not one of the tenants believed in headphones. The glass front door was framed by dark wood and could have easily been smashed open by anyone who really wanted to get in, but I took the easy route and pushed the buzzer above Ethan’s mailbox. I pulled his name tag off it, which made it one of five blank ones. There was no sound from the intercom, but the door started humming and rattling, so I pushed it open.
My senses were assailed by both a louder edition of the noise I had heard outside, and a strong odor of urine and dried vomit in the foyer. I rushed back outside, remembering just in time not to let the door latch behind me. I took a deep breath, went back in, and held the breath all the way up the stairs, not exhaling until I reached the second level. The stairs ended at a short hallway at the front of the building. I glanced out a window there and saw that the Jeep was still where I had left it.
Apartment eight was to the right and at the rear of the building. The air quality was better in this dimly lit hall, but not by much. As I passed doors, the particular music of that apartment dweller intensified and became a little clearer. Two steps later, it was jumbled into the mix.
No wonder Ethan wasn’t getting much sleep.
I knocked on his door, saw the peephole in it darken, and heard the lock click back. The door opened.
“Hi,” he said, and gestured me inside.
He was still wearing his work clothes, a suit that hung loosely on him. His dark blond hair was slightly shaggy, but it actually looked better that way than it had in the shorter style he had worn before he went away to rehab.
The room we were in was neat and furnished in a spare way, with a table and chairs and sofa that looked as if they were not with their first owner. Or second or third, for that matter. I glanced around. It might as well have been a hotel room-nothing personal.
He had watched this perusal as he leaned against the back of the door, arms crossed. “No, it’s not much,” he
