Remember Me, Irene

Keene Dage and Corbin Tyler had just confirmed a link I had only guessed at. Ben Watterson was not the only one who had been contacted by Lucas. According to Charlotte Brady’s description of the visitor who upset her former boss, Allan Moffett’s visitor could have been Lucas. I was willing to bet that Allan’s response to that visit was to call the other potential blackmail victims.

The dinner party, with Ben added.

“A man shouldn’t panic,” Booter had said. Allan had done just that. But what the hell could a homeless man hold over their heads that would induce that sort of panic? Something that could be hinted at in a photograph of a fishing trip.

From Keene, I gathered that everyone had received this same color copy, but perhaps that wasn’t the case. Jerry Selman had mentioned a picture of his father with a former girlfriend. Ben had received a picture of a group of men on a boat now owned by Andre Selman. Was this woman in the photo the old girlfriend?

Maureen Selman (I had to fight the impulse to think of her as Cinco) might have been upset at a photo of Andre with an old girlfriend, but she had been with Andre long enough to know that she hadn’t married a virgin. A photo-taken a dozen or so years ago-of Andre with a woman couldn’t really be very threatening. And the photo was hardly one of Andre and the woman in flagrante delicto. I looked at the rest of the list. Keene was a widower, as was Corbin. Allan and Roland were both divorced. I didn’t think this was about old girlfriends.

Old girlfriends. I smiled to myself as I realized that SOS would provide me with a resource not everyone would have in this situation: old girlfriends who knew one another. Maybe one of the other members of the group would know the woman in the photo.

What did Lucas want? Money was the easiest answer, but was it the right answer? It didn’t fit with the Lucas I had known, but that man hadn’t been living on the streets, either.

The coroner might not believe that Lucas was killed, but I was nearly certain of it. Beyond a strong hunch, beyond bodies being moved and pennies and missing rings, there was the simple fact that he had been some sort of catalyst. Allan had felt threatened. So did half a dozen other men.

Those men were linked before Lucas threatened them, and I became convinced that the more I discovered about their connections to one another, the more likely I was to learn not only why Allan Moffett had resigned, but why Ben Watterson and Lucas Monroe had died.

I decided I needed to have a long talk with Murray Plummer, the real estate expert for theExpress. I called his extension, but he wasn’t in, so I left a message on his voice mail. I wondered if he was in but not taking calls.

I looked over the list of attendees at Allan’s dinner party. They came from three areas. From the college, from the city, and from local business. The businessmen were Keene Dage, Corbin Tyler, Roland Hill. Ben had belonged to this latter group.

Roland Hill. Moffett may have called the dinner meeting, but years ago, Hill would have been the one who originally brought this group of people together. Whatever significance the picture of the boat had, it was apparently regarding something that was going on in the late 1970s.

Like most newspapers, theExpress had only recently started indexing stories on the computer, so I wouldn’t be able to look up stories from that decade at my desk. I was going to need to go to the morgue, or library, as we were now supposed to refer to it. With men as publicly prominent as Ben Watterson and Allan Moffett, the noncomputerized files would be huge, going back over several decades. Of the remaining men, Hill was a much more controversial figure than most of the others. His development projects had not been universally welcomed or successful. I decided he would be my best bet for a starting point in a search through the clipping files.

It would help to have guidance from Murray. I tried calling him again. Voice mail. I hung up without leaving a message.

My thoughts went back to Lucas. As far as I could remember, Lucas was working on his thesis when I left Las Piernas in 1976. He couldn’t have been far from finishing his master’s degree.

John Walters’s shadow across my desk startled me out of my reverie.

“Where in the hell have you been all day?” he growled.

“I was only out of this office for an hour,” I said. I thought of telling him what I had done during that hour, but didn’t think he’d approve of the meager results.

“Going to have anything for me by deadline, Kelly?”

“Uh, probably not today, John,” I said, closing the drawer with the phone book in it.

“Goddammit, why not?”

“I need to talk to Murray, for one thing.”

He scowled, but then apparently decided that working with Murray meant I wasn’t chasing after stories on Lucas. “Okay, Kelly. But one of two things is going to happen after a while. Some other newspaper is going to get the story first, or the story’s going to grow so cold that no one in this town will remember who Allan Moffett is, let alone care about why he resigned. Go look for Murray.”

“Sure, John.”

“And Kelly? Don’t forget to put that phone book back.”

I scowled at Stuart, who was shaking his head.

“I can still observe things on my own,” John said, and walked off.

THEEXPRESSIS LAID OUTlike a rabbit warren. Hallways appear where you don’t expect them, and a doorway that would seem to lead to a small office often turns out to be the entrance to a large room. Murray and I probably passed one another a couple of times without knowing it, but I finally caught up with him in the composing room. It’s called the composing room even though no one composes pages in it, and the machines in it are called typesetters even though they don’t really set type. Nothing wrong with tradition.

Black and turquoise cubes, about four square feet each, the typesetters sit along one wall of the composing room. The typesetters are really gigantic film processors that turn out “film,” slick black-and-white prints which are a little larger than a newspaper page.

Murray was standing at a dump, one of the counter-height metal tables in the room. I saw him reach into a pocket and pull out a thick packet of folded proofs.

“Were you just downstairs?” I asked.

He turned around and smiled. “Hello, Irene. No, I was scheduling something with a photographer until a few minutes ago. Now I’m waiting to sign off my pages for the real estate section.”

As he spoke, he smoothed out the proofs, which had corrections and changes circled with red china marker here and there.

“Here you go, Plummer,” the compositor said, handing Murray the film that had just dropped into the typesetter’s tray. I stayed quiet while Murray double-checked the folio-the upper corner information which includes the date and page number-and then found the corresponding proof.

“So you’ve been looking for me?” he asked, uncapping a pen. It was the kind that marked in a special light blue ink known as “nonreproducing blue.”

“I’ll give you a chance to check your page over,” I said.

“Thanks.” I watched him check the headlines first. As they say, if you’re going to make a mistake, don’t do it in 42 point type. Next he went over the cut lines under photos, the jump lines and jumps, and then checked to see that all the corrections on his proofs had been carried out.

“Turin is spelled wrong,” I said, looking over his shoulder. “Your reporter has this Italian architect coming from a soup bowl.”

He sighed as he made the correction. “Do they teach geography in schools these days? Thanks for catching that-one of those words that makes it past the computer spelling-checker.” He noted the change from Tureen to Turin, sent the page back, then turned his attention to me.

“What’s up?”

“You’ve covered real estate since the early 1970s, right?”

“Right.”

“I saw a group of men having dinner together the other night-the night after Ben Watterson killed himself. Allan Moffett called the meeting.”