that mattered to him, all was well. Until that bitch dredged up that nonexistent affair between him and Pat Lennon.
To be honest, Pat had entered his life at a time when he was in a state of depression. Alice had been suffering from a prolonged and indeterminate illness. In effect, he had found her depression infectious. For the first time in their relationship, he’d found it painful to go home to her. Enter Pat Lennon.
Their paths had crossed in a singles bar. Not technically, but in reality each had cheated in going to that bar. Technically, neither was married. But both Tully and Lennon had “life companions.” Except that Tully’s was ill and Lennon’s had needlessly abandoned her at a critical time.
In truth, something very probably would have happened had Pat not been the morally stronger of the two. Not that she would have shied from an affair with him had there been no extenuating factors. Pat had sensed that he was committed to Alice but that he was physically hungry-not for just anyone, but the “right” woman. And she had refused to compromise his situation.
While that may have been commendable, now, thanks to DeVere, they had the name without the game.
And damn Alice too, while he was at it! Why in hell didn’t she have more faith in him? He had never been unfaithful to her. The only time he’d even come close was with Lennon. But the fact remained, he had not strayed.
Still, what if this situation were reversed? What if some gossip columnist had written something implicating Alice and someone else? He found it difficult to imagine. But, what if? If she denied it, would he believe her? Would he believe in her even without a denial?
As it happened, the situation had never arisen. To his knowledge, Alice had never been involved with anyone besides him … at least not since their relationship had begun. But … what if she had? What if, at very least, someone implied that Alice was interested in seeing someone else? What if she were seen dining … or in a car … with another man? Would Tully still trust her? Implicitly.
Tully had to smile, at least briefly. He simply couldn’t even imagine Alice two-timing him. And if someone were to suggest that she was, he would just refuse to believe it.
Then why in hell couldn’t she react to scurrilous innuendo against him in the same way? Wasn’t there something in the Bible about do unto others? Or was it, in the jargon of the streets of Detroit, do unto others, then split!
Ah, the streets of Detroit. They had their own language. You had to be savvy enough, alert enough, experienced enough to understand that language.
This guy walking up Fourteenth, the upper torso like Rambo, spindly legs can barely support him, yet a definite swagger to his walk: He’s a graduate of Jacktown-Jackson State Prison. He went in there a ninety-eight- pound weakling. He got treated like a toy. Then he started pumping iron. He was really motivated. Eventually, he could break most of his tormentors in two. Mostly, he no longer looked like a fragile boy. He was big. He was powerful. And he had developed the joint swagger.
And he’s walking very purposefully. He is definitely going somewhere. He is going to a dope house. If he leaves that house scratching his head, he hasn’t scored. He’s got to figure out where to go next to find some crack or whatever. If he leaves the house striding securely, he’s got his fix. He’s got something to do.
Tully shook the image from his mind. This wasn’t what he wanted to consider on his way downtown. Damn that DeVere broad! She had proved to be a distraction. Intolerable!
Back to Salden. Was it a random shoot? So common on the streets of so many big cities. So terribly common on Detroit streets. Because somebody wants a classy jacket, a stylish pair of shoes. A drug turf war. A case of mistaken identity. For no good goddam reason at all.
The possibility of senseless murder was a brooding presence almost all the time. Guns were so available. Anyone who owned only one was a virtual pauper. And guns, compared with just about any other weapon, were so surgical. Not the mess that comes with a knife, a hammer, an ice pick, hands around a throat, you name it. Especially with the powerful guns of today, just ride by without stopping and spray a house. Kill everybody in sight, even those out of sight.
And that, of course, was it: The nine-millimeter machine pistol became a weapon of choice if one wished to hit a great number of people indiscriminately. Set the control for automatic fire and spray the crowd. That’s the ticket for terrorism or for a spaced-out crazy.
But what if you have a machine pistol, capable of mass destruction, but you pump two bursts, six rounds, into one back? You’ve got to want that one person very dead. Especially if you use jacketed military bullets. In that case, you not only want the guy very dead, you don’t particularly care if somebody else buys it too.
And that is precisely what happened with Salden. Two bursts, six rounds pumped into his back. The killer doesn’t specifically want to hit anybody else. If he had wanted to bring down some others, he could easily have sprayed the crowd. No, he wanted Salden. He wanted him so badly he simply didn’t care what happened to the slugs after they did the job on Salden. It was as simple as that.
But that’s where the simplicity stopped.
Who would want to kill a reporter? A religion writer? And why?
This is what called to him like a siren song. No platter this. A real whodunit. Tully could hardly wait to find the answers. And the answers, he strongly felt, began at the
16
The lobby of the
The only relief from this solemn interior was a series of exhibits from recent
Tully considered briefly several methods of gaining entree to the newsroom. He could of course show his police identification. However, that did not always carry the clout here that it did with most institutions. And he was not in the mood to play games with the receptionist.
Discarding the confrontational approach, he considered whom he might call on to give him access to what he wanted to investigate.
This thought process took only seconds. Without breaking stride, he approached the receptionist and asked for Robert Ankenazy, one of the features editors and an acquaintance. He did not even bother showing his badge. That would only have complicated what promised to be a simple procedure.
Did Tully have an appointment? He did not, but he was sure Ankenazy would see him. Privately, he hoped only that the editor was in.
Tully spent a few minutes moving from exhibit to exhibit, paying no attention to what was framed on the walls. He was thinking only of what he wished to learn from Salden’s working place,
Ankenazy greeted Tully with curiosity more than warmth. The receptionist handed Tully an ID tag. She gave no indication she knew he was a police officer. That was fine.
Once in the elevator, Tully explained his presence, and asked about Salden’s relationship with his co-workers. Ankenazy gave every indication that he had already given considerable thought to this question. But he knew of nothing untoward. To the best of his knowledge, no one in any way coveted Salden’s job. Indeed, no one on the staff had or approached having Salden’s qualifications for the position of religion writer. In fact, it was going to take considerable time to find a replacement. And when the replacement was found, it would be a while before he or she could come close to approaching Salden’s competence.
“So,” Ankenazy said as they stood just inside the hall-like structure that was the features department, “what do you want, Zoo?”
“I want to sit at his desk, dig through the drawers, see what he was working on.”
“Done!” Ankenazy led the way through the partially staffed room. Many of the staff writers were out on assignments. Those who were there, and neither on the phone nor typing into their CRTs, looked up as Ankenazy
