and Tully walked through. Tully knew he was being studied. He concluded that reporters were inquisitive. So were cops.
Ankenazy indicated the empty desk that had once been used by Hal Salden. By no means was it the only desk not in use. But because it had last been used by a man who’d been slain, it seemed more a monument than a work site.
Nonetheless, Tully adjusted the chair and sat down. He looked around the room. He wanted to see what Salden saw everyday at work. Who did he see when he looked up from his desk?
Ankenazy identified those who worked at nearby desks, none of whom were presently in the office. None of whom, as far as Ankenazy knew, had any but the most cordial relationship with Salden.
“There was no-or very little-competition for bylines with Hal,” Ankenazy explained. “The religion beat is special. Only occasionally is a religion story of general interest. Then you’re liable to see a regular staffer covering the story. Regularly, the religion writer ends up covering sectarian news that isn’t of much general interest. But that wasn’t the case with Hal. He was first a damn good reporter and only secondly was he assigned to the religion beat. That plus the fact that he was able to turn a story that might otherwise be buried on an inside ‘religion’ page into page-one news. What I mean to say is that Hal was considered one of our most respected writers. And that, coming from his peers, for a guy on the religion desk, is some kind of testimonial.”
Tully thought that a significant statement-almost a tribute. He filed it away for future reference.
He started going through the drawers, the single most striking aspect of which was their near emptiness. A small ruler, a gadget for measuring something-probably photos-surprisingly little paper, paper clips and rubber bands that looked as if they’d been there for decades-and a little black book. Just what Tully was looking for-or so he hoped.
He paged through the book. Phone numbers, addresses. From its appearance, Tully guessed the book and its contents were ancient and outdated. This didn’t seem to be what he was seeking.
Ankenazy sensed this. “What exactly are you looking for. Zoo?”
“This desk doesn’t look like it’s even been used in this century. Is this just as it was when Salden was working at it?”
“Uh-huh. Some cops were here right after … right after Hal died. But they didn’t take anything.”
“Didn’t he keep any notes? Things he was working on?”
“Sure. That’d be in his basket.”
“His what?”
“The CRT there. The word processor. If he had anything going currently, if he just wanted to leave himself some message or reminder, it would more than likely be in there.”
Tully stared at the silent screen. “Well, Okay. How do I find out what, if anything, is in there?”
“His immediate editor-I’m not the guy-would have his password to get access to the basket. But he’s not here just now. Wait a minute; maybe this’ll work. Pat!”
She had just entered the room. Tully recognized her instantly, though he hadn’t see her in nearly three years.
She approached Ankenazy, a slight smile on her lips. Then she caught sight of Tully and the smile froze.
Pat was obviously completely surprised. It was one of those rare times when she had no comment whatsoever.
Tully tried to gauge the situation. Was this some sort of sick gag? Coming on the heels of the De Vere column, he wondered if someone was putting him on. If so, Pat Lennon was not in on the game. Her surprise seemed most genuine. Either that or she deserved an Oscar.
Ankenazy? Again, he gave no indication that this was a setup on his part.
Perhaps it was a coincidence. Odd; he’d been so obsessed with the gossipy item, his memory so filled with Lennon-and now, here she was.
“Pat’s worked with Hal in the past.” Ankenazy completely overlooked any sort of introduction; for whatever reason he obviously felt none was necessary. “She’d be as good as anybody to help, or answer questions. I’ve got some stuff to get organized. So, if it’s okay with you …”
Tully had expected to be shuttled off to someone else. He had dropped in without an appointment and could not have counted on Ankenazy’s being available or even being in. But Pat Lennon? Coincidence? Miracle? Or, always possible, some sort of joke?
“You got a few minutes, Pat?” Ankenazy asked.
“Sure.”
“Lieutenant Tully here is investigating Hal’s death. He gets carte blanche on any of our resources-library, files, whatever.” Excusing himself, Ankenazy left them.
“Well, Lieutenant, what can I do for you?” So she was going to be formal. Maybe, under the circumstances, not a bad idea. However, he wouldn’t match her with Miss or Ms. Even without their previous association he would have gone immediately to a first-name basis.
“I want to get inside Salden’s head,” Tully said, without preamble. “I’m pretty certain this was not a random shoot. Somebody wanted him out. Any ideas, Pat?”
“About who killed him?” She folded her arms and shook her head. “He was a nice guy. What can I say? Sometimes he was kind of hard on this or that religious leader. But-not like that. I can’t imagine any of them … no.” She shook her head again.
From what little he knew of them, Tully thought she might be selling religious leaders a bit short. He could well imagine some threatened religious figure getting violent. Who knows; the investigation might turn up something along that line. And if such a thread were to be uncovered, Tully would be ready to follow it up.
“Maybe it’d help if I knew something more about him,” Tully said. He remained seated at Salden’s desk.
Lennon shifted her weight to her left side and leaned against the desk. The position accentuated the lovely curve from her narrow waist over the full hip to her knee. Tully appreciated the view, one of nature’s masterpieces.
“I’ll try to give you a thumbnailer.”
“As detailed as possible, please.”
“Okay,” Pat agreed, “something more than a thumbnailer.” She pulled up a chair and sat down. “Hal started as a copy boy, right at die bottom, some twenty years ago, long before I got here. He worked his way up to the sports desk and covered most of the local teams. Before his next move, he was the main writer on the Tigers. Then he moved to the city desk. Again he specialized in the local angle-city hall, the council, the mayor, Lansing. He was really very good at everything he did. The next move logically would have been his own column. It’s what many of us would like. But he turned it down-to just about everybody’s surprise-and asked for the religion beat.
“Of course, in a way, he did get his column, because a personal column sort of goes well with that territory. But the way he covered religion was the same as he covered everything else-thoroughly and professionally. It sure as hell enhanced the value of religious news. It wasn’t the Saturday throwaway anymore. I worked with him quite a bit from time to time and I was always proud to be associated with him.”
“Sports, the local scene, and religion,” Tully summed up. “And no enemies?”
“Some,” Lennon admitted. “But if they were at all fair, they had to grant that Hal was objective and evenhanded. Anyway, if you’re going to do a job as a reporter, you make enemies. We all do. But we don’t expect them to get violent, and 99-plus percent of the time they don’t.
“So there’s a bit more than a thumbnailer on Hal. Not much of a eulogy. And I feel his loss lots more than I’m expressing. But … there you are.”
Tully was caught off guard. He had detected no strong emotion in her review of Salden’s career. And there was no sign of misty eyes. But he believed her. She probably had been deeply moved by Salden’s death. She had to be damn good at controlling her emotions.
“Okay, thanks,” Tully said. “One last thing: I was trying to find out what he might have been working on, some of his notes. But …” He indicated the partially open desk drawers.
“The notepads?” She smiled. “Those are mostly history. We do take notes, of course, but we usually transfer them to our baskets.” She gestured toward the CRT. “That’s the basket.”
“Ankenazy mentioned that. But it’s just a blank screen.”
Lennon got up. “If you’ll let me in there, I’ll see if I can’t remember his password.”
The desk, the chair, the CRT did not offer much room to maneuver. As Tully stood and tried to trade places
