Rogue Island

Lomax glared at me and said, “Cut it out.”

“Unfortunately,” Pemberton said, “all the local channels have blown the matter entirely out of proportion. To hear them tell it, you’d think the newspaper itself is the serial arsonist.”

“You mean, as opposed to just one wayward employee?”

“I didn’t intend to imply that.”

“And how is the paper handling the story?”

“Oh, that’s right. You haven’t seen the newspaper either. Perhaps you should read this before we continue.”

He pulled a paper from a stack on his desk and passed it to me. I folded it open to the sports page. The Sox bats had pounded the Yankees 7–5 the night before. Yippie.

The name L. S. A. Mulligan was on page one again, but this time it wasn’t a byline. The story of my arrest had been written by Lomax, the circumstances too sensitive to be entrusted to a mere reporter. I scanned it and learned that Polecki had identified me as “a person of interest” in the arson investigation. At least the cops hadn’t publicly connected me to the Scibelli murder. Pemberton was quoted as saying he would have no comment until he had time to “review the situation.”

I tossed the paper on the desk and looked at Pemberton.

“Funny,” I said. “I didn’t see anything in there about how you are standing by your reporter.”

“Yes, well …” He looked at Lomax for help, didn’t get any, and pressed on. “I do hope you understand why I have to ask you this, Mulligan. Are you in any way culpable in this dreadful affair?”

“Of course he isn’t,” Lomax said.

“I believe Mulligan is capable of answering for himself.”

“Fuck you,” I said.

“May I take that as a no, then?”

“You may.”

“Good. That’s settled. Now we have to decide what we are going to do with you.”

63

At two in the afternoon Hopes was mostly empty, just a couple of alkies slouched at the bar sipping something bitter. I led Veronica and Mason to a table by the beer cooler in back.

“Indefinite suspension without pay,” I said.

“You’re kidding,” Veronica said.

“At first, it was gonna be with pay, but only if I promised to keep my nose out of the arson investigation. I told them I couldn’t do that. Especially not now.”

“Baby, that’s so unfair.”

“Try to see it from their point of view,” I said. “For the good of the newspaper, they’ve got to distance themselves from me. If I were in their position, I’d do the same thing.”

“But without pay?”

“How’s it going to look if I keep digging into the story and some asshole like Logan Bedford finds out I’m still on the payroll?”

“Back up a minute,” Mason said. “Do the cops really think you set the fires, or is Polecki just trying to get even for that ‘Dumb and Dumber’ story?”

“Both.”

“Why would they think you’re involved?”

“The FBI profile does fit me to a T.”

“Yeah, but it could fit a lot of people.”

“True. And there’s a flaw in it, too.”

“Which is?”

“The profile assumes the perp is a pyromaniac.”

“He isn’t?”

“No. This isn’t pyromania. It’s arson for profit.”

“What makes you think that?” Mason asked.

“All in good time, Thanks-Dad.”

“What are you going to do now?” Veronica said.

“I’ve got twelve hundred in my checking account. That gives me about a month to crack this thing. If it takes longer than that …”

“You haven’t taken any vacation this year, right?” Mason said.

I nodded.

“And you get—what?—three weeks a year?”

“Yeah.”

“So you’ve got some vacation pay coming. At your salary it should come to …?”

“Just under twenty-six hundred,” I said.

“I’ll talk to Dad and get him to cut the check.”

Diego, the daytime waiter, was busy with something behind the stick, so Mason got up and fetched our drinks. Campari and soda for him, chardonnay for Veronica, Killian’s for me. I swallowed a couple of painkillers, washed them down with beer, and chased it with Maalox.

“Woodward called today,” Veronica said.

“Oh?”

“He said he should have an opening for me soon, but he advised me to keep my distance from you until this thing blows over.”

“So I guess this isn’t the best time for me to call him about a job.”

“Probably not.”

“You taking his advice?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to.”

“But you’re ambitious,” I said. “You’re your father’s girl.”

She pressed her lips together and stared into her wine glass.

Hardcastle came through the door with a couple of copy editors and grabbed a stool at the bar. A clerk from the courthouse wandered in. The place was filling. Hardcastle glanced over, spotted me, removed his cell phone from his jacket pocket, and placed a call.

“You need a lawyer,” Veronica said.

“Can’t afford one.”

“If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you,” Mason said.

“Shut up, Thanks-Dad.”

“Sorry. I’ve been hanging around with a smart-ass, and some of it is rubbing off.”

In spite of myself, I was starting to like this kid.

“So what are you going to do?” Veronica asked.

“Maybe I’ll ask your mystery source to represent me pro bono. After all, Brady Coyle and I were teammates at PC, and teammates are supposed to stick together.”

It was an educated guess. Coyle was one of a handful of people who could have gotten access to the secret grand-jury testimony. As Arena’s lawyer, he wasn’t legally entitled to it until the discovery phase of the trial, but for someone with his pull, the courthouse was a sieve. And he fit that description Veronica had let slip—a he who hated my guts. When her eyes got wide, I knew I’d guessed right.

“It’s hard to keep a secret in this town, Veronica. Only thing I can’t figure is why Coyle’s feeding you stuff that makes his client look guilty.”

I was still waiting for her to say something when the cell started singing the blues in my hip pocket.

“I just heard on the radio that you were released,” Rosie said. “Are you okay?

“I’ve had better days.”

“Anything I can do? Do you need money for a lawyer?”