Bury the Lead (3 page)

• • • • •

O
N THE WAY TO MEET
with Daniel Cummings, I reflect on why I’ve been in a foul mood lately. I’m not big on self-reflection, so I try to get this session over while sitting at one traffic light.

I quickly come up with four possibilities. One, I need to get back to some real work. Two, I’m thirty-seven years old and beginning a midlife crisis, whatever that is. Three, I miss Laurie terribly. And four, Laurie doesn’t seem to miss me nearly as much. I don’t know which of those is true, but the one I’m rooting against is number four.

The meeting with Cummings is unlikely to bring me back to the ranks of the smiling humans. I have a vague consulting role, in an area of the law that I am neither expert at nor interested in. I’m sorry that I took it on at all, though Vince really didn’t give me much of a choice.

Cummings keeps me waiting outside his office for fifteen minutes while he talks on the phone. This is not a good way to start a lawyer-client relationship, but the way I’m feeling it’s an excellent way to end one.

He finally comes out to get me, a hint of an insincere, apologetic smile on his face. He holds out his hand. “Daniel Cummings.” His tone and manner are such that he might have said “Prince Charles.”

I shake it. “Andy Carpenter” is my clever response. We’ve met once before, but if he doesn’t remember it, then I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of revealing that I do.

“We’ve met before, haven’t we?” he asks.

“I don’t think so,” I say, starting this relationship off on a mature note.

“Come in.”

He leads me into his office, points to a chair, and offers me something to drink. I choose a Diet Pepsi, and he has a mineral water. He’s about six one, with hair so lightly colored that at first glance it looks like he’s going bald, though he isn’t. He has chiseled good looks; he’d be a natural as a Russian movie star.

I don’t know how much Vince is paying his reporters these days, but there is no way that journalism is Cummings’s only revenue source. Sell his suit, shoes, and watch and you could buy something with bucket seats. And he looks comfortable in them, like there are plenty more just like them back home in a walk-in closet the size of North Dakota.

“I don’t know if Vince told you,” he says, “but I’m not keen on the idea of you getting involved in all this.”

I’m not quite ready to share anything Vince told me. “Why is that?” I ask.

“Because I can handle it on my own, and I’m afraid you’ll get in the way. And nothing personal, but defense attorneys are not my favorite group of people.”

“That must keep them up nights,” I say as dryly as I can manage.

His grin is without humor. “I wouldn’t know.”

“It’ll help me avoid screwing things up by knowing what it is I’m dealing with. So why don’t you start at the beginning?”

He gives me a brief rundown of the events, providing little more than I got from reading the stories. The killer contacted him by phone at the office after the first murder, praising the reporter’s “understanding” of his work.

“Why did he think that?” I ask.

Cummings shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe I accidentally wrote something that hit him close to home. Maybe he just liked my style. I’ve made something of a study of the criminal mind, but I can’t quite read them.”

“But he told you he would be communicating through you exclusively?”

Cummings nods. “His exact words were, ‘You will reveal me to the world.’”

“So you went to the police.” I already knew that he did, so I’m just trying to move the story along.

He nods. “Of course. The first thing they did was tap my office phone, but they neglected to cover my home phone, which is where he called the next time. Our local police strategists leave something to be desired.”

“Any idea how he got your number?”

He shakes his head. “None.”

“You said you were afraid I would get in the way. Can you be more specific?”

“If you’re looking over my shoulder, it will make it harder for me to do what I want to do.”

“Which is?” I ask.

He looks me straight in the eye. “I’m going to catch the son of a bitch.”

Just then the phone rings. I see him take a nervous breath before answering it. Every call could be the killer. After a moment he picks up the receiver. “Hello?”

He shakes his head slightly, telling me that this isn’t the call. “I’m leaving now,” he says into the phone before hanging up. He stands, grabs his jacket, and heads for the door. “There’s a press conference in twenty minutes.”

I start following him, even though he hasn’t asked me along. “Are you covering it or part of it?”

He smiles the first genuine smile I’ve seen. “Good question.”

We take separate cars to state police headquarters in Hackensack. Because the murders have been committed in three different communities, no one department has jurisdiction, and the state cops have taken over. Even though they’d never admit it, the mayors of the towns in question are breathing a sigh of relief. Real pressure is starting to mount to catch this guy, and the intervention of the state cops takes them off the political hook.

I get stuck in some traffic behind Cummings, and by the time I arrive he is already up on the stage with the state police brass. I take a spot along the side of the room, as the press mills about, waiting for the conference to begin.

“This is a new one for you, isn’t it, Andy?”

I look up and see Pete Stanton, a Paterson police lieutenant and my closest and only friend in the department.

“What is?” I ask.

“Usually, you wait until we identify and catch the scumbags before you represent them.”

I shake my head. “A lawyer can go broke waiting for you idiots to make an arrest. So I’ve already got myself a client.”

“Who?”

I point to the stage. “The intrepid young reporter. And the newspaper he represents.”

Pete was the detective assigned to the first murder, before anyone had an idea that there was a serial killer on the loose. Since I’m basically in an information-gathering mode at this point, I might as well start pumping good old Pete.

“You guys making any progress?” I ask.

“There are a number of leads that we’re aggressively pursuing along with our colleagues in the state police,” he says. “We’re very confident.”

“So you’ve got nothing.”

“Not a fucking thing.”

“You still working the case?” I ask.

He nods. “Barely. Mostly, we just admire the professionals.” He points to the brass on the stage. There’s a rivalry between the state and local police forces that will last until eternity.

“Piss you off, does it?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Temporarily. As soon as the killer moves into New York or Connecticut, it’ll be interstate and the feds will move in. Then the state assholes will be on the outside with us.”

“It would be nice if one of you actually caught the bad guy,” I say.

“Wouldn’t make your client too happy.”

“Which means . . . ?”

Pete nods toward Cummings on the stage. “Look at him. He’s a star. You think he wants this to be over so he can go back to being just another typist?”

I have to admit that, though Cummings isn’t grinning and giggling, it does seem that he’d rather be on that stage than in the gallery down here with his colleagues.

Captain Terry Millen of the New Jersey State Police starts the session with a statement about the latest murder. He then refuses to answer just about everything the media throw at him, expressing his confidence that they’ll understand he can’t reveal information about this ongoing investigation. With that as the ground rule, there was no reason to have this session at all. Did he think he was going to be asked how the Giants will do on Sunday?

Frustrated by the lack of answers they are getting, two reporters direct questions to Cummings. He toes the party line, claiming that Captain Millen has asked him not to respond. Other than getting some television face time, there was no reason for Cummings to have been here at all, but he certainly doesn’t look put off at this total waste of his time.

I would like him a hell of a lot more if he was annoyed.

Like I am.

• • • • •

I
T
’
S ONLY BEEN FIVE DAYS
, but it’s already obvious that working for Vince Sanders is not going to get me out of my funk. Nothing new has come up, the police appear to be nowhere, and basically everyone is in the uncomfortable position of waiting for the killer to make the next move. I remain a figure on the distant periphery, with no real role in any of it.

I start spending more time in the office, though it’s not exactly a hub of activity. Most of Edna’s efforts are directed toward honing her skills as the world’s finest crossword puzzle player, interrupting that endeavor only long enough to check financial prices on the Internet and shriek with glee.

A hurricane has hit South America, destroying some coffee crops and sending coffee futures straight up. I make a silent vow not to drink another drop until the Olympics are over.

Kevin comes in for only an hour or so a day. There’s really nothing for him to do, and he has responsibilities running the Laundromat. When he is here, he spends most of his time on the computer, indulging his hypochondria. I looked over his shoulder a few times, and he was in chat rooms on medical Web sites, seeking and giving medical advice, with such noted physicians as LOLA427 and SICKLYONE.

Laurie is coming home tonight, and I’m picking her up at the airport. I’ve got plenty of time until I have to leave, so I decide to play some sock basketball, a challenging game whereby I shoot a pair of rolled-up socks into a ledge above my door. I am not only the inventor of the game but also its most talented practitioner.

To add some flavor and excitement, I set up grudge matches, and today’s game is between the American Heroes and the Al Qaeda Assholes. As captain of the Heroes, I’m in rare form, and we’re ahead seventy-eight to nothing when the phone rings, signaling halftime.

It’s Vince Sanders, making his daily call to check up on the nonexistent developments. “So where do we stand?” is his opening chitchat.

“It’s halftime,” I say. “I’m up by seventy-eight, and two of the terrorists are in foul trouble.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Sock basketball. You take these rolled-up socks, and—”

He interrupts. “And I ram them down your throat if you don’t tell me where we stand on our case.”

He keeps calling it a case, which it certainly isn’t. “Oh, that?” I say. “I’ve got it all figured out. It was Mrs. Plum in the library with a candlestick.”

Click
.

I’ve probably talked to Vince on the phone a hundred times, and the next time he says goodbye will be the first.

“You might want to take a look at this,” Edna says.

She’s pointing to a story on her computer. Edna has it set up so that various financial Web sites e-mail her when significant events in her area of interest happen. This one has to do with a merger that has fallen through in the telecommunications industry, sending all similar stocks tumbling in sympathy. Mine is down a point and a half.

“Thanks for sharing that,” I say.

She smiles. “Want me to make you some coffee? It might make you feel better. Everybody’s drinking it these days, you know.”

Stifling my impulse to strangle Edna with my bare hands, I head over to the foundation. I walk in on Willie looking positively giddy; when he sees me, he rushes over and gives me a high five. He’s probably heard that my stock went down.

That’s not it. “Carrie just walked the fuck out the door!” he screams.

Carrie is a seven-year-old Brittany spaniel, blind in one eye and as sweet as they come. Willie has just colorfully told me that she’s been adopted, and he goes on to say that her new parents are an elderly couple who are going to take her to live with them on their boat.

I’ve learned that there are few feelings better than rescuing a dog facing certain, anonymous death in an animal shelter and then sending that dog off to a happy life. It immediately cheers me up, and not even Willie’s question a few moments later can fully detract from that.

“You want some coffee?” he asks. “We’ve got Colombian roast, vanilla nut, cinnamon, hazelnut, and three kinds of decaf. I ordered one of those machines that make lattes, but it’s not here yet.” He pronounces “lattes” to rhyme with “fatties.”

For some reason, I don’t feel like coffee, so I leave for the airport to pick up Laurie, even though I’ll probably get there two hours early. My mood is not improved by the fact that I pass two hundred and thirty-seven Starbucks on the way, give or take a couple of hundred.

For years, Newark Airport stood as a monumental tribute to the arrogance of New Yorkers. It has always had great access by highways, ample parking, and not that much air traffic, so planes generally run on time. By comparison, the highways feeding JFK Airport are so jammed that it’s almost faster to walk, parking is a total pain, the terminals look like they were positioned by blindfolded dart throwers, and the planes are always late. Yet for a very long time, many upscale Manhattanites wouldn’t dream of taking off from or landing in Newark. The mere suggestion of it drew frowns, as if they were afraid they’d get cow dung on their shoes when they left the terminal. These attitudes have changed somewhat, but if you see somebody check the bottom of their shoes when they reach their car, you can still bet they’re heading toward Manhattan.

Being from New Jersey, I’m used to cow dung, so I don’t even look down as I walk to the terminal. Once I get there, boredom sets in, since the tightened security makes it impossible to get to restaurants or newspaper stands or even chairs, for that matter. All of those things are in that glorious land beyond security.

About twenty minutes before Laurie’s flight is scheduled to arrive, my cell phone rings. I think it might be her, calling to say she’s landed early and wondering where I’m waiting.

Instead, it’s Vince. “Where are you?”

“Newark Airport.”

“How fast can you get to Eastside Park?” he asks.

“I hope that’s a rhetorical question.”

“What?”

“How does a week from Tuesday sound?”

“Andy, I need you down here. There’s been another murder.”

I’m very sorry to hear that, of course, but there’s no way I’m leaving this airport alone. “Vince, I’m a lawyer. I don’t go to crime scenes. I hold up photographs of them in court.”

“Andy . . .”

It’s time to be firm. “I’ll have to read about it in the paper, Vince. Laurie is coming in, and—”

He cuts me off. “The victim is Linda Padilla.”

I’m outta here.