Deadline (58 page)

“That’s what mom’s are for,” Janet said only half jokingly.

As Jake opened the door, a drift fell inward and white powder blew into the living room. He shut it and looked at the surprised faces. Champ, always hanging around the front door, had several snowflakes still on his snout. All three laughed.

“What in the world,” Jake muttered, and went to the window. “It must have snowed four more inches since you came. It’s a whiteout. I can’t even see down the street.” He turned on the TV. Regular programming had been interrupted.

“The snowstorm is crippling the city. No public transportation is operating. Cars have been abandoned in the middle of main roads. Visibility is almost zero. The word is, if you’re warm and you have food and you don’t absolutely have to travel, stay where you are!”

Carly and Janet looked at Jake.

“Well,” he said, “we’re warm, and we have food. And you don’t absolutely have to travel, do you?”

“We don’t want to impose Jake.”

“No problem, You two can have the bedroom, and Champ and I’ll sleep out here on the couch. It’s comfortable. He’ll love it.”

“Looks like this is turning into a New Year’s party,” Carly said brightly. “But I’ve got a bag in the car I need to bring in.”

“I’ll get it,” Jake said.

“I’ll go with you. This is fun.”

With the streetlights reflecting brightly off the white blanket of snow, they walked out what Jake guessed was the pathway from the apartment to the sidewalk, laughing because they had no clue what was grass and what was pathway, and it made no difference. Impressive snow drifts pinned down the car, and they were almost wading now.

Jake managed to get into Janet’s car from the least impeded access, the front passenger side, and reached over into the back of the car. He grabbed the bag, pulled it out, and turned and asked, “Is this all you wan—”

A snowball hit him right in the mouth. He could feel the cold on his teeth. Only ten feet away, but hard to see her expression in the whirling snow, was the perpetrator, stooped over and quickly making another snowball.

“Hey, wait a minute. I’ve got a handful of—” Another shot to the face.

“Where did you learn to throw like that?” Jake asked with unfeigned admiration.

“Five years of softball, third base,” came Carly’s reply, immediately followed with a shot that skimmed Jake’s right ear.

Jake remembered the softball, but didn’t remember her being so accurate. Throwing down the bag, he said, “Well, this is where my combat experience will pay off, young lady!”

As he stooped over to scoop up a handful of snow, he felt another snowball whack him on the shoulder. “Hit four times before I even load up,” he muttered. “This was an ambush.”
This girl’s as good as Doc or Finney ever were.

With two packed projectiles in hand, Jake let loose and barely missed Carly. “You’re a smaller target.”

“That’s your problem,” and just as she said it Jake’s second snowball hit her in the throat, dropping down inside the front of her coat. Jake laughed uproariously and taunted, “You should have listened to your mother and buttoned that top button, young lady!”

He stooped for more ammo and before he could look back up, she was on him, knocking him off balance and pushing him to the ground, face first.

“Hey,” he cried out with feigned indignation. “This was outlawed at the Geneva Convention.”

He reached out and pulled her right leg out from under her and she fell backwards into the deep snow. Deep enough, Jake knew, there was no danger of injuring her or the baby.

“Well, that should be outlawed. Knocking ladies on their keisters, I mean. Pregnant ladies!”

“Well, ladies don’t usually attack their elders.”

They both sat for a moment in the snow, catching their breath and laughing, then realizing how cold it was.

“Truce. Time to go in.” Jake got up and extended his hand to Carly. She took it, then wrapped her legs around his and knocked him back down, laughing like Jake hadn’t heard in years.

“You are vicious!”

By the time Jake could get up, Carly had grabbed her bag and was half way to the front door. When he got within a few feet of the door, he heard her latch it, just like he would have done.

This girl has great combat instincts.

Jake pressed his head against the door and pounded, yelling, “Open this door or I’ll call 1–800-dad-abuse.”

“Sure. I’ll open the door. All you have to do is say, ’I surrender. Carly wins.”’

“Like Winston Churchill, I will never give up … never, never,
never
give up.”

“Then you and Churchill will never, never,
never
get in!”

Jake heard through the door two females laughing uproariously. He smiled broadly.

He explored his options, but the spare key was hidden under a rock buried under the snow, and it just wasn’t worth the dig in the icy cold.

“Okay, I surrender. Carly wins. She doesn’t fight fair, but she wins.”

The door opened wide, and Jake, with clumps of snow falling from him, jumped in before she could change her mind.

“Jake, you’re a mess!” Janet cried.

“Hey, wait a minute, it was your daughter who…”

“I couldn’t believe he’d attack me like that, Mom. Throwing snowballs at a helpless young girl.”

“Helpless? You should have seen her. She could win the Cy Young Award!”

“She beat you, huh Jake?”

“Yeah, she did.” Jake laughed. “Actually, she beat me bad.” And he couldn’t have been happier.

Janet was kneeling in front of the fireplace, just starting a fire.

“Change your clothes and get dry, you two. I found some cider. I’ll heat it up. It’ll do just as well as chocolate or eggnog.”

“Great idea, Mom. But what do I change into? Nothing in my bag but shoes and socks.”

“I’m sure your father has lots of clothes. You’re good at improvising.”

“Getting into Daddy’s closet? This could be fun.” Carly was in Jake’s room in an instant.

“Take anything you want, just let me get first grab. You owe me that much after kicking my tail out there. I’ll change in the bathroom and you can have my room.”

As Jake changed his clothes, he felt a childlike excitement he hadn’t felt in years, many years. He came out to the smell of warm cider and popcorn and the crackle of a fire. That was Janet—in ten minutes she’d transformed Jake’s apartment into a home.

While Jake sat down by the fire, Janet joined Carly in his bedroom. They came out modeling two outrageous outfits, both with overbig flannel shirts, Janet in fishing hipwaders and Jake’s huge clod hoppers, and Carly topped with a Mets cap and rounded out with battery-heated hunting socks she thought were hilarious. Champ barked and barked and nibbled at the girls’ feet, his way of joining in. Jake picked up a flashlight and shined it all over the room, sending Champ crashing into everything pursuing the light, as if he really thought he could catch it. They laughed until they wore out from laughing.

Janet went to bed first, partly because the warmth and laughter had made her contentedly tired, partly because she wanted Carly and Jake to have more time alone. A couple of hours later she got up to use the bathroom and saw two shadows in front of the fire, close to each other, talking softly. It was nearly one in the morning.

After Janet went back to bed, she didn’t close the door all the way. She could just make out the words coming from the living room.

“I had the weirdest dream the other night,” Carly said. “Want to hear it?”

“Sure,” Jake said, smiling as he thought of how much she was like Janet, who’d always relished recounting her dreams to him, even though he’d usually not been interested.

Muffled laughter came from the bedroom. They looked at each other and smiled, realizing they had an eavesdropper.

“I just hope your dreams are half as interesting as your mom’s always were,” Jake said loudly.

Carly poked her head up over the couch and said, “Mom, I’ll try to speak up so you don’t have to strain to hear us.”

More laughter, as if muffled by a pillow, made its way from the bedroom to the living room. Then Janet came out and joined them. The springer spaniel’s tail wagged frantically. A dog takes his happiness from the happiness of the people around him. Champ had never been more happy.

The daughter told her dream. And then the mother told a dream of her own. And then both listened breathlessly as the father told his.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

O
llie and Jake couldn’t meet for lunch, so they arranged a midafternoon walk in the downtown park blocks. It was warmer than it had been for weeks, and the snow melted as they walked. Ollie jumped right into the topic at hand.

“When we first started talking this anti-abortion possibility I sent a note to Jeb Larson—he’s our best arson detective. Well, he’s been buried in other stuff and finally uncovered my note. Came in this morning and gave me the skinny on all the abortion clinic incidents in town. Boy, did I get an earful.”

“More suspects?”

“It wasn’t what I expected.” Ollie eyed a bench and sat down, Jake next to him. Then he paged through a manila file folder.

“Jeb’s got this big file of newspaper clippings. He copied a few of them for me. Here’s one—Los Angeles, 1988: ’Prochoice activist Frank Mendiola pleaded guilty to charges of telephoning a series of bomb threats to local abortion clinics. He says he made the calls to arouse public sympathy for abortion rights and to motivate the media to come down with a harder line on people who harass the clinics.”’

“The guy who did it was prochoice?”

“Yeah, and that’s just the beginning. Here’s another one in Concord, California, where a Planned Parenthood abortion clinic was burnt down. The first few clippings quote all the Planned Parenthood people blaming the anti-abortion groups, milking it for all it’s worth, and I guess you can’t blame them. But here’s the other clipping, from a month later, when police arrested David Martin, who lived across the street from the clinic. He admitted he set the fire because he was ticked off’ at prolife protesters and hoped they’d be blamed. Jeb says, the guy got his wish. His buddy in arson down in Concord, the one that sent him the clippings, tells him most people still think the prolifers did it, even after the case was solved.

“Here’s one in Redding caused by a portable electric fan. And here’s a couple done to cover burglaries. Jeb says some of these are just accidents or random arsons—I mean lots of hamburger joints burn down but nobody assumes it’s done by vegetarians and animal rights activists.

“Now here’s a classic, Portland back in 1985. Package bombs were sent through the mail to three abortion clinics and a Planned Parenthood clinic. Major bad press for the anti-abortion people, attempts at court injunctions against them, the whole deal. But the case was quietly solved. The perp was a guy named Batson, who was caught only because a bomb he was making exploded and took off part of his arm. The evidence tied him to the package bombs and another abortion clinic bombing. He was convicted and went to prison. Turns out he had no connections at all with the prolifers. Know what his motive was?”

“No.”

“His girlfriend had gotten an abortion without his knowledge. He was taking revenge on the people he says ’killed his baby.’ Interesting, huh? Then there’s a clinic bombing in Florida they linked to organized crime.”

“Organized crime?” Jake jumped at the term.

“Yeah, it’s not real clear, but the mob wanted in on the action, or was already in on it. They wanted kickbacks, sold protection. They were on this clinics payroll, and somebody didn’t cough up the dough. So, good-bye clinic.”

Jake grabbed the opportunity. “Ollie, do you think organized crime could be in on Doc and Finney’s murder?”

“What?” Ollie looked at him strangely. “You been watching
The Untouchables
or something?”

“Just wondering.”

“Seriously, where’d you come up with that idea?”

“Nowhere, really. You said anything was fair game when it came to suspects.”

“Well, I draw the line at Al Capone and Frank Nitti.”

Jake felt guilty for lying but tried not to show it.

“Anyway, the clinic stories go on, and these are just cases that happened to be solved. Most we’ll never know what really happened. But here’s what’s really interesting on the home front. There have been four bombings or arsons at abortion clinics in this city the past ten years. All four are officially unsolved. I stress the word officially.”

“What’s your point, Ollie?”

“Officially a murder is unsolved until there’s a conviction, even if I really know who did it. Same with arson and bombing. Jeb says he’d bet the farm he knows who did two of the four unsolveds. Case number one, July 1991. It’s 5:00 A.M., an hour before anyone ever comes to this clinic. The owner of the clinic, the main abortionist, happens to be there. He smells something funny. He puts out the fire. It’s front page news—naturally, anti-abortionists get the blame.

“So Jeb goes in as the arson detective, finds the incendiary device, runs a fingerprint check, and guess what? The only fingerprints on it belong to the owner of the clinic—luckily his prints were on file. Jeb asks the owner if he ever touched it. The guys says no way’ Jeb says, ’So why is your fingerprint on it?’ and the guy just about loses his dentures. Then he says, ’Oh yeah, maybe I touched it after I put the fire out.’ Jeb asks why. I mean, people stay away from that sort of thing, besides it would still be hot. Why would you touch it, or if you did, why would you forget or lie and say you hadn’t? Well, Jeb’s conclusion was, it was insurance fraud. The guy got public sympathy, made his enemies look bad, and got a new roof, which he needed anyway.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding.” Ollie was flipping through his notes again. “Then there’s the biggest clinic in town. May 1993, just after that abortionist was killed down in Pensacola. Some guy hears a ruckus and looks out his window and happens to see somebody throw something through a window of the clinic. He saw a long-haired man in a white shirt running from the clinic, but it was too dark for a positive ID. Those abortion protesters are the short-haired type, but naturally everybody assumed they did it. Know what Jeb says?”

“No, but I bet you’re going to tell me.”

“For a price.”

“Okay, I’ll buy you a hot dog next time we meet for lunch.”

“I was thinking a Häagen-Dazs from that vendor headin’ this way.”

Jake looked up and saw the vendor in the distance.

“Okay, okay It’s yours. What does Jeb say?”

“This guy called the fire department, they were there in three minutes, and there was only damage to one room and one machine in that room. The ultrasound.”

“So?”

“So, Jeb’s daughter is a nurse over at Lifeline. He had dinner at her place a week later and the fire comes up. He mentions the ultrasound, and she says, ’What a coincidence. They’ve been sending their patients over to us the last month because their ultra-sound doesn’t work.’ So, guess whose insurance company got them a new ultrasound?”

Jake shook his head in amazement. “What did Jeb do?’

“Nothing. Insurance companies have their own investigators. That’s not Jeb’s job.”

“So they got away with it?’

“As far as I know. Who can prove it? It could have been a coincidence. Any way you look at it they come out smellin’ like a rose.”

“You don’t sound too impressed with the abortion business.”

“I guess I see too much violence in my job. I have to look at bloody pictures every day. You get callous to it, you have to, but a few times it’s been babies. That’s the worst. And when I see those pictures the protesters show, I know they’re real. They look like things I’ve seen. And there’s something in me that always makes me want to get the jerks that kill little kids. Not that I have a lot of sympathy for these demonstrators either. The whole thing just bugs me, that’s all.”

“What about the other two cases?”

“One was a zero. No clues, no witnesses. Could have been an anti-abortionist, could have been another inside job, who knows? But the other was very interesting. It was at the Downtown Feminist Women’s Center. Four years ago.”

“That was the clinic Doc worked at. And I think that was about the time he quit. He might have still been there.”

“You know what else? There was an incident at that clinic during business hours the same day it got torched. Besides a few people hanging around passing out literature, there was a guy, tall guy, marijuana tattoo on his right bicep, who just walked into the clinic and started yelling. I’ve got a copy of the police report right here. By the time the cops got there the guy was gone. Took off on foot. They couldn’t even book him, so we don’t even know if his fingerprints are on file. He definitely wasn’t with the protesters. His language was like a drunken sailor’s.” Ollie paused for effect. “I’ve saved the best for last, Jake. He came to blows with someone at the clinic.”

“Yeah?”

“One of the doctors came out of a back room and this guy was on him. Three guesses who the doctor was.”

“Doc?”

“You got it. Your friend got in a couple good licks on the guy, but not before he took him down and ripped up his clothes. The guy ran off, and Doc left for the day. The report says while the perp was in your friend’s face, he kept yelling ’You killed my baby’ I imagine the doctor was pretty shook.”

“Doc never told me that.” Jake wondered how many other things about that part of his life Doc never told him. “Are you saying that same night this guy came back and torched the clinic?”

“Somebody did. I’d lay money on him, wouldn’t you?”

“But what are the chances? I mean … this was over four years ago? You think this guy would wait this long if he was going to go after Doc?’

“Don’t know But it makes for an interesting thought, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, it does.” Jake hesitated a moment. “Ollie, do you think Jeb would talk to me about this stuff? I mean, if I wanted to use it for a column some time?”

Ollie gave Jake a measured stare, as if analyzing a machine that wasn’t working properly. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your columns. Is it my imagination, or are you going through some kind of change? Like male menopause or something?”

“Or something, Ollie. I’d like to talk to you about it, but first I’ve got to get some stuff worked out in my own head. Meanwhile, would Jeb talk to me?”

“Well, he’d have to downplay a lot of what he told me, especially his theories on the two incidents here in town, the ones he’s convinced were deliberate. The department would have his neck if that came out. But most of this stuff is public domain, newspaper articles and other stuff. If I asked him, vouched for you, I’ll bet he’d help you as much as he could, maybe be an anonymous police detective source.’ Want me to ask?”

“Yeah, I’d really appreciate that, Ollie. I’ve never heard this stuff before, and nothing like it has ever been in the
Trib
, that’s for sure. I’d like to tackle it, maybe after a few weeks of background research. Give Jeb my number, will you? Tell him there’s a hot dog with kraut in it for him.”

“In that case I may tag along.” Ollie stood up and waved his hand at a vendor coming his way. “Meanwhile, I hear a Coffee & Almond Crunch calling my name.”

“Sue? It’s Jake.”

“Hi, Jake! I’ve been thinking a lot about you lately. Haven’t talked to you since Christmas. How are you?”

“Okay. Listen, Little Finn’s not off to school yet, is he?”

“No. Want to talk to him?”

“No, that’s okay. You usually read my column after he goes off to school, don’t you?”

“Yep, every Tuesday and Thursday morning over coffee, like clockwork. And recently I can hardly wait to see what you’re going to shock me with next. I keep looking back at the byline to make sure it’s really your column.”

“You’re not the first person who’s mentioned that.”

“The other day, though, I figured it all out.”

“What’s that?”

“I figured out your whole scam.”

“Scam?”

“Yeah. Suddenly it dawned on me. Finney didn’t really die. He’s holed up in Jake’s apartment as his ghostwriter!”

“
Ghost
writer, huh?”

“Well, I didn’t mean it that way.” Sue laughed. “Seriously, Jake, I’ve been wanting to call you, but to be honest I didn’t want to say the wrong thing. I’m afraid if you keep hearing me say how pleased I am with your columns you’ll have to rethink them and maybe run a retraction or something! Anyway, I’m just so proud of you. I can’t wait to get together and talk.”

“Yeah, let’s do that. I’ve got a lot to tell you. Some of its good news. For now, I just want to be sure you read my column today. My phones already ringing, and there’s an uproar down here, and I thought … well, to be honest, I guess I wanted to ask you to pray for me.”

Sue’s coffee cup dropped to its saucer, and coffee lapped over on her blouse. “Jake, are you all right? Well, of course you’re all right, I didn’t mean to imply … Jake, really, are you all right?’

Jake laughed. Sue could hear the strain in his voice, but also a strange calm.

“Its that shocking, huh? You pray for me all these years and maybe it starts to have just a little effect and you can’t believe it. You think I’ve gone off the deep end. You’re a real woman of faith, Sue!”

“Jake, I don’t know what to say.”

“Obviously. Just read the column. But don’t get your hopes up. It’s not
The Confessions of St. Augustine
or anything. I have to deal with issues in the column—there’s nothing spiritual in it, not directly anyway. Just something that Carly and I experienced last week when we spent the day together. But please. I was serious. Do pray for me. I need it, Sue. I’ve got an important meeting this afternoon, and I’m … nervous. Rome is burning around me down here, and I’m not sure whether to turn on the fire extinguishers or just sit back and fiddle.”

“I will pray, Jake. But first I’m reading this column! I’ll call you back.”

Sue tore open the
Trib
to the Forum section and went straight to Jake’s picture and column:

Last week I went into the local county library with my seventeen-year-old daughter, Carly. As we walked in the front door, there in the free literature rack were multiple copies of two homosexual newspapers. In addition to their schedules of gay activities, these newspapers are filled with homo-erotic pictures and advertisements of people seeking sexual partners. The ads often state a preference for “young” partners.