Diamonds and Cole (2 page)

“Brennan’s been asking for you. Something about a dead kid or somethin’. I really didn’t get much out of it.”

Cole gave her that silent smile that was now all-too-familiar, and slipped through the swinging door at the counter.

Olajean seemed content.
Why am I so miserable?
Cole thought. Maybe it was turning 45. He always believed he would die in some adventurous blaze of glory. He got shot at in the Philippines, saw a car bomb go off in front of his hotel in Tel Aviv, and received enough death threats to wallpaper
The Sentinel
building. But here he was. When had he given up? Twenty-five years in the news business and he was at the bottom. No, lower than the bottom. He started at the bottom, and he was even lower now.

No one looked up as he made his way through the maze of cubicles. Mini flowerpots, kitty posters, and pictures of little leaguers, soccer stars, Brad Pitt, and big-eyed cartoon children blurred past him as he made his way to his corner of the world. Coffee cups, stacks of paper, and an old “Coming Soon to the Bijou” flyer decorated his carpeted “office.”

Cole made a half-hearted attempt at straightening his tie. He exhaled deeply as he stared at the numbers on the phone. Punching in 784, he waited.

“Brennan.”

“What’s up?”

“What, I don’t warrant an in-person audience?”

“Thought it...” Cole paused, not having an answer. “I thought I’d save time. Something about a dead kid?”
 

“Dead kitten. Seems a dozen people tried to get this cat out of a tree until some guy used a swimming pool net on a long aluminum pole. Looks like it touched a power line about the time it snagged the cat. Fried the kitty and shocked the shit out of the guy holding the pole. Anyway, follow it up, would ya? Natoma and 125th.”

“That’s it?”

“Yep, need filler. Nothing really happening today.” Brennan hung up.

A dead cat. Cole just stared, phone to his ear, dial tone humming. The movement of a copy clerk caught his eye. He knew he had to cover the story. That was the ache. Why didn’t he quit? The resounding echo was always,
To do what?

Cole left his coat draped on the back of his swivel chair, and stood looking over the tops of the cubical walls; a sea of gray carpeted boxes, filled with people doing God-knows-what. At the far-end of the room stood three people deep in conversation. Next to them was the water cooler. Cole was not below eavesdropping. He made his way back to the trio.

“It’s stealing from the city plain and simple,” groaned an Asian man in a Georgetown sweatshirt.

“Prove it, Lionel. How are you going to prove it? Facts, remember?” challenged a tall acne-scarred man Cole knew as Katz. Cole didn’t like him. Katz always sounded like he read too many Superman comics, and never realized that Jimmy Olson wasn’t the hero.

Erica Sloan, whose bad haircut and wardrobe matched her writing style, chimed in. “Contractors can apply for low-cost city loans as long as they are either renovating existing buildings in low-income areas or building new low-income housing. It has been this way for years. What’s the big deal?” Cole helped train her when she first came on the paper. She was smart and knew it, still finding news, just like he taught her.

Cole filled a cup with cold filtered water.
No news here,
he thought as he turned to go back to his desk.

“Hi Mr. Sage, workin’ on anything big?” Katz beamed when he caught sight of Cole.

“He really is Jimmy Olson,” Cole muttered.

“Carl.”

“What?”

“My name is Carl, not Jimmy.”

“Of course it is, sorry,” returned Cole.

Carl Katz, now why isn’t he working on this story? Just think of the headline possibilities combined with his byline.
Cole actually chuckled to himself.

Clouds rolled in from the east. No chance of rain, but enough to cast a gray shadow on the day. Cole enjoyed the cool breeze on his face. His tie flapped in the wind as he walked to the car. Long ago he gave up tightening his ties. His uniform was pretty much the same year after year: Levis, an oxford cloth, button-down collar shirt, and a Harris Tweed sports coat, with oval leather patches on the elbows. He owned three tweed sports coats. Gray for important meetings, interviews, or the rare occasion he was trying to impress someone. Dark brown for those, more and more frequent, dark days, when he didn’t feel like leaving his apartment. And camel-colored, his personal favorite, for the times he really needed to feel like his old self. Today he wore the dark brown.

*
   
*
   
*

Natoma Street was in the old part of the city, canopied with handsome old trees that lined streets, always keeping it cool and shady in summer. Cole always loved how the huge, old, ash trees loomed over the street, growing together and forming a massive green arch. Small houses set deep on the lots looked like little gingerbread houses. Ivy climbed and covered the chimneys. The lawns were all edged and mowed. Cole always wished he could have lived in a neighborhood just like the Montclare District.

As he turned up Natoma, a Community Service Officer flagged him down. “Sorry, sir, road’s closed.”

Cole showed the officer his press credentials and asked, “All this for a dead cat?”

“A bit more serious than that. Seems the old lady who owned the cat has taken the guy who killed it hostage. Says she’s got a shotgun. Nobody can get to her.”

“Where can I park?”

The officer pointed to the left side of the street behind an ambulance. “I guess that would be okay.”

“Hey, who’s in charge?” Cole yelled as he pulled away.

“Harris. Lieutenant Harris.”

The small street was crammed with fire engines, ambulances, six police cruisers, and three or four navy blue, unmarked, Crown Victorias doing their best to look inconspicuous. The picture-perfect landscapes were strung with yellow police tape and patrolmen. Neighbors from all over the district were pressing against the barricades, and chatting about how nothing like this ever happened here before. Cole approached a bored-looking patrolman who was leaning against the back of a black-and-white, smoking.

“Sage, with
The Sentinel
. What is going on? I heard some guy shocked a cat to death trying to get it out of a tree. What happened?”

“The lady who owned the cat came out with an old double-barrel shotgun while the paramedics were giving the guy who killed it the once-over. Started shouting about how he murdered her baby and how he had always hated her and this was his revenge. Seems she snapped.”

“Where’s Harris?”

“He’s at the yellow house with the hostage negotiator. Seems the old gal won’t answer the phone.” The patrolman motioned his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the direction of the house.

“Thanks.”

Cole made his way up the street with no regard for the barriers or tape. He always found that acting like you belong somewhere got you a lot further than asking questions.

In college, Cole heard Arlo Guthrie talking on the radio about a little-known verse of “This Land Is Your Land.” Arlo told the story of a time when his father, Woody, had been interviewed on the radio. The announcer asked about writing “This Land is Your Land,” and the usual bunch of shallow interview-type questions.

Woody had always told Arlo that this one special verse belonged to him and only he knew it. Woody would always sing it to Arlo when he felt down, or got in trouble at school. To Arlo’s shock, Woody sang it on the air! He felt hurt and betrayed, but then overjoyed when Woody told the whole wide world that “that last verse belongs to my son, Arlo.” As Cole walked along dodging barricades, and ducking under police tape, he hummed “This Land” and sang that special verse in his head:
As I went walking I saw a sign there, And on the sign it said “No Trespassing.” But on the other side, it didn’t say nothin’. That side was made for you and me.
Now that verse belonged to both Cole
and
Arlo.

“Hey, Sage,” Harris said without expression, when Cole finally reached the house. “Lookin’ for blood?”

“No, actually a dead cat.”

“We’re a little beyond that now.”

“What’s the story on the old lady?”

“Isn’t any, really. Never had so much as a parking ticket. Just freaked when the guy killed her cat.” Harris motioned to the young man standing next to him. “Cole, this is Trevor Varney, negotiations specialist. Trev, this is Cole Sage of
The Sentinel
.”

“How’s it goin’?” Varney smiled.

“Any day above ground is a good day, I guess.” Cole replied.

Harris chuckled and turned to Varney. “Cole’s the eternal pessimist. He doesn’t even believe there’s a glass, if you know what I mean.”

“Don’t believe everything you read,” Cole smiled.

“Especially in
The Sentinel
,” Harris teased.

“Yeah, especially that.”

“So, Mr. Varney, what happens if she won’t pick up the phone?” Cole asked.

“I’m just getting ready to approach the front of the house. Tom, I think it would be a good idea if we backed everybody up. Just enough to be out of direct sight of the front windows.”

“It’s your show,” Harris said calmly. Turning to a veteran officer on the tape line, Harris waved his arm at the growing crowd. “Okay, Sergeant, I want everybody back. Move the barriers to about that second house. Yeah, the green one.” He nodded, confirming the sergeant’s indication of a green two-story Tudor.

“How old is this woman? Is there a history with the hostage?”

Cole had been the best of friends with Harris for going on twenty years now. Still, he felt like he sounded as if he were conducting an interview.

“According to the hostage’s wife, Mrs. Lemoore, her husband and Mrs. Clark have never got along. Clark’s cat used the Lemoore’s’ front flowerbed for a litter box. It’s been a bone of contention for a long time. Mrs. Lemoore said her husband just got caught up in all the excitement of the cat in the tree and offered their pool net. The other neighbors love the guy. He’s like the neighborhood fix-it man and barbeque king,” Harris added as he watched the officers move the crowd and first set of barricades back. “Hey, watch the bushes! I don’t want the city getting a bill to re-landscape these people’s yards!”

“Where’s the wife now?”

“That’s her over there in the white shorts.” Harris pointed towards a rather large woman standing on the lawn across the street from the Clark house.

“You know, Tom,” Cole began, “there was a time you would have called her ‘that fat broad.’ Your newfound political correctness is a real tribute to the department’s sensitivity training program.” Cole slapped Harris on the back as he started toward the woman standing across the street.

“Well, you just keep
your
fat ass out of the way!” Harris chided.

Mrs. Lemoore was in her mid-to-late 40s. She was round around the middle, and her clothes did little to hide the fact. As he neared, Cole could see her eyes were red and puffy from crying. Her arms were tightly crossed across her large bust, and she was chewing on the nail of her right thumb.

“Mrs. Lemoore?” Cole said softly. “I’m Cole Sage of
The Sentinel
.”

The woman turned her head and gave Cole a dazed glance, then went back to watching the house across the street. She didn’t respond.

“The police know how to handle this kind of thing. It’s going to be all right. What’s your husband’s first name?”

“Stan,” she said in a whisper.

“I hear Stan’s quite the man with a barbeque. Dry rub or sauce?”

“Dry rub. Won’t ever use sauce. That’s for the table.” She neither changed expression nor spoke with any inflection.

“Me too. Except chicken, of course.”

“Why don’t they do something!” She suddenly became animated and spread her arms out in the direction Harris was standing.

“They’re getting ready to have a negotiator talk to Mrs. Clark. I just met him. Seems like he knows what he’s doing.” Cole had no idea if Varney knew what he was doing or not, but he wanted to comfort this woman. For some reason, he felt a connection to her. He had been on the scene of hundreds of murders, wrecks, fires, and hostage stand-offs and seen and talked to parents, wives, husbands and bystanders-but this was somehow different.

“What will he do?”

“Well, it seems Mrs. Clark...”
 

“Annie,” she broke in.

“Annie...won’t answer the phone. So, he will approach the front of the house and try to speak to her. He is unarmed and will use a bullhorn. He needs to get her talking. The more they can get her to do that, the better. It will help her calm down and see what she is doing is wrong and unnecessary. The guy’s a pro. She’s not a hardened criminal—just somebody who got too upset.”

“Hope so. I’m-I’m so scared.”

“How ‘bout I stay here with you ‘til Stan comes out, Mrs. Lemoore?”

“Paula.” Again she spoke very softly.

“What?”

“Paula, my name is Paula. ‘Mrs. Lemoore’ always makes me feel so old. Mrs. Lemoore is my mother-in-law.” She seemed to smile slightly.

“I love the name Paula,” Cole said to the woman standing by him.

“I don’t know what I would do without Stan. I said something this morning I didn’t mean. I just want to say I’m sorry.” She covered her face and sobbed.

“I bet Stan knows you didn’t mean it. He knows you love him. Let’s just sit down and wait this thing out.”

“Mrs. Clark,” the voice from the bullhorn seemed to bounce off every house on the block. “Mrs. Clark, I am Trevor Varney. Can I talk to you?” The young man with the bullhorn stood in the middle of the lawn and spread his arms at shoulder height and slowly turned around. “I’m unarmed. I just want to talk.” He put the bullhorn at his side and stood perfectly still.

In what seemed like a slow motion scene from a Sam Peckinpah western, the front windows of the Clark house blew out. The head of Trevor Varney was blown open. Pieces of pink mass, blood, and hair rolled through the air and scattered across the lawn. Cole instinctively pushed Paula Lemoore to the ground shouting, “Stay down, stay down!” as she tried to struggle to her feet.