The Informant (22 page)
“Are you
still
reading this?” she asked incredulously.
He wrapped his arms around her and playfully bit her earlobe. “I told you. I don’t really read it. I just hold it up and stare at it in public places until a good-looking woman comes along and talks to me.”
“You tramp,” she said as she fell back on the bed and pulled him on top of her. Her breath quickened as her thighs opened. Her hands brought him toward her pelvis.
She desperately wanted just to yank away the towel and feel his naked body, but she knew the
only
way he’d please her.
“Why don’t you put on some underwear,” she whispered in his ear. “And make me scream for my Charlie.”
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She gently caressed his face, trying to relax him. He suddenly tickled her, making her jump. She screamed playfully, then inadvertently nicked him on the chin with her diamond. It bled like a razor cut.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” she said, rubbing the little wound.
He shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. He brought her hand to his lips and gently kissed away the little red drops from the ring he’d given her on his return from Atlanta—a heart-shaped diamond in a platinum setting with two emerald baguettes on either side.
He smiled at a thought, but he kept it to himself: It wasn’t the first time there’d been blood on these stones.
212
f
rom the penthouse balcony overlooking Biscayne Bay, Mike could see it was a cool and crisp morning, the February-in-Florida version of a strong Arctic cold front.
Inspired by the chill, he threw on his jogging shorts, Tshirt, and Nikes and went out for a run.
He headed up the asphalt path north along Bayshore Drive, a busy tree-lined street through Coconut Grove that wasn’t exactly on the water, but more or less followed the irregular coastline. He passed the marina and waterfront shops to the east, with several blocks of towering condominiums across the street to his left. Oaks and long-limbed royal poinciana trees offered plenty of shade.
Morning traffic was heavy, but a light breeze from the bay made the exhaust fumes unnoticeable.
A hundred yards ahead, near the entrance to the waterfront park, a midnight blue Mercedes turned off Bayshore Drive and skidded to halt in the gravel parking 213
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lot. The windows were tinted dark, so he couldn’t see the driver inside. The motor was still running. Mike slowed nearly to a walk. The Mercedes didn’t move. Black diesel exhaust was still pouring out of the tailpipe. It seemed to be waiting.
Mike stopped, straining to recall whether he’d written any particularly biting articles about drug dealers lately.
Curious, he propped his leg up on the fence post and did a few stretches, keeping one eye on the car. It wasn’t going anywhere, and the motor was
still
running.
He jogged off the path and crossed the street. The car, he noticed, pulled out of the parking lot and back onto Bayshore Drive. Mike turned down a side street into an upscale residential area. It was like heading into a tunnel.
The expensive homes had no front yards. Crime what it was, each one had a seven-foot stone wall built up along the street and an iron gate barricading the driveway.
Halfway down the street he glanced back over his shoulder. The midnight blue Mercedes was turning off Bayshore, following right behind him. His heart raced.
The stone walls on either side left no place to turn. A sudden burst of adrenaline propelled him forward at full speed, like a sprinter out of the blocks. The car came faster. Mike was huffing and puffing at a dead run, and his legs felt like lead.
The engine roared behind him as the Mercedes barreled down. He whizzed past gate after iron gate, all of them locked. The car was just twenty feet away when Mike reached the street corner. He faked left then cut right, but the driver didn’t go for it. The car
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James Grippando
screeched to a halt in the middle of the intersection and Mike nearly ran right into it. The passenger door flew open.
“Get in,” Aaron Fields said sharply.
Mike was sweating and panting, barely able to speak.
“Why the hell are you chasing me?”
“Why the hell are you running away from me?” he snapped. “Now get in the car.”
Mike took a deep breath, then slid into the passenger seat and closed the door. Aaron pulled away slowly, heading back toward Bayshore Drive. Mike directed all the dashboard vents right at his sweaty face and cranked up the air-conditioning full blast. “You know,” he said, sucking in the cool air, “I’d much rather you fire me than stalk me.”
“I’m not stalking you. I called from my car phone on my way downtown, and your roommate said you were out jogging down Bayshore. When I saw you I pulled off and waited—and then you headed off in another direction, like you didn’t want to talk to me. Which only makes me think there might be some truth to the rumors.”
“What rumors?”
He stopped the car at the corner and shot Mike a look.
“That you’re holding out on me. I got a call this morning from Charlie Gelber. Tenth body turned up this morning in Virginia. And you didn’t print the story.”
“This is the first I’ve heard about it,” he said with surprise.
“I’d like to believe that. But the word down at the newsroom is that you’re pissed because I put you on probation.”
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The Mercedes pulled back onto Bayshore Drive, merging into the morning traffic. “Wait a minute,” said Mike.
“You think I got a call from my informant, like usual, and that I blew the exclusive just to get back at you.”
He grimaced, as if he hated to levy the accusation. “Do you expect me to believe it’s coincidence that your informant stopped calling on the same day I put you on probation? Put yourself in my shoes.”
“No. Put yourself in
my
shoes. I came to you and Charlie with this proposal because I thought you’d care as much about stopping a serial killer as I did. The minute something went wrong you put
me
on probation.”
“You’re still covering the story.”
“Oh, thank you very much for letting me continue to write and pump up sales.”
The car rocked as Aaron steered off to the shoulder of the road and slammed on the breaks, bringing them to a screeching halt. Two purple veins stood out on his temples. “Is that what you think, after thirteen years we’ve known each other? That I’m
using
you?”
“No,” Mike said with a sigh. “It’s just that…this whole experience has me feeling like you’ve changed, or I’ve changed, or maybe it’s the whole damn profession. Back when you were editor in chief, we took risks, sure—but not the kind that made me question our own motives.
There’s just a lot more emphasis on selling papers these days.”
Aaron shook his head. “And what the hell is so wrong with a publisher who wants to sell newspapers?”
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“Nothing, so long as that’s not the only thing you care about.”
“What do
you
care about, Mike?”
“I care about the people I write about.”
“Really? You
care
about them?”
“Sure. My wife even commented the other night, how she’s heard me talking on the phone to them for hours.
Victims. Their families. Witnesses to crimes. I’ve spent hours talking with them, consoling them. Karen sounded almost jealous about it.”
“Okay. And out of all these thousands of people you’ve consoled over the years, how many have you called back after the story ran in the newspaper? You know, just to see how they’re doing. How they’re making out.”
Mike looked down.
Aaron smirked. “That’s what I thought.” He sighed heavily, then laid a paternalistic hand on Mike’s shoulder.
“I’m not trying to make you feel like a shit-head, Mike.
All I’m saying is that you don’t care as much as you think you do; and by the same token, I’m not as interested in money as people think I am. We’re journalists. We care about the story. And if we’re good journalists, we care about the truth. If, along the way, we make a little money and make a few friends, that’s a bonus. But those incidentals aren’t what drive us. They can’t be, or they get in the way of telling it the way it is. You and me, Mike, we’re driven by the same thing. That’s why I’m on my third marriage,” he said with a half-joking smile. “That’s why you’ve never worked for another publisher.”
Mike ran a sweaty hand through his hair, and 217
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goose bumps covered his arms. He’d always liked Aaron, but the thought of being
like him
was suddenly disquiet-ing. He reached for the handle and popped open the door.
“I promise you, Aaron: I’m not holding out on you. If I hear from this guy, the
Tribune
gets the story.”
He smiled as Mike stepped down from the car onto the gravel shoulder. “That’s my boy,” he said with a wink.
Mike forced a return smile, then quickly closed the door.
He was suddenly thinking about the secrets Karen had never told him, and the way he was always rushing off at the beck and call of people like Aaron whenever she tried to talk.
Still damp with sweat, he stood alone in the cloud of dust, feeling that he’d just gotten more than a workout.
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rank Hannon woke at ten minutes till two that afternoon. He found a note on the lacy white pillow beside him on the bed. Valerie had a luncheon at the country club, then shopping at the Chevy Chase Mall. She probably wouldn’t be back until dinnertime. Perfect.
He stepped naked across the polished oak floors to a walk-in closet that was bigger than most bedrooms. Her slacks hung neatly from a rod that ran from one end to the other, with another for party dresses and two more for casual wear. A wall of shelves displayed shoes and purses. Along the far wall was a set of built-in drawers with Plexiglas facades, making hose, belts and underwear impossible to lose. A tiny quadrant in the back was the precious space Valerie had given him, but it was all he needed.
He put on a pair of khaki chinos and a blue oxford-cloth shirt with button-down collar—the preppy look that had melted Valerie’s heart. Yesterday’s high 219
THE INFORMANT
temperature had been in the fifties, so he took the Ralph Lauren jacket with the plaid lining that she’d bought for him, then grabbed the car keys from the nightstand and headed for the garage.
He stopped at the kitchen table, where Valerie had left her copy of the
Washington Post
beside an empty cup of coffee with red lipstick on the rim. He flipped through it with interest, noticing immediately that he’d made the front page.
Tongue-Murderer Strikes Capitol Area,
read the headline.
Tenth Victim Found in McLean, Va.
He skimmed the story, smiling. Nowhere was Mike Posten or the
Miami Tribune
mentioned. That confirmed it: Rollins was definitely the source.
He grabbed a V-8 from the refrigerator and walked with purpose from the kitchen. He’d left the space heater on inside the garage all night, so it was nice and warm.
Valerie’s Jaguar was still there, which meant one of her snooty friends had picked her up. He took the Volvo and drove to the strip mall just a few blocks away.
A light rain started to fall as he pulled into the parking lot. The hypnotic sound of the wipers streaking across the windshield had him thinking back again, to that night he’d spent in jail. It brought back all the old feelings, his hatred for cops, his old man—and Curt….
Twenty-some years ago, the very morning he’d gotten out of jail, he went right to Curt—the rat. The night in jail was supposed to teach him a lesson, his father said.
It had. And he went right to Curt’s house to teach
him
what he’d learned.
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James Grippando
Curt had spotted his friend coming up the driveway and tried to run, but his crutches didn’t take him far.
Frank tackled him behind the house. The crutches flew as they tumbled to the ground. He ripped Curt’s pant leg and tore off the bandage. Curt screamed, but it only excited him. With his bare hands he gouged the stitches from his leg. Curt cried out for his mother, as if to invite more. Frank punched him wildly in the face, beating him to near unconsciousness, stopping only when the blood from his nose and mouth completely covered his face. He was panting with exhaustion, but his rage still hadn’t subsided. Curt was on his back, moaning. Frank was on top, pinning him to the ground. The sheriff’s story about that other boy cutting out his own tongue was still fresh in his mind, feeding his anger and giving him strength.
He grabbed Curt by the hair and spoke right into his face.
“You’re a girl!” he shouted. “A little girly tattletale.”
“They made me tell,” Curt grunted, barely able to speak.
“They
made
me—”
Frank spit in his eye. “They made you into a
girl
! They thought they could do the same to me, but they couldn’t, and they never will.” He grabbed Curt by the throat, and his voice seethed with new menace. “’Cuz if anyone
ever
rats on me again, I swear I’ll rip the tongue right out of their mouth.”
Frank jumped up and kicked Curt in the leg, leaving him on the ground writhing in pain….
The rubber wipers screeched across the windshield, rousing Hannon from his thoughts. The rain had stopped, so he killed the wipers. He parked the
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Volvo in a secluded no-parking zone by the Dumpsters, off to the side of the strip mall. Plastic bread crates and a stack of compressed cardboard boxes from the supermarket towered over the car like a big castle wall. He walked around the side of the building, past the automatic doors at the supermarket entrance. In the busy pet shop next to the liquor store, a pack of two-week-old Collies tumbled in the display window. A little girl watched with glee, but Hannon didn’t seem to notice as he stepped inside. It took him only ninety seconds to get what he needed. He carried the cardboard box out by the handle and headed back to the car.