Little Deaths(25)

Janine’s other line rang and Pete ignored it, but it kept ringing until one of the secretaries covered her own mouthpiece with her hand and hissed at him to pick up. He lifted the receiver, kept his eyes on Friedmann’s door.

It was O’Connor. As soon as he heard his voice, Pete thought of Friedmann saying, “O’Connor has two weeks of his vacation left. You can stay on this story until he’s back.”

He kept his tone light. “Hey, man. I thought you were in Florida.”

“Wonicke? What, you’re a goddamn receptionist now? Listen, I don’t got much time. I am in Florida. I’m in the fucking hospital.”

“What happened? You okay?”

“No, I’m not okay. If I was okay, I wouldn’t be in here, dumbass.”

Pete was still watching Friedmann’s door, but neither of them had come out yet.

“Is Friedmann around?”

“He’s got someone with him.”

“Listen, I need you to give him a message. I’m due back tomorrow. Tell him I need another week. My idiot brother totaled his truck.”

“Shit.”

“Shit is right.”

“What happened?”

“We were in a bar, playing a little pool, drinking beer. We had a few shots. Only the fucking moron can’t hold his liquor. He wouldn’t give me the goddamn keys to his truck. Said he was fine, said he could drive. And now he’s in here with two broken ribs and a punctured lung, and it’s down to me to take care of the goddamn insurance paperwork.”

“Jesus, Con. Is he going to be okay?”

“That asshole? He’s fine. I’m the one with my neck in a brace. They’re telling me I can’t get behind a wheel for six weeks.”

There was a voice in the background and Con said loudly, “Two more minutes . . . Jesus, they don’t even got a working pay phone in here. I’m at the nurses’ station. I got to get out of here, man. This place is a shithole. The heat, the goddamn mosquitoes. My arms are like fucking pincushions. Soon as I’m discharged and the paperwork’s done I’m going straight to the nearest car rental and getting on the road . . . yeah, yeah, I hear you, nurse. I’m just finishing up.

“Anyway, I’ll be back in a week or so. Say Monday. The ninth. Okay? Can you tell Friedmann?”

“Sure.”

“So what’s going on there? Anything interesting turn up? Anything worth rushing back for?”

What would I know, Con? I’m just the goddamn receptionist.

Pete glanced over at the row of secretaries, all busy with their own calls, their typing. He looked down at his desk, at his notes on the Malone case. The interview transcripts, with his scribbles and questions in the margin.

He took a deep breath and tried to sound casual.

“Not really. Just a couple of traffic accidents. The usual. You know.”

“Okay. Good. You tell him, anything big comes in, I’ll be back on Monday. I can pick it up then. Okay? You got that?”

“Sure. Monday.” Pete scribbled it in his notepad, still looking at Friedmann’s door. When it opened, Janine emerged and Friedmann appeared behind her, neck swiveling, scanning the room. Pete stood up, caught his eye.

“Gotta go, Con. Take it easy.”

He hung up. Friedmann jerked his head and Pete was in.

“I need you to get over to Queens, Wonicke. Toot sweet. 68th Drive. There’s been a development on the Malone case, but I don’t know what they got.”


Pete gave O’Connor’s message to Janine and ran to the parking lot. He drove over the Williamsburg Bridge as fast as his ancient Chevy would take him, frantically scanning his street map at every red light. The road was cordoned off, asphalt shimmering in the stifling August heat. It was a dead end, probably a weekend hangout for kids on bikes: there was a built-up embankment, a small cluster of scrubby trees. Like the neighborhood where the Malones lived, this was the kind of place that no one noticed.

But the Malone story was news, and whatever had happened that morning, it had already brought crowds. There were cops everywhere. Huddles of reporters. And groups of watchers two or three deep on the embankment. The mood was different too: there was no grief here. No sympathy. Pete looked at the curious faces of the crowd and realized these weren’t friends or neighbors, but most likely strangers caught up in the drama. They stood in silence, arms folded, necks craning to watch the cops coming in and out of the trees. Waiting.

Pete got out of the car, notebook in hand, sweating through his sports coat. Took his place near the veteran reporters who were leaning casually against a van. He recognized a couple from their byline headshots.

This was what he wanted: to be one of these guys. He wanted their confidence at a scene, their loose walk, their way of turning neighbors and shop owners into sources, their trick of pulling the threads of a rumor into a story.

He’d done two years in this job—two years of typing up routine stories, of living in a one-room apartment where trains rumbled underground through the night and where the crazy guy next door shouted in his sleep—and this was his chance. He could feel it. This story was his.

Twenty-three tense minutes later, a cop sauntered over to the group of reporters. He took his time, hitching his belt up over his belly, swinging his nightstick, drawing out the wait a little longer. One of the senior men—Miller? Mellor?—nosed his way out of the crowd of reporters to meet him halfway. The cop talked in a low rumble, the other guy bent his head, nodded, remained motionless, looking down, even as the cop clapped him on the shoulder and lumbered back to the perimeter tape. Then the reporter made his way back to the other old hands, who in turn passed back snippets to the guys at the edge of the pack. Pete hung onto his notebook and concentrated on sidling closer to the group. No one spoke to him. He strained to hear the murmured threads of conversation.