A Confidential Source (11 page)

He returned the picture and stopped to study me for a moment. “So what’s up? Are you a PI?”

I shook my head. “Newspaper reporter—but Barry really
was
a friend of mine.”

Will considered this for a moment, as if trying to decide whether to believe it. “I’m sorry, then,” he finally said, sounding
sincere. “How did he die?”

“He was shot, working the cash register.”

Will shook his head at the violence of the world, and then grew thoughtful. “I would have figured a suicide.”

Victor Delria was lying on the wooden floor in the Mazursky Market, his face completely hidden in bandages. I thought he was
sleeping, and that I was safe. But as I stepped over him to get to the register, I looked down. The gauze around his face
began unraveling. His eyes flew open. “You bitch,” he said, low and mean.

I sat up in bed. The low, mean sound was my alarm clock, which growled its wake-up call. It was Monday morning, and I was
alone in a cold apartment.

I was tired from my trip to Connecticut and worn down from the bad dream. As much as I didn’t want to go running this morning,
I knew I had to get out there. It was the only way to blot out the pictures in my brain.

I threw off my sleep sweatshirt and pulled on long tights, a T-shirt, and a completely different sweatshirt—the one without
stains. I found my running shoes, with socks still stuck inside them, right by the door.

It was colder than yesterday, with a gray sky that looked like it would not provide sunshine all day. My hands were freezing,
so I headed up Angell Street at a fast clip to try to warm up quickly. A few early-morning commuters were driving cars or
waiting for buses, but it was still a half hour or so before rush hour, so the street was mostly mine.

In high school, I’d been on the swim team and had never even considered cross-country or track. That was probably a mistake,
because I’m much faster on dry land than I ever was in the water. Maybe it’s the adult anxieties that drive me; the faster
I run, the harder it is for me to think. I cruised onto Blackstone Boulevard pretty quickly, breathing in cold air, breathing
out fear.

Endorphins: the bonus prize for exercise. Sometimes I can run five miles and never feel that lightness of being, that goodwill
toward men. Today, I’d run a marathon if it meant I could outrace the images, the unraveling gauze.

On a weekday, the run-before-work crowd starts at daybreak, and at seven
A.M
. I had plenty of company on the boulevard. Quickly, I gained on two women who chatted too much to achieve any real speed.
I passed them and another single male runner. Instead of returning the same way I’d come, I decided to do a five-mile loop,
leaving the cinder path and overhanging trees to continue north until Blackstone merged with Hope Street.

By the time I’d run through the mostly residential section and onto the commercial block, the city had awakened. I had to
stop and wait for commuter traffic at each intersection.

But physical exertion worked its magic. My pace was even, my head clear, and I felt at peace with the world. I had $450 in
winnings and a sense of leftover luck. I loved the East Side of Providence with its mix of funky shops, historic homes, and
the occasional lavender two-family. This was my neighborhood, I thought, drunk now with endorphins. I loved this run.

I had just passed the CVS pharmacy and stopped at the red light at the intersection of Rochambeau Avenue when the ultimate
in civilization occurred. The light turned green and a man driving a silver sports sedan waiting to turn left motioned for
me to go first. I waved a brisk thank-you and headed out onto the street.

I was halfway across. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flicker of motion. The silver sedan. Was it turning? The guy
who had waved me on was coming right at me. A hunk of moving steel.

I bolted forward in panicked acceleration. The car kept coming, barreling through the turn. Didn’t he have brakes? A horn
shrieked in my ear. I made a final leap. The car came within inches, so close I could feel the air displaced, a rush of pressure
at my back.

I barely made the curb. I screamed at the driver. He looked confused, but the car didn’t stop. He didn’t pull over to apologize.
The silver sedan sped away. There was some minor damage to the right-rear bumper, suggesting a previous accident. I tried
to make out the license plate, but the only thing I could see was that the last number was seven.

“Asshole!” I screamed.

The glint of silver disappeared at the end of the street. Pedestrians emerged on the corner. The flow of traffic resumed.
I bent forward, hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. Was I crazy? Hadn’t the driver waved for me to go?

One of the pedestrians, a man with a bakery bag, stopped at my side. “Are you all right?” he asked.

I couldn’t answer, couldn’t right myself or pull words out of my throat. The sidewalk swayed beneath me; my head throbbed
with confusion. I tried to sort out events. The traffic light switched from red to green. I saw the driver wave for me to
go. The car took the corner, the metal aimed at me.

“You’re lucky,” the man with the bakery bag said. “This is such a dangerous intersection. A twelve-year-old boy got hit trying
to cross here just a couple of months ago. He died.”

I
STOOD IN
the shower longer than I should have, with my eyes closed, trying to let the hot water melt the clenched feeling in my bones.
It was a dangerous intersection with a blind spot; cars and bicycles collided there all the time.

I replayed those words like a mantra as I dressed for work:
dangerous intersection, dangerous intersection, dangerous intersection.
I couldn’t allow myself to think about Matt Cavanaugh’s warning. I couldn’t start believing that friends of Delria’s were
already after me. Delria wasn’t even charged with the murder, for Christ’s sake. All kinds of accidents occurred at that corner.
All the time.

I reminded myself that I’d won $450 the night before, and that confirming Leonard’s tip about Barry was good news, not bad.
I told myself that the difference between good reporters and bad reporters was their level of boldness: If I gave in to fear,
I’d spend the rest of my life in the bureau, resentful, like Carolyn. Or worse.

I arrived at the South County bureau office just after eight
A.M
., knowing I’d have to get the local police and fire checks out of the way before I could call Sergeant Holstrom to see if the
forensics report had come back. I worried that if I didn’t act fast, the city editor in Providence was likely to reassign
it to Jonathan Frizell as a routine follow.

I was hoping Carolyn would come in early, too, but she was late, which was unusual for her. I’d checked police and fire in
all three towns and written up three press releases by the time she arrived. Her eyes were swollen and she sneezed as she
took off a lime-green ski jacket and fluffy purple scarf and hung them in the closet.

“You all right?” I asked, watching her pull a wad of Kleenex from the pocket of her jacket.

“You’re the one who almost got killed Friday night,” she said, sounding almost angry about it.

“I’m fine,” I said. No need to worry her with the details of my most recent brush with death.

“Animals in this world. Animals.” She flicked on her computer, sighed as it began the long process of booting up, and turned
back to me. “That was a great story about that store owner yesterday. What’s his name, your friend? What a guy, that guy.
I cried when I read it. I actually cried.”

“Barry,” I said. “Barry Mazursky.”

“Yeah, all that work for the veterans and shit. Why is it always the good guys who get shot in the head? Why don’t they go
try to rob my ex’s auto-body shop and shoot him? Dirtbag population could use a little thinning. Why is it always the nice
guys who stay with their wives twenty, thirty years—
they’re
the ones who get popped?”

“Yeah,” I said, in agreement, but I was trying to follow which ex-husband she meant and whether his murder would mean the
end of the child-support payments she complained were too low. I got up and headed to our little kitchenette. “You want any
coffee?” I called back.

Carolyn asked if we had any tea. I filled the Hotpot with water and waited for it to heat up. I was a little worried about
the piece I’d written: Saint Barry Mazursky, innocent victim of random violence, the great husband who probably left his poor
family with bad memories and staggering debts. But I told myself that there was no way I could have known on Saturday that
Barry had embezzled from the Veterans’ Homeless Shelter. And confirming that Barry was a gambler didn’t necessarily confirm
that he was an embezzler. Still, as the water began to bubble, I knew in my heart that it was all probably true.

In the same drawer where I found a sandwich bag full of Tetley tea bags, there was a small plastic container of honey along
with packets of ketchup and barbecue sauce. I added the honey to Carolyn’s mug and took it to her. “You probably should have
stayed home today,” I said, putting the mug on her desk.

“God knows, nobody downtown appreciates the effort I make to come in,” she said as she sipped the tea and scanned her screen
for the day’s messages. She wore a good set of acrylic nails painted a dusty pink. They made a clicking sound on the keyboard.

I sat down at my own desk and leafed through the stack of public notices I’d meant to put up on the bulletin board. The South
Kingstown Finance Committee was meeting this afternoon to weigh the school committee’s plan to renovate the elementary school.
It was the most controversial budget item in town, and I felt the dead weight of it in my chest. How could I possibly sit
through a tedious municipal meeting this afternoon? How could I come back here and make a story of it? Try to sound as if
I cared?

I kept thinking about what Leonard had said when he’d dropped me off at my car Saturday night:

“You break that story a week before the election and it’s front-page news. That helps me, that helps you, and maybe that stops
a few more people from ending up like Barry. ”

“Oh, they’re praising you on the Today Show.” Carolyn did not mean the actual network news program but the nickname for the
Chronicle’s
in-house daily computer file in which editors and reporters posted news, opinion, and out-and-out ranting.

I was instantly diverted by the mention of praise. “What does it say?”

“‘Bold, front-line reporting. Kudos to Ahern,’” Carolyn read aloud. “That’s from Nathan, the managing editor, and he’s real
cheap with praise.

“‘Chilling story. Concise.’ That’s from Ernie Santos; he’s a copy editor.

“‘I mourned with the writer. What bureau does she work in, anyway? Does anyone know her?’” Carolyn laughed cynically. “That
one’s unsigned, but you can tell it’s Nina Daggart; she mourns with the writer on every sad story.”

I couldn’t help but be pleased, but still, something was bothering me, holding me back, something I couldn’t quite put my
finger on.

“What’s the matter with you, anyway?” Carolyn asked, her infected, uneven voice beginning to warble. “Even Jonathan Frizell,
who always has some kind of snotty sideways comment, couldn’t come up with anything negative to say.”

“I got a tip Saturday night,” I confided. “An anonymous tip—two hours past deadline, after I’d already filed my story—that
Barry Mazursky was a compulsive gambler. Suspected of embezzling from the Veterans’ Homeless Shelter when he was treasurer,
and deep in debt to some loan sharks who finally ran out of patience.”

“You mean, and knocked him off?”

I nodded.

“Loan sharks don’t usually do that. It makes it tough to collect.”

“Maybe the killer only meant to apply a little pressure and then Barry pulled his own gun. I don’t know, but the compulsive
gambling checks out. I took a ride down to Mohegan Sun yesterday where, apparently, Barry Mazursky was a regular.”

Carolyn considered this. “So what’s the problem? You got a good tip that checked out?”

“My story in Sunday’s paper practically eulogized Barry as divine, for Christ’s sake.”

She waved that off. “So you quoted a bunch of people who wanted to canonize the guy. Like reporters here haven’t canonized
every single victim of every single tragedy that made the front page. Whoever died was Mother Teresa. No one wants to say
the guy with the bullet holes deserved it. No one.”

The knot in my stomach began to soften. Still, I told myself that there were turf politics to consider. As a South County
reporter, I was supposed to stick to my own territory and report on Narragansett, South Kingstown, and North Kingstown. I
had no intrinsic right to a Providence story requiring in-depth investigation, no matter what my prior experience.

Carolyn grabbed a tissue and began blowing her nose, but over the tissue, her eyes were watery and confused. The question
I saw echoed in my head. What
was
wrong with me?

I knew, then, that it wasn’t my story about Barry or turf politics that was stopping me. They were excuses. What was stopping
me was the silver sedan gunning for my back, the fear that next time it might be a bullet hole oozing blood from
my
forehead.

“By the way, I heard Jonathan Frizell is after that job you want on the investigative team,” she said. “You want that job,
you better make your move.”

“I’m planning on pitching this story downtown,” I heard myself say. “‘Murder Tied to Casino Gambling’—two weeks before the
referendum.”

“You gotta.” Carolyn sniffed, crumpled her tissue into a ball, tried to toss it into the trash and missed. Then a new thought
occurred to her. “Hey, this is going to screw me, big time! I’ll be stuck trying to cover this bureau alone. They better damn
well send someone from West Bay out here to fill in while you’re gone.”

“Anonymous?” Dorothy Sacks asked. “You mean you don’t know who is passing you this information?”