Edited to Death (29 page)

“Surely they can,” I said, “but at this point, I just think they’re trying to make
him nervous.”

“Are they?” asked Glen.

I bridled. “He doesn’t have anything to be nervous about. But.…”

“But what?”

“Oh, they’ve bumped him off the management committee at the firm. Until things clear
up. But if things never do.…”

“He should get a good lawyer, and you should stay out of it, Maggie,” muttered Glen.

“I know. Honestly, I haven’t even been thinking all that much about the whole thing.
But last night, I don’t know, I started brainstorming with the kids about something
weird on John Orlando’s illustrations.”

“Something weird?”

“Yeah. Haven’t you ever noticed? If you look at the bottom of his illustrations, where
his signature appears, there’s some peculiar number thing going on inside the O. You
know how he always does those highly ornamented Os?”

Glen nodded. “I’m familiar with his signature. But did you ask him about the numbers?
Perhaps it’s his inventory system.”

I sighed. “I know. It probably is, but I think that’s probably what he told Inspector
Moon.”

“You presented this theory to Moon?”

“Yes, yes. You know, I promised Michael—and you, too, I guess—that I’d run our little
ideas by him, instead of detecting on my own. And I’ve kept my word.” More or less,
I thought to myself.

“Well, then,” said Glen, “that’s about that, I guess. Now help me cut some of the
extraneous matter out of this frivolous lox piece of yours.”

“Frivolous?” I protested. “This is important investigative journalism.” I waved the
galleys at him. “Without it, no bagel is safe from inferior Nova Scotia anywhere in
the Bay Area.”

Glen’s face lit up. “Ah, Maggie, it’s nice to have you around. It’s nice to hear you
be silly. It’s even,” he regarded me solemnly, “nice to have you as a Mother Superior.”

“Perish the thought!”

We spent a collegial half hour bickering back and forth about what to cut, pulling
quotes, reviewing the factchecker’s notes on the story. As a typically lazy and somewhat
haphazard writer, I had grown dependent on the factchecker’s due diligence on my pieces.
Now, as an editor, I had to be willing to stand behind what we said. For
Small Town
, that usually involved nothing riskier than the price of smoked salmon in delis from
Mill Valley to Milpitas, but the idea of the responsibility was sharpening my respect
for the truth.

The truth. That’s exactly what was preoccupying me after Glen left. In some ways,
the surface of life had smoothed right out after Quentin’s death. It was if the shock
of his murder had been a rock, crashing into the surface of my peaceful little lake
of a life. Now, with him gone, only the tiniest of ripples remained. In many ways,
the surface was smoother than ever. My “temp” job had solved my who-am-I woes, Michael
and I seemed miraculously undamaged by my indiscretion, Josh’s stomach troubles had
improved, probably without mom hovering over him so much, and I’d grown to feel ever
more attached to the gang at
Small Town
. That’s what I’d been trying to tell Michael in the kitchen—some days I felt as if
I was the one who got away with murder.

But still, I wanted to know. Who had killed Quentin, and why? If the cops didn’t figure
it out, or couldn’t figure it out, would it hang forever over Michael? Worse yet,
over Michael and me? What about Stuart? He had to want to know. Of course, in some
ways, finding the truth could be more frightening than not knowing at all. If it was
someone close to me.… And with that, the urge to get up, find more caffeine, bother
somebody in another office became overwhelming. Because that kind of truth seemed
just too unthinkable.

“Geez, Maggie, what a chicken,” I said aloud. I punched in Moon’s number.

He answered on the second ring. “Anything new on the number on Orlando’s drawings?”
I asked.

“Maggie, how very nice to hear from you,” he said.

“Uh huh. Very nice, I’m sure. I bet you’re sitting there rolling your eyes and wondering
when I’ll go away.”

“Not rolling my eyes,” he said. “Not yet. Oddly enough, other people keep inconveniently
getting killed in our fair city, so I do have one or two other things to attend to.
What’s on your mind?”

“Well, I was wondering if you got my message last night.”

“I did.”

“And?”

“And nothing yet. I did pass the idea along to the information services people who
are looking at those numbers. I also—just so you don’t think I ignore every fine lead
you send my way—did talk to some gallery owners about how artists number their work.”

“What’d you find out?”

“Well, I faxed Orlando’s drawings to several people. None of them recognized his signature
as a numbering system they knew for prints or serigraphs or anything.”

“But that’s how he explained it, right?”

“Right. And just because gallery owners don’t understand his system, that doesn’t
make him guilty of something.”

“I know. Well, keep me posted.”

There was an audible sigh on the other end of the line. “And to be perfectly clear,
Maggie, I should keep you posted because.…”

“Because,” I said in my wannabe mover-and-shaker voice, “A. You are a public servant,
right? I do pay your salary.”

Moon chuckled. “Yes, that’s entirely correct. We never forget who we work for. And
was there a B?”

“Well, B is, after all, I am editor of a major city magazine. I am a member of the
Fourth Estate.”

“Acting editor, I believe,” said Moon tartly. “And unless I’m mistaken,
Small Town
’s mission in life seems to be covering important retail and culinary trends, not
current events.”

I thought about the lox piece. He had me there. “Hey,” I said, “press is press. And
C is, well, aren’t we friends?”

“We are friendly acquaintances,” he said. “And I don’t ask you to share confidential
information from your job, and you shouldn’t ask me to share confidential information
from mine. I’ve already raised eyebrows going out socially with you and your husband.”

“Okay, let’s go back to reason B,” I said.

“Mm-hmm,” he said. “Well, as I mentioned to you, I’m most grateful for any ideas,
and I assure you we’ll be following up on the results of the important investigative
session you carried out at your dinner table last night. Say hello to Michael for
me.”

All very cordial. All very polite. All very patronizing. But I was convinced nothing
was happening with our hot idea. I wandered down the hall to the coffee machine and
ran into Jorge, one of the factcheckers. The Copy Chief tended to hire college students
as factcheckers, interns whom we can cheerfully exploit. They need the work experience,
we need their labor. Mutual abuse. Jorge was a case in point. Senior at Berkeley in
journalism, dressed in kid-couture du jour—multiple ear piercings, one eyebrow piercing,
Courtney Love T-shirt, jeans worn well below the waist. Despite his grunge looks,
he was sweet, responsible, and exceptionally hard working.

“Hey, good work on my lox piece,” I said.

He blushed. “Your stuff is pretty clean,” he said. “You get people’s names right.”

“I know,” I said, rooting in the mini-fridge for half and half that had an expiration
date in this calendar quarter. “But I get careless about the other stuff—numbers,
times, addresses.”

He blushed even deeper. “Thanks, Maggie. I’m glad you like my work.”

I regarded him carefully, feeling my hipness slip away as I mourned over all those
holes in that gorgeous young face. Oh, well, preview of times to come at my house,
I guessed.

“Hey, Maggie, I’ve been fooling around with a new home page for
Small Town
. Can I show you later?”

Under Quentin’s nineteenth-century sensibility,
Small Town
had been dawdling on the journey into cyberspace. But, led by Jorge and a few of
the other young info junkies, the magazine had been playing catch-up with increasing
speed. “Sure,” I said vaguely. “Maybe this afternoon.” And then those little tumblers,
rattling around, trying to find their home, started up in my head.

“Hey, Jorge,” I called. “Wait up a sec.”

I followed him to his desk and computer terminal, and in a few minutes had learned
what I needed to know. The old
Daily Commercial News
, San Francisco’s longstanding chronicle of shipping news, a publication that had
flourished in the days when the city was an important port, was no more. But the information
the paper had carried—what ships moved in and out of which piers, carrying what cargo—was
still available. Online.

Jorge logged on, accessed an online service, and began scrolling through pages and
pages of shipping news.

“So what are we looking for, Maggie?” he asked.

“I’m not sure exactly. But I want you to check out any time these sets of numbers
come together,” and I scribbled a series of numbers from Orlando’s signature.

“Come together?”

“Yeah, like if on the third day of the fifth month, there’s a container ship arriving
at Pier 31, I want to know the particulars. What ship, what’s it carrying, like that.”

Jorge grinned and flashed me a thumbs up. “Got it. And what do I win if I figure it
out?”

“Geez, that’s exactly what my kids asked me last night,” I protested. “Doesn’t anybody
do anything for the fun of it anymore?”

“Oh, yeah,” Jorge laughed. “I do plenty of random stuff for the fun of it. But you
don’t want to hear about it.”

“Probably not.”

“Okay, here’s the deal.” He swiveled his chair to look at me. “I find something, and
you give me a real writing assignment.”

“What do you want to write about?”

“Hey, I don’t care. I just want to see a byline sometime before I’m—”

“Ancient?” I asked.

He blushed. “Well, not ancient, but you know, over-the-hill.”

I patted his hand. “Jorge, you’re making it worse. We got a deal. Find me some juicy
numbers and I’ll find you an assignment.”

We shook on it and I left him to his screen.

24

Nosy Slut

The Fiori Volvos were so aged and battered, veterans of so many urban and suburban
wars, that it was, at first glance, hard to tell what was different about my car.
Same color, same dents, same slightly askew right-side mirror.

But as I drew closer in the parking lot, I saw there was an added attraction.
Guercino’s Girl Is a Nosy Slut
, the side panel read. I circled the car. Correction,
Guercino’s Girl Is a Nosy Slut
decorated both side panels. The hood and rear window had been abbreviated to
Nosy Slut
. “Thorough,” I thought to myself, and then a wave of nausea hit me. I leaned against
a cold, concrete pillar in the parking lot and willed my lunch not to come up. Someone
nasty knew I hadn’t given up detecting, and that someone was pissed enough to embarrass
me.

I called Inspector Moon and he was there within twenty minutes.

“I don’t get it,” he said. “Who’s Guercino? Some other guy you’re seeing on the side?”

“Watch it,” I said. “Not that it’s your business, but I’m not seeing anyone.”

“Okay, so who’s this guy, Guercino?”

“A painter,” I said, “Italian, 1600s, I think.”

“So are you supposed to be Guercino’s Girl?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll figure it out.”

A sweet-faced uniformed cop had accompanied Moon and asked me more practical questions.
Who knew where I parked my car? Did I keep a regular schedule, etc. After she left,
Moon suggested we sit in the car.

“Once again, just to pry into things that may not be my business,” he said, “have
you called Michael yet?”

I felt sick again. Michael. Oops. He’d probably agree with the judgment of the auto
graffiti expert and be pissed as hell all over again. I kept these thoughts to myself.

“No, I haven’t called him,” I snapped. “But actually, he’ll be thrilled. It’s time
to paint the old wreck anyway.” The Queen of Bravado was back and lying through her
teeth.

Moon permitted himself a small, smug, superior smile. “Forgive me for saying so, but
I believe you are full of horseshit.”

I leaned my head on the steering wheel. “I know I am. And Michael’s going to be furious.
He doesn’t care about the car—what’s to care about—but we’d sort of made peace about
this detective stuff. I told him I was telling him everything I knew, and he believed
me.

“Hmm,” said Moon. “I’d be surprised if he were that accomplished at self-deception.”
He reached in his pocket and pulled out his little reporter’s notebook. “So as long
as you are foolishly, and against my direct orders, putting yourself and your family
in harm’s way with this Nancy Drew stuff, why don’t you tell me what you know that’s
new and different since our conversation this morning?”

Surrender seemed in order. I quickly ran down a summary of the conversation Andrea,
Calvin and I had had. Moon interrupted with a question or two, took a few notes, and
let me finish.