Eye Contact (18 page)

“Christ,” says Smith, sitting on the arm of the nearest sofa. “I wondered how he managed that art collection on a reporter’s salary—I should have suspected something.” Smith is clearly crushed by this news, which reveals an entirely different facet of the science editor who had brought such esteem to the paper.

Nathan Cain may be similarly disheartened, but he does not show his emotions. All business, he says to Manning, “You mentioned ‘colleagues.’ Do Clifford’s files point to suspicion of anyone here at the
Journal
?”

“Yes.” Manning thinks of Lucille Haring, hoping Cain won’t press further.

Cain asks, “Do the files point to suspicion of anyone in this room?”

“No, sir.”

Cain and Smith share a sigh of relief. Cain tells Manning, “Well done. By all means, proceed with your investigation. It sounds as if you’re on the right track.”

Manning assures his publisher, “I’ll do my best to sort this out. I’m wondering, though—What should I do with Cliff’s files, turn them over to the police?”

Cain nods. “I suppose you’ll have to.” Then he reconsiders. “No, wait. I’m loath to sound calculating, but the
Journal
has to guard its own interests in this matter. We’ve been riding a wave of sympathy in the wake of Clifford’s murder, but if those files become public, we’ll be the goat of Chicago journalism. Just proceed with your own investigation, Mr. Manning, and let the police proceed with theirs. If the files are useful to you in naming Clifford’s killer, use them. Ultimately, we should destroy what’s not needed.”

Manning concurs, “This is a gray area, I know, but it’s important not to let these files get into the wrong hands. They would simply cause a lot of needless emotional pain. I have a call in to a detective friend at police headquarters, but I won’t mention this to him, at least not yet. I’m hoping he can tell me what was the last piece of music played on Cliff’s CD player. Also, the ballistics tests should be complete by now. Maybe he’ll be willing to share some hard evidence. I’ll phone him again as soon as I get back to my desk.”

“You needn’t bother.” Cain dismisses the idea with a flick of his hand. “The report came over the city newswire last night. There were four bullets in Clifford’s body, but the ballistics tests were ‘inconclusive,’ with no clues regarding the gun that killed him. The police are officially ‘frustrated.’” He snorts his derision, presuming they have bungled. He turns, and his gaze travels to the showcase that displays his collection of rare firearms.

Noticing this, Smith walks over to the glass-doored cabinet. Tapping the window with a fingernail, he tells Cain, “I wish you’d let us run a feature on the collection. There’s at least a dozen great stories in there. It’s a natural for the Sunday magazine.”

“I’m flattered,” Cain replies, “but I don’t care to draw attention to it. Other collectors would get interested; there would be requests for visits from curators and academics. I don’t care to be bothered by all that. The collection is private.”

Crossing to the display, Manning says, “Last time we were here, sir, you said you might share the history of the Nambu pistol.” He peers through the glass at the gun in question, which rests on a small silk cushion, centered among the other weapons, gleaming in the beam of a miniature spotlight. The pistol itself is unremarkable, but its distinctive handle is inlaid with intricately carved jade. An easel near the cushion holds a gold-edged card that traces the gun’s pedigree. Manning squints to read it.

“Very well, gentlemen.” Cain snorts, moving toward them. “The story. That’s a Nambu Type Two, a Japanese model that was rare to begin with, but this particular weapon is unique, as you might guess from the jade handle. It belonged to Field Marshal General Sugiyama, the Japanese minister of war. His wife nagged him into using it on himself in September of ’forty-five, to avoid being placed on trial for war crimes. After he did it”—Cain slurps from his cup—“she poisoned herself.”

Smith chokes on his own coffee. “Whew!” he says. “They are a
strange
race. Clever, but strange.”

With no humor, Cain tells Smith, “They are a people of high principles.”

Manning asks, “How did you acquire the general’s gun, Mr. Cain?”

“Our occupation forces were already in place in Tokyo, so it must have been picked up by one of the MPs investigating Sugiyama’s death. The pistol found its way back to the States and many years later was presented to me as a gift from an old army friend—a buddy, you might say—who’s now at the Pentagon. The Nambu has been the centerpiece of my collection ever since.”

“Very impressive, sir.” Manning sips his juice.

Their small talk moves on to politics, new restaurants, the approach of Celebration Two Thousand. At the mention of the festival, Cain waves an arm toward one of the huge Gothic arched windows that look out across the city. Even through the summer haze, the new stadium is visible a mile to the west. “That tranquil view will change before our very eyes, gentlemen. The fete, I fear, will transform this fair city into a veritable zoo. Oh I know, ‘the people’ will love it, and it’ll be a boon for our circulation, but it’ll bring with it that element of—what?—a certain
madness.
I, for one, plan to be out of town next weekend.”

Smith is jovial. “Not me, Nathan. Wouldn’t think of missing the opening spectacle, and
I’ve
got a press pass.” He pats his breast pocket, where he keeps the credentials, which truly are coveted—anyone would be foolish to leave such a pass lying on a desk, or even in an unlocked drawer. He adds, “As for the congestion of the city, well, I guess that’s inevitable. But it shouldn’t be all
that
disruptive.”

Even as he speaks, workers on a scaffold winch their way up the outside of the tower, rising just above the stone gargoyles, stopping smack in the middle of the window, blocking the view. Cain watches them for a moment, then turns to Smith with a look that says, I told you so. “That’s been going on for a couple of weeks now.”

The workmen are conversing in shouts with unseen brethren, some on top of the tower, others apparently on another scaffold hanging below. Inside, the particulars of this communication cannot be understood, reduced to muffled noise by the thick glass of the windows. There are repeated references to “fucking,” however, that are transmitted loud and clear.

Manning stifles a laugh as he sips his orange juice. He asks his publisher, “What are they doing out there?”

Cain breathes an exasperated sigh. “Preparing for the great civic clambake, naturally. There’s all manner of equipment to be installed atop the Journal Building as part of a laser show. We’re to be one point of a triangle, I’m told.”

“A pink triangle, in fact,” Manning adds.

“You’ve heard about it, then?” says Cain.

Smith interjects, “
I
haven’t. What laser show?”

“I guess the plans haven’t been made public yet,” says Manning, “but Neil told me about them. As a surprise finish to the opening ceremonies and human-rights rally, a giant pink triangle will appear over the stadium. There’s some new laser technology involved, and the image will be simultaneously projected from the masts of three tall buildings, including this tower.”

Smith looks confused. “What am I missing here? Why a pink triangle?”

“For Christ’s sake,” snaps Cain, “you’re better-read than that, Gordon. It’s the symbol of gay liberation … or pride or whatever.”

Manning steps closer to Cain to tell him, “And I must say, sir, that it’s unexpectedly progressive and ‘inclusive’ of the
Journal
to take part in it.”

“Don’t be condescending, Manning. You’re starting to sound like our bleeding-heart archbishop. The fact is, the
Journal
would appear unenlightened and prejudiced if we refused. I don’t see that we had a choice—and I won’t pretend to like it.”

Manning smiles. “Regardless of the circumstances, sir, I think the company is doing the right thing. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” Cain does not return the smile.

Their conversation has grown louder to compete with the noise from outside the window, where winches now whine and scaffolding creaks as a huge, menacing contraption is hoisted into view.

“Holy shit,” says Smith. “It looks like something out of
Flash Gordon
.”

“Jesus,” echoes Manning. “It looks like a … like a
gun.
”

With no discernible emotion, Cain tells them, “I believe it is a gun—of sorts. Probably part of the laser apparatus. One of the three projectors for the spectacle.”

“Ohhh,” says Smith. He should have guessed. He finishes his coffee and sets the cup on the cart.

“Beastly-looking thing, though,” says Manning with a short, hesitant laugh. He can’t take his eyes off the device. It has coils and armatures, an array of controls positioned in front of something like a tractor seat, and a long, tapered snout, like the barrel of some high-tech weapon. The casing is painted a drab gray-green.

“Well,” says Cain with a tone of finality, “enough of this commotion.” He steps to the window and turns a knob mounted in the trim. Heavy velvet blackout curtains emerge from pockets in the side walls and draw together over the glass. The workers’ noise is reduced to a distant hubbub as the light in the room fades. Cain asks, “More juice, Mr. Manning?”

The offer, Manning knows, is not meant to be accepted. “Thank you, sir, but no.” He sets his glass on the cart next to Smith’s cup. “I think we’re all set.”

“Excellent.” Cain begins crossing the room in the direction of the door—clearly, Smith and Manning are being escorted out, and they walk along with him, one on each side. Cain tells them, “I’m glad we were able to have this little ‘breakfast’ together.” He eyes Smith with a facial tic that’s not quite a wink, then swallows the last of his fortified coffee. He turns to Manning, “Keep up the good work, and do keep me posted.” He gives the reporter a pat on the back. The gesture is unnatural to him, and he delivers it stiffly.

When they pass through the door into the outer office, the pace of activity has picked up since their early arrival. Lucille Haring taps commands into a computer’s keyboard, while an assistant stands nearby, waiting for the diskette that Haring hands over without looking at him. Other minions scamper about the room, breaking stride just long enough to deliver a curt “Good morning, Colonel.” One of them takes the publisher’s empty cup and whisks it away. No one seems fazed by the fact that he’s standing there in his sleepwear.

When Lucille Haring notices Cain in their midst, she quits her keyboard and stands facing him, as if at attention. He tells her, “Mr. Manning is embroiled in some very important work and may be accruing some atypical expenses—travel and such—during the next week or so. Anything he sends through is authorized and approved.”

“Very good, Colonel.”

Cain thinks of something. He tells Manning, “You might find a laptop useful. A modem too. Miss Haring can set you up.”

“I’m already fully equipped,” Manning assures him.

“Pager?”

“I have one, sir.”

“These days, who doesn’t?” Smith interjects.

Cain suggests, “Maybe a memory upgrade?”

“I’m fine,” says Manning. “Thank you, though.”

Cain thinks of something else. “Miss Haring, regarding that upgrade of the network server for these offices, we need to be certain that the new configuration won’t allow users to breach the corporate mainframe.” On a lighter note, he adds, “Too many people online these days. No telling what mischief some hacker might wreak if he gets access.”

Miss Haring nods vigorously, attuned to his concerns. “Security has been our top priority in every phase of the new design.”

“
Hngh.
” He returns his attention to Smith and Manning. “Gentlemen, good day.
You’ve
got a newspaper to put out, and
I’ve
got to get dressed.” He erupts into a hearty laugh, then smiles (it’s a genuine smile for once, not the wooden expression he forces for banquet photos with the mayor or the archbishop), waves (it’s a single whirl of his hand that could pass for a salute), and retreats into the inner sanctum. The sturdy timbered door closes behind him with a thud.

Two minutes later, the door of the private elevator slides shut, leaving Manning and Smith alone together as they begin their descent through the Journal Building. “Well?” says Smith, speaking under his breath.

Manning tells him, “Wait.” The glass eye of a camera watches them, but he doesn’t know whether anyone is listening.

The elevator delivers its two passengers to one of the ground-floor lobbies. They walk a few steps down the busy arcade, stopping to talk in front of the window of a tobacco shop.

“Well?” repeats Smith. “What do you think?”

“I think he let me off too easy concerning my Zarnik piece. That story was riddled with shortcomings.”

“But,” Smith reminds him, “Nathan’s main interest in the story was to repay a favor to his Pentagon pals.
They
were satisfied, so
he
was satisfied.”

Manning considers. “That’s true,” he admits. “And the important thing is, Cain wants to keep me on the story. If he had ulterior motives, however far-fetched, he wouldn’t order me to dig deeper—he’d transfer me out to the suburbs, writing obits.”

“There now,” says Smith, putting an arm over the reporter’s shoulder. “We’ve snatched victory from the jaws of disaster. You’ve got a few more days to get the poop on Zarnik and determine whether Cain is being set up for something.”

Manning grins. “Does that mean you’re taking me off the Nolan story so I can focus on Zarnik?”

“You
want
me to?”

“No, Gordon.” Manning laughs. “These two mysteries were made for each other. As I’ve already told you, I think the answer to one is the answer to both.” Exchanging a nod, they’re about to step away from the tobacco shop and return to the newsroom when Manning halts, frowning. “Hold on,” he says. “Something’s bugging me. What about all that computer business?”

As he asks the question, he notices someone inside the shop—a tall man, vaguely familiar—who may have been watching them. Or was he merely skimming the magazine covers displayed inside, below the window?