False Witness (17 page)

Sam raised his china cup. “To Chuck,” he said. “And to Tom. Two good men, gone too soon.” Maybe it was inappropriate, but Sam didn’t care. He just hoped it didn’t set off Kathy again.

It didn’t. Her hand trembled slightly as she lifted her own cup, but her voice was steady. “Hear, hear.” She smiled.

They sat for several moments in companionable silence, surrounded by the home that had become a bizarre monument to Tom Ferbey’s dream. Sam wondered if it should be part of the story. A lot of magazine pieces started out with the writer setting the scene with a description of the environment where the interview took place.

“I miss his voice the most,” Kathy said quietly, startling Sam out of his reverie. “He had such a calming voice. So deep. His laugh always made me feel so safe. God, I wish I’d told him that just once.”

Sam wondered for one stupid moment whether she meant Tom or Chuck Palliser. He glanced at the photo of Tom in the church choir. “He was a singer?”

Kathy beamed. “Was he ever. Pastor Lawrence was so happy when he finally convinced Tom to join the group. He’d been looking for a bass forever, someone who could hit those low notes. Whenever Tom struck up those first few bars of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, I swear it felt like the floorboards were vibrating. He was never really all that religious, but he loved to sing. People said he sounded a lot like Barry White.”

Sam grinned. “Let me guess: His favorite song was Elvira by the Oak Ridge Boys.”

Kathy’s eyes lit up. “How did you know?”

Sam tried to lower his own voice down to a bass and failed miserably.
“Giddy-up, ah-oom, papa-oom, papa mow mow,”
he croaked.

Kathy’s girlish giggle erased ten years from her face. They talked for another hour, Sam slowly coaxing Tom’s story out of the woman who had shared his life for so many years. For the most part, Kathy kept it together, painting a portrait of a man who was spectacularly ordinary but immensely likeable, which is what the readers wanted in their murder victims. The story wouldn’t win Sam any awards, but he was the only guy in the country who had it, so it would at least hit the wires, and would likely be carried by most dailies, including the nationals. You had to take what you could get.

And in spite of himself, he was beginning to admire Tom Ferbey just a little bit. The guy worked hard, loved his family, and dreamed about having a house on HGTV. Sam wished he himself could be a bit more like Tom, a simple man whose self worth wasn’t inextricably tied to his job.

About halfway through their second cup of coffee, a gangly teen emerged in the front doorway, carrying a skateboard in one hand and a half-empty bottle of Coke in the other. The pictures on the walls created a false expectation of the kid himself, Sam thought. Josh-on-the-wall was a blond boy with a winning smile and a clear complexion. Josh-at-the-door’s hair was closer to the color of brown sugar now, longer and coarser, and his face was beginning to sport the signs of the first battles in what would no doubt be a long and painful war with acne. As if losing his dad wasn’t bad enough, puberty was already running roughshod over Josh Ferbey.

Kathy lit up as her son entered the living room, crossing to the door and wrapping her arms around his scrawny neck. Josh quailed but didn’t move away, which Sam respected. No teenage boy wants to hug his mother, but Josh understood that it was necessary and allowed it.

Kathy turned to Sam and beamed. “Sam, this is Josh. Josh, this is Mr. Walsh from the
Chronicle
.”

Sam stood and offered a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Josh. And it’s Sam.”

The boy gave him a man’s handshake and nodded dutifully. “Nice to meet you. Mom told me you were coming today.”

Kathy, still smiling, rubbed Josh’s arm. “He’s the man of the house now. I don’t know what I’d do without him.” Then a cloud crossed her face and she turned to Sam. “You – you don’t need to interview Josh, do you?”

Sam smiled gently. “No.” The kid looked as relieved as his mother. Sam had thought about it, but after watching Josh for about three seconds, he knew he had no business adding to the kid’s burdens.

Kathy’s smile returned as quickly as it had faded. “Well, then,” she said. “I guess you’d better finish packing, son of mine. We have to be gone no later than four o’clock.”

“All right,” Josh said. He moved to make his way down the hall, but quickly turned back to Sam. They made eye contact, which was obviously awkward for the boy. “Good luck with your article, Mr. Walsh. Uh, Sam. I hope you let everyone know how awesome my dad was.”

Sam felt a twinge in his gut – not enough to moisten his eyes, but enough to remind him that yes, he actually did have a heart. “I’ll do my best, Josh. I promise.”

The kid gave him a lopsided grin and slunk off down the hall. Sam suddenly envied the relationship Josh must have had with Tom.

“He’s a good boy who had to grow up too soon,” Kathy said wistfully from behind him.

“He seems like a fine young man,” Sam said, gathering his notes. “I think I’ve taken enough of your time, Kathy. I really appreciate you talking to me.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t have thought of talking with anyone else. I’ve been reading all your coverage of the trial. You’re an excellent writer, and I trust you not to sensationalize things. And now, after getting to know you, I’m sure Tom’s story is in good hands.”

Her eyes had misted over again, and the twinge was back in Sam’s belly. Better change the subject before she made him cry, too. “You told Josh you had to be gone by four. Are you going on a trip?”

Kathy blinked. “Did I not tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

She shook her head as if to clear it. “Oh, my goodness, I can’t believe I forgot to tell you. We’re headed out of the country. Tonight. That’s why I wanted you here today.”

Sam raised an eyebrow.
There’s a lot of that going on lately
, he didn’t say. “I’m not following you.”

“This way, Josh and I will be long gone when the story comes out. I really wish we could have done this sooner, but like I said, I had to wait until after the verdict.” She looked startled for a moment. “You won’t put this in the story, will you?”

Sam felt like he’d missed the quarterback calling the play. “I don’t even know what’s going on.”

Kathy sighed. “I’m sorry, Sam, I don’t know where my head is these days. I’ve been so scattered with the verdict, and then the insurance and the trip. I just assumed you knew what was happening. That was silly of me. I mean, how could you?”

“It actually makes perfect sense,” he said. “If I was in your shoes, I’d probably do the same thing after what happened last week. But you mentioned insurance?”

“Yes, I had to make sure that our finances were in order before we left. The double indemnity on Tom’s policy didn’t pay out until Rufus Hodge was found guilty. That was another reason Sgt. Palliser suggested I stay away from the trial. He said a murder conviction was a fragile thing.” She looked wistfully at the china cup in her hand. “Those were his exact words. And he said getting family involved in a trial always added an element that the prosecution couldn’t control.”

“It was his idea for you to leave the country, wasn’t it?”

“Mm-hm. I first met him a few days after – after Tom passed, but he stayed in touch throughout the trial. He often talked about how much he wanted to make sure we got all the insurance money, that Josh and I got a ‘happy ending,’ but that we should be prepared to get far away from Calgary if anything happened after the verdict. To be honest, I would have gone anyway. Josh and I could do with a change of scenery.” Kathy’s eyes shimmered and the line of her mouth turned hard. “Chuck didn’t deserve what happened to him. I hope those bastards pay.”

Kathy’s cheeks flushed and she turned to Sam. “You’re not going to use that in the story, are you?”

Sam smiled and shook his head. “The story here begins and ends with Tom.”

They chatted for a few more minutes before Sam left, and Kathy gave him a snapshot of Tom to go with the story. Shippy had wanted a photo of her and Josh, but he would just have to deal with the fact that they were going to remain anonymous in the eyes of the public. Like Chuck Palliser, Sam Walsh believed that Kathy and Josh Ferbey deserved their happy ending.

#

Sam had finished his cheeseburger, and was halfway through a glob of congealed French fries, by the time he finished the story. He was reading it back to himself before saving it into the “filed story” folder – where writers’ babies went to drown in a sea of editorial pie-fingering –when Tess Gallagher invaded the sanctity of his cubicle. He flinched as she punched his shoulder with a surprisingly hard-knuckled fist.

“Ow! What the hell?”

“You went to Peter’s Drive-In and you didn’t get me anything? You’re lucky all you got was a punch. I have scissors in my desk, you know.”

“Yeah, the little ones with the rounded ends so you don’t hurt yourself.”

Tess ignored the jibe. “So how’s the scoop coming, you lucky so-and-so?” She leaned over Sam’s shoulder to peer at his monitor. The scent of rose oil on her neck was a distraction he really didn’t need at the moment, but even though he’d never admit it, Tess was the best writer at the
Chronicle
, and he could use any constructive criticism she might offer. This was the kind of story that could get him noticed by Bill Vogt, the
Chronicle
’s publisher.

“Not bad,” she said, straightening up.

“Careful with the flattery, I might get a swelled head.”

She slapped the back of his head. “Maybe that’ll help. Drop the sarcasm, mister, or I won’t point out the error you made.”

Sam bristled. “Excuse me? What error? There’s no error.”

“Oh, well then. Just submit it as it is.” She turned to leave.

“All right, hold on.” He held up his hands in defeat. “What did I get wrong?”

Tess’s go-to-hell smile shone bright in the dank cubicle. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing major. You say that Tom Ferbey sang bass. He was actually a baritone.”

Sam peered at her. “What are you talking about?”

She pointed at the screen. “Right here, you say he sang bass in his church choir. But he didn’t; he was a baritone.”

Sam thought about correcting her for a moment – he got the information directly from the man’s widow, after all – but curiosity won out. Instead, he asked: “How would you know?”

“I sang in school choir for eight years,” she said. “Just one of the perks of a private Catholic school. Trust me, I can tell a baritone from a bass. Baritone is the most common voice type for men, but a true bass voice is quite rare.”

“I meant how would you know if you’ve never heard his voice?”

She rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t, dumbass. I
have
heard his voice.”

Sam’s ancient desk chair groaned in protest as he pitched forward. He didn’t hear it; his mind was working too hard trying to process this new information. “You,” he said slowly. “Heard Tom Ferbey’s voice.”

“Duh. How could I know what his voice sounded like if I’d never heard it? Earth to Sam.”

“When did this happen?”

“Back in October. I was in the newsroom one night when he called in looking for Alex. He wasn’t here, so I took down Tom’s message. He was definitely
not
a bass. I would have remembered that.”

Sam frowned. His brain was trying to knit something together, but he couldn’t quite make out what it was just yet. “When
exactly
was this?”

“The date? I don’t know, it’s not like I marked it on my calendar. Would you mind telling me why this is such a big deal?”

“Was it close to October 10
th
? Like, within a week of the murder?”

Tess plucked at her top lip for a moment. “It had to have been; Alex got his first call from Ferbey on October 2nd. The call I intercepted was two or three days before the murder. I distinctly remember thinking afterwards how creepy it was to have talked to someone right before they were killed. Sam, what’s going on?”

I swear it felt like the floorboards were vibrating.

He had the audacity to go and lose his cell phone.

Giddy-up, ah-oom, papa-oom, papa mow mow.

The dark outline of a picture was starting to take shape in his mind’s eye, and it was making his pulse quicken. It might be nothing, but then again, it might be something. What to do with it? There were only two people in the newsroom Sam trusted: Shippy and Tess. But Shippy was management, and management had a natural instinct to appropriate anything of value from the workers and send it up the food chain, so that everyone could put their fingerprints on it. That left the gorgeous redhead seated next to him right now, snapping her fingers in front on his eyes.

He grabbed her hand mid-snap. “Okay, I get it. We need to talk about something.”

Sam could practically see the smartass remark forming on her lips, but she stopped short as she watched him scan the area around his cubicle. No one was within earshot at the moment. “You’re serious,” she said. “What’s this about?”

“I need you to keep this to yourself. Can you do that?”

Tess scoffed. “Are you kidding? I kept quiet about Kathy, didn’t I? And I’m on the politics beat – I don’t write a tenth of what I actually know. I live most of my life off the record.”

Sam breathed deep. He was about to take the biggest risk of his career. If it panned out, he would be famous. If it didn’t, the best scenario he could hope for was massive humiliation. Worst case, he would lose his job. The more he thought about it, the worse it sounded. But he wasn’t going to stop now; no guts, no glory.

He fixed his eyes on Tess’s and lowered his voice. “Tom Ferbey was definitely a bass. His wife said so. She went so far as to compare his voice to Barry White’s.”

“Well, the man I talked to on the phone definitely didn’t sound anything like Barry White. Not even close, and
I’m
absolutely positive. So who’s right?”

“I think we’re both right, and there’s only one way that can be possible.” Sam’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The man you talked to wasn’t Tom Ferbey.”