Missing Mark (14 page)

Privately, I suspected animal lover that she was, she might secretly be rooting for the Animal Liberation Front.

Miles backed her up. “Our civic duty was to provide evidence. We’ve done that.”

“If we lose our chance to recover the fish,” Mr. FBI said, “it will be your fault.”

I suppressed a snicker at the absurdity.

Ever since British media voluntarily blacked out Prince Harry’s combat deployment, even government agencies here in America were starting to think they were entitled to secret censorship deals with the media.

Then the FBI guy said something about how Operation Piscis Absenti was highest priority.

“What did you just call it?” I asked.

“Operation Piscis Absenti,” he said. “That’s the code name for the operation.”

I must have looked puzzled, so he explained that Piscis Absenti was Latin for “missing fish.”

“What’s the matter with calling it the Big Mouth Billy Bass Case in plain old English?” I asked. That’s what the media had dubbed the caper. “Or how about Bassgate?”

“It sounds trivial and obvious.” He justified the use of Latin by insisting that it lent an aura of seriousness and sophistication to the investigation, thus making it easier to obtain federal resources. “Once the public hears Operation Piscis Absenti, that will become the preferred code name.”

Noreen and I gave each other another look that said, Okay just for this story, we’re on the same wavelength. But Miles nodded like the FBI guy was making perfect sense. Understandable because the law is full of pretentious Latin phrases.

I’d heard enough about the FBI guy’s strategy to make his investigation appear more important than his colleagues’ cases. It didn’t seem all that different than jockeying for better play in a newscast except tax dollars were involved. I could have pointed out that Piscis Absenti might not go over big with the media because it’s hard to pronounce and harder to spell, but I needed to get some real work done. No story ever got written sitting in news meetings all night.

Just then Tom McHale stuck his head in the conference room to see what was going on. Tom was an old-school anchor, who started as a street reporter and became a top investigative journalist before moving to the high-profile, big-bucks job of news reader. That meant he had to leave his tough-guy persona behind—while an investigative reporter’s job is to piss people off, a TV anchor’s job is to be loved. I understood the conflict. But even if he’d sold out for cash and a cushy schedule, Tom hadn’t lost his news instincts. He sensed when something was up in the conference room.

“There’s been a development in the Big Mouth Billy Bass Case,” Noreen said.

The FBI guy pursed his lips in a pout, probably because she hadn’t used the official code name.

“But we’re still weighing our options,” Noreen continued, filling Tom in on the action as he pulled up a chair.

I handed Tom a copy of the newspaper-cutout letter and all became clear to him. He had that elated look anchors get when they know they’re going to cream the competition with a big exclusive right off the top of the newscast.

“What’s to decide,” he asked, “except whether Riley or I get to hold the letter up on set? I vote for me.”

“There are some complicating factors.” Noreen tilted her head toward the FBI guy as she explained the situation.

“Let’s not forget the fishnappers sent the note to a TV station,” I reminded everyone. “They’re expecting media coverage. Who knows what they’ll do if they don’t get it. I better get started on the ten.”

“I vote for that,” Tom said.

I even ad-libbed a story opening to help build consensus.

POLICE ARE INVESTIGATING
A LEAD IN THE BILLY BASS
CASE IN WHICH A
CONTROVERSIAL ANIMAL
RIGHTS GROUP CLAIMS TO
HAVE KIDNAPPED THE
FAMOUS FISH. THIS
LETTER… SENT TO ME
HERE AT CHANNEL 3…
THREATENS TO RELEASE
BILLY INTO THE WILD AS A
LESSON TO US ALL.

I looked around the conference room to gauge reaction.

Predictably, both law enforcement officers shook their heads. They didn’t want publicity, and the FBI guy was increasingly sore because no one was saying the code name.

Predictably, Tom argued the presentation would be stronger if he waved the letter, then tossed to me for details. “The content is excellent, though.” He looked toward Noreen for approval.

But she and Miles had their heads together, whispering, before announcing, unpredictably, that we’d hold the story for twenty-four hours.

I rolled my eyes at what saps they were until Noreen told the cops she’d be expecting our camera to be allowed at the scene of any arrest. Deal or no deal? Between the $10,000 reward and the kidnapper’s note, Channel 3 was trying to corner the market on the fish story.

“We hear you, but we can’t promise,” FBI guy said.

“Then I can’t promise, either,” she said.

“
I
hear you,” he replied, emphasizing the word
I
.

She seemed to think that meant they had a deal. The Bloomington cop pulled out a set of tweezers and put the original note and envelope in plastic wrap. I figured they’d have the lab run a fancy fingerprint trick like in the Hamm kidnapping to see how many sets of prints popped.

Tom, shaking his head in disappointment, went back to prepping for his newscast. Malik kept his mouth shut as he had during most of the meeting. At least he’d get home in time to read
Good Night Moon
.

I followed the law enforcement pair down the hall and out of the building. No point in me hanging around the station, either, since my story had been put on hold. Then the FBI guy turned and unexpectedly asked if I’d like to join him for a drink.

I shook my head. “I don’t get personally involved with sources.” That wasn’t necessarily true, but I disliked his attitude.

“This could be a business drink,” he suggested.

I paused to consider it and just as I decided I might cultivate some useful information out of him, he must have decided he was getting nowhere with the federal approach and nearly ruined his chances with a tired cliché.

“Maybe I’d just like to get to know you better.”

“If you knew me better, you’d like me less.” That was my stock reply to that pickup line.

“I don’t like you much already,” he answered. “So I won’t be disappointed.”

“Fine. Neither will I.”

So we walked across the street to Brit’s, a pub known more for its bar than its menu. Since technically we were off duty, he ordered a beer to show me what a regular guy he was. I ordered an iced tea with lemon to show him I wasn’t buying it.

“How do you like working for the FBI?” I asked.

“I consider it an honor and a privilege.” His chest even puffed out a little when he said it.

Okay, I thought to myself. One of those.

“What’s it like working for a TV station?” I don’t think he really wanted to know. I think he was just being polite.

“It’s a lot like working for a vampire,” I replied. “It can suck the life right out of you.” That was another one of my stock lines. I have no trouble saying it with a straight face because I know it to be true.

He seemed to be having a hard time deciding whether to respect my honesty or disapprove of my dissing my employer to a complete stranger. So the FBI guy talked about cases he’d handled and I talked about stories I’d covered. And I was starting to think he wasn’t such a bad FBI guy after all. I finished the last sip of my drink and was about to ask his name again, when he indicated he needed to leave and picked up my empty glass with a napkin.

“The waitress will clear that,” I said.

“I don’t mind.” He left three twenties on the table. Impressive, because most cops are measly tippers.

“That’s too much.”

“I don’t mind.”

Then he turned and walked out the door with my glass and, I suddenly realized, my fingerprints.

  needed to escape all thoughts of fish and cops, so on my way out of downtown I stopped at the Minneapolis Comedy Club where Mark Lefevre used to work. I wanted to see if anyone there had any insight into his disappearance. The bouncer at the door pissed me off right away by not bothering to card me.

I asked about tickets, but he waved me in free. That made me feel special until he explained: “Open-mic night. No charge.”

The laughs had already started when I grabbed a seat in the back. The crowd was an eclectic mix of race and dress, mostly under thirty. A waiter knelt beside me in the aisle and took my drink order in a whisper while the comic onstage made a crack about Minnesota’s struggling football team and their dreams of a new stadium.

The amateur talent each had a four-minute time limit, enforced by a red flashing lightbulb on the ceiling, to wow us with their stand-up routine. I laughed more in an hour than I’d laughed in a long time. I laughed at things I probably shouldn’t have laughed at and wouldn’t have laughed at if I hadn’t been sitting alone in the dark with a carafe of sweet booze.

I laughed about sex and drugs and roadkill.

A heavyset man in the next section laughed so hard and so continuously, I feared he might collapse. A woman in the front with puffy blond hair kept heckling the comedians and they heckled her back in a war of words. Eventually a tall man in a green polo shirt with the club logo tapped her on the shoulder and motioned her to follow him. Her chair remained empty for the rest of the performances.

I thrived on the people-watching as much as the humor. The comedians were a parade of individuality. One bombed and one was
the
bomb. And the others fell somewhere in between. Some brought friendly cheering sections along, obvious when one portion of the room laughed and applauded a lame one while the rest of the audience seemingly sat on their hands.

When the lights came on and the room emptied, I told a young woman collecting drink menus that I worked for Channel 3 and asked to see the manager.

A minute later the same man who had escorted the heckler outside came over, smiled, and shook my hand. “I’m Jason Hill. What can I do for you?”

I recognized his name from Madeline and Mark’s wedding guest list, but hadn’t known his connection to the groom until then. A couple of minutes of chatting made it clear he had hoped the club could land some free publicity on the news, and was disappointed that all I came to talk about was Mark Lefevre.

“That washed-up bum?” he said. “I gave him a break and he left me high and dry.”

He motioned me over to a corner table away from the cleaning crew where we sat as he explained the economics of comedy. A simple lesson in supply and demand. More comic wannabes existed than were needed. Mark started off on open-mic nights, like the rest of the laugh newbies, doing stand-up for free. Clubs make their money on those nights on drinks, not admission.

“That’s why we try to discourage overly vocal audience participation.” Jason was alluding to the blond woman he’d evicted. “The open-mic guys aren’t getting paid to take abuse.”

Like many comic newbies, Mark had raw talent. Despite early hooting, he stuck with his hobby and became a regular.

“He had thick skin,” Jason said, “I’ll give him that. But he was inconsistent. Sometimes his material was dynamite, but too often it was weak. I told him he needed to be steadier.”

Mark showed so much improvement during his last couple of months that Jason offered him a warm-up spot. Coveted in the comedy world, it came with a small stipend, but more important, it offered a chance to perform next to a traveling headliner in front of a paying audience.

“How’d he do?” I asked.

“He didn’t embarrass himself or the club. And that’s always a possibility with these guys. He’d suddenly developed a real confidence onstage and was exciting to watch. Like he got religion or something. Yet not too good. You don’t want your warm-up guy to be funnier than your headliner. That can cause its own problems.”