Natural Suspect (2001) (12 page)

"Boss, I need to--"

"Let me ask you a question," Whitechapel said as he used his fingers to pick a runny anchovy out of the metal can. He put it in between his lips and sucked it in with a slurp. "Do you believe in acquired tastes, or do you think they're just self-delusional lies?"

"Actually, I was wondering--"

"Save your wondering--this is an important question." Flipping through the paper and throwing back another anchovy, he added, "For as long as I can remember, people have said caviars one of the great delicacies of the world. Then last night, I go to this cocktail party and this fella--he's full of a good six or seven brandies--he tells me that caviar is a practical joke that the rich play on the rest of us up-and-comers. Says it's like the emperor's new clothes--the rich say they love it--they even order it for their parties--but when it's passed around, they never touch it; they just wait to see who does. Then when the compliments start flying about how delicious it is, they sit back and laugh themselves sick. It's supposed to be some grand old tradition that separates the haves from the have-a-lots."

"Sir, I don't think that's--"

"Think about it, boy. It's just like Shakespeare said:
"
twas ca
l
vary to the general
'--general public is who he's talking about. Me and you. I mean, it's a rotten-smelling mush of fish spew, and we pay two hundred bucks a pound to brag about it on a cracker."

"But--"

"And why should it stop at caviar? It could be all acquired tastes-- scotch, modern art, Renaissance Weekend--for all we know, every one of them's a big, fat self-decepti--"

"So what if it is!?" Patrick shouted. "What're you gonna do? Print a tell-all story and have everyone call you a crackpot? Sure, it tastes like crap; sure, we all hate it; sure, we all swallow it with a smile. That's who were are--we want to fit in--and nothing you write is gonna change that. Period. End. Finis!"

Closing the newspaper in front of him, Whitechapel finally looked up. "I take it this isn't about a problem with the crossword?"

"What do you think?" Patrick asked, limping forward. His eyes were hollow, with deep bags below them.

"You were fishing around the Hightowers, weren't you?"

"Boss, before you--"

"Didn't I tell you not to do that? Weren't those my exact orders? I swear, Patrick, from here on in--if they sue us for--"

"Julia Hightower didn't kill her husband!"

Right there, Whitechapel stopped. He knew what it took to sell papers. "Say again?"

"I'm telling you, she didn't kill him."

"And I suppose you have proof of this?"

"Nothing concrete, but I have a source."

"A source?" he asked, shooting out of his seat. Patrick had seen this before. Whitechapel leaned forward so his knuckles rested on his desk. "Who is it? Fatty? Mickey? Rubin?"

"No one you know, but I think he's solid." Patrick took a deep breath. He didn't like lying to his boss, but the clown had been specific. The first thing he had to do was plant a story. Nothing special--just something to raise a few eyebrows. Shine the spotlight. After that, the rest would start falling into place.

"So he gave you solid info on Julia's alibi?"

"Not exactly--but he did point out that she doesn't necessarily have everything to gain."

"I don't understand."

"Don't you remember the Doniger case a few years back--rich Upper East Side old guy drops dead from what looks like a diabetic stroke. Then it comes out that his way-too-young wife and his best friend actually did him in and stuffed him in his wine cellar until they established their alibis."

"I remember it," Whitechapel insisted. "So what's the point?"

"The point is, when it came out that the wife was involved with the murder, she didn't get a single nickel of inheritance. According to New York law, we've got the equivalent of a slayer statute, which means killers can't benefit from their crimes."

"And that makes you convinced Julia didn't kill her husband?"

"No," Patrick said. "It makes me convinced that if Julia Hightower is found guilty, there're plenty of other people who can get their greedy mitts on the Hightower pot of gold."

Whitechapel nodded to himself. "I see what youre saying--if Julia gets convicted of the murder . . ."

". . . then the money goes to whoever's next in line in the will. . ."

"...
which means Marilyn and Morgan have millions of great reasons to kill daddy and pin it on mommy." Shaking his head, Whitechapel added, "And people say families
dont
talk anymore."

"So what do you think?" Patrick asked.

"It's a little out there, but
its
certainly possible."

Patrick grinned. "So I have a story?"

"Are you nuts? You have some nice conjecture, but there's not a single fact in there--not to mention the fact that in the Doniger case, the wife
did
kill her husband."

"But the--"

"Patrick, writing a story isn't the same as writing nine-down and eight-across--this is news, my friend. So unless your source gave you some actual facts, all you've--"

"What if I gave you a body?"

"Excuse me?"

"A body. A dead body," Patrick explained. "Arthur Hightowers lawyer, to be exact. My source gave me the location and said Julia had a foolproof alibi."

Whitechapel crossed his arms over his broad chest. "You yanking my ya-ya?"

Patrick looked him straight in the eyes. "What do you think?"

Staring back, Whitechapel knew the answer. He pulled a pad from his top drawer and slid it across his desk. "Give me the address and get your ass over there. I'll give you a fifteen-minute head start before I call it in--that should be more than enough time to make sure you're first man on the scene."

"Great," Patrick beamed, a wide smile lifting his cheeks. "That's great." He scribbled the address, then darted for the door.

"By the way," Whitechapel interrupted. "This wouldn't have anything to do with that limp you got going, would it?"

Patrick froze. "What're you--"

"I'm not a moron, son. You look ten years older than when you left here yesterday, and suddenly you've got better information than my top city guy." Pausing for a moment, he added, "Now, do you want to tell me what's going on?"

Patrick stared at the carpet.

"This source of yours isn't on the up-and-up, is he?"

Again, Patrick didn't answer.

"Is he threatening you--"

"No. Not at all," Patrick shot back. If Whitechapel thought they were being manipulated, he'd bury the story. Besides, regardless of the clown's motives, a dead body is still news. "I promise you, boss--when I can explain, I will. For now, I'm just asking you to trust me. Please."

Biting the inside of his cheek, Whitechapel stayed silent, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. Patrick could feel the weight of judgment wash over him. Finally, Whitechapel said, "I'll give you the byline, but I want all copy running through me."

"You got it," Patrick said. "Everything through you."

"One last thing," Whitechapel called out. "Why're you doing this?"

"Why do you think?" Patrick asked without looking back. "I want to be a reporter." Before his boss could say a word, Patrick opened the door and left the office.

Limping back through the newsroom, Patrick thought about the real answer to Whitechapel's question. Why am I doing this? he asked himself for the tenth time this morning. For the most obvious reason of all. He tightened his fists and did his best to bury the pain. "/
want my toe!"

"I
want my
hand!" Rutledge shouted, banging his antique walnut desk.

"I'm sure you do," the man in the cheap wool sport jacket stated. "But let me remind you of two things: one, it's not your hand; two, and more important, it's officially being cataloged as evidence." After sliding the severed hand and its gift-wrapped box into a clear, plastic evidence bag, Detective Guttman sealed it up like a salami sandwich in a Ziploc and tossed it in a cooler packed with dry ice. On the outside of the cooler were the words
lil' phreeze
and a small cartoon Eskimo.

Watching the detective in front of his desk, Rutledge clenched his teeth and sat back in his chair. If it were up to him, he'd never have called the police, but Cordelia, as usual, overreacted. How was he supposed to know that when she ran from the office, her first reaction would be to dial 911? Sure, it's a severed hand, but hasn't she ever seen any mob movies? They do this stuff all the time.

"Now is there anything else you wanted to add?" Detective Guttman asked as he pulled a ratty notepad from his jacket pocket.

"I think you have everything," Rutledge replied, his voice its usual mix of strong suggestions and soft threats. "You know it all."

"Thanks. We'll be in touch as soon as we get an ID."

Rutledge nodded and the detective headed for the door. Watching him leave, Rutledge knew he wasn't going to have to wait for the ID. The moment he saw the severed hand, with its JFK gold initial ring, he knew Joseph Francis Kellogg was in trouble. The ring was a knockoff of the one Kennedy used to wear before he was president, but Kellogg used to brag that it was the original. Typical lawyer, Rutledge had thought when he first heard it--always trying to impress.

Buzzing his intercom, Rutledge waited for Cordelia to answer.

"Mr. Rutledge?" she stuttered. "Is everything okay?"

"Actually, that's what I was going to ask you." Before he could finish, he heard the line go silent. Seconds later, there was a soft knock on his door. Cordelia. "Come in, come in," he said, anxious to be near her once again.

She slowly leaned into his office and her green eyes lit up the room. "Sorry to interrupt. I just--"

"Not at all," he said as tenderly as possible. "I mean, considering the morning's events . . . well, let me put it this
way ...
if you need some personal time, you're more than welcome to take the rest of the day off." Smiling to himself, Rutledge knew she'd never take him up on the offer, but as long as he put it out there, he'd be able to--

"Actually, that was just what I was going to ask you," she interrupted. "If it's okay, I figured we'd call it a half day." Before he could argue, Cordelia was back at the door--this time on her way out. The door slammed shut, and once again, he was all alone. He hated being alone.

The ensuing silence smacked him square in the chest--and as the consequences started to sink in, a single bead of sweat ran down the center of his forehead. Whoever did this--they knew what he was up to. In the town of a billion secrets, his most closely guarded one had somehow gotten out. That's why they sent the hand. And while, sure, having it delivered was a bit too
Godfather
, only a fool couldn't see the writing on the designer-painted walls: Like it or not, the rules had changed.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, he reached for the phone and dialed Kellogg's number. It was a long shot, but he didn't know what else to do. He wrapped the telephone cord around his finger and waited for someone to pick up. "C'mon . . . ," he demanded, as if that would somehow affect the outcome. Maybe it wasn't as bad as he thought. Maybe there was still a chance. Over and over, the phone continued to ring. But no one ever answered.

Blinking her
way
back to consciousness, Devin could barely keep her head up. Her clothes were on and the smell of old books was familiar, but in front of her, the whole world was blurry--a kaleidoscope of unintelligible shapes and colors. Still struggling to make sense of it, she tried to rub her eyes. That's when she realized her wrists were handcuffed to the armrests of the leather chair in her office.

"What the hell is going on!?" she tried to shout as she struggled against her restraints, but the words came out of her mouth more like a whisper.

"Don't panic," a calm voice answered, causing her to jump.

In front of her, the world slowly, finally came into focus. And the first thing she saw was a tall man towering over her even though he was on the other side of the desk. He wore a long blond wig, a black-and-white vertical-striped shirt, and bright white pants. "Ready to join the waking world?" he asked with a grin.

"Who are you?"

His voice was a flatline--never angry, just calm and cold. "Who am I?" he asked. "Does it really matter?"

Watching him carefully, Devin could feel her stomach spinning and her hands shaking. The tall man let out a thin grin. "Don't fret," he teased. "It's only temporary."

Still staring at her captor, Devin was about to blurt something, but she stopped herself.

"Oh, Ms. McGee, you don't have to hold back--you're among . . . friends. Ask me anything you want."

The shaking in Devin's hands was getting worse, but she remembered an article she'd recently read about hostage negotiations. Always keep them talking. It's the only way to prevent the worst. "W-why're you here?" she stuttered.

"Believe it or not, I'm just trying to create a level playing field."

"Is that why you're dressed like a referee?" It was her way of keeping things light, but as soon as she asked the question, she could feel the mood shift.

A quiet darkness took the man's face and his jaw shifted off-center. "Do you see a whistle around my neck? Do you see a cordless mike? Im
not a referee
/" he shouted, slapping his hands against the desk. "I'm a female Foot Locker employee!"

She wanted to say something--anything to calm him down--but he was clearly raging.

"Don't play stupid, Ms. McGee," he continued. "All you have to do is pay attention to the details." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a bright silver shoehorn. "Do referees carry shoehorns?
Do they?
Have you ever seen one with a shoehorn? I don't think so!"