A Stranger Lies There by Stephen Santogrossi Page B

You’ve probably been getting calls from reporters all day.”
    I looked at the answering machine. Its single red digit blinked a flashing “9,” signifying the number of messages went into the double digits.
    â€œBut if you’ll just answer a few brief questions about the crime I won’t bother you again,” Parker continued. “Promise.” He paused in my silence. Then: “Only about what happened. Nothing personal.” Which sounded like Sheehan’s threat to expose my past.
    â€œLook, we just had one of your competitors from the other paper show up unannounced. Kinda ticked us off, so we’re a little press-shy right now. We don’t know anything anyway.”
    â€œWho was it? Sheehan, I bet. What did he have to say?”
    â€œSame thing as you, Parker. Sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. We got nothing beyond what we told the police. Talk to them.”
    â€œI did. Which reminds me. Did you and Branson have some sort of run-in? I don’t think he likes you much.”
    â€œWhy? What did he tell you?”
    â€œNothing specific. But there was something there. Care to talk about it?”
    I wondered why Branson hadn’t spilled the beans on me just for the fun of it. Maybe he thought it would be more amusing to drop a few hints and see what the press came up with.
    â€œThere’s nothing to talk about. You must’ve misread him.”
    â€œMaybe,” Parker admitted, then pushed on. “So what were your first thoughts when you saw the body? Ever seen something like that before?”
    â€œThis conversation is over, Parker.”
    â€œTake my number in case you feel like talking.”
    â€œI know where to find you, but it’s not going to happen,” I assured him. “Good night. And you can lose my number.” I hung up the phone. “Damnit.”
    â€œThis is going to be bad,” Deirdre said. “Maybe if we give them just a little, they’ll back off.”
    â€œYou know that’s not true, Deirdre. It’ll just make it worse. If they know they’re not getting anything they’ll eventually give up.”
    Deirdre didn’t reply. I reached for the answering machine and pressed the “play” button.
    â€œYeah, this is Chris Anders from KMIR-TV in Palm Springs,” a voice announced.
    I cut it off and hit “delete,” then ran through the rest. Nothing but reporters, Parker and Sheehan among them. Bloodhounds locked on a scent. I deleted them one by one, getting more steamed as I did so. When the phone rang again I yanked it out of the cradle and hurled it against the opposite wall. Deirdre jumped, then recovered. Gave me a look like a disappointed mother at a misbehaving child. I felt like one, embarrassed at my loss of control.
    â€œBeautiful, Tim,” she said. “Feel better?”
    â€œSorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
    Deirdre glanced at the damaged wall. “You done redecorating? Or you want to try the bedroom next?”
    We could hear the phone in the bedroom ringing, and since the handset I’d demolished was a cordless model, the base with its built-in answering machine was still intact. It answered a moment later. After the beep we heard yet another journalist pleading for an interview. I let it go, resigned to the intrusion. Tried to ignore it as I sat back down at the table. My blood was boiling but the iced tea was cool and refreshing, the glass slippery with moisture.
    Deirdre sat down and sighed, studying me as the reporter hung up.
    â€œI said I was sorry,” I repeated defensively.
    Deirdre shook her head and looked down at her iced tea. She was making sweat rings on the table with the glass and joined two of the circles together. Then she absently wiped them away, leaving a smeared puddle, and lifted her eyes to mine.
    â€œWe gotta try and relax,” she said. “We can’t let this get to us. They’ll