“Maddy,” he said, “the 3rd District has been corrupt for decades. I don’t know if Percy is part of any illegal stuff or not. And I bet Chief Polceznec doesn’t know either. But what both the chief and I do know is that Lionel Percy is a five-hundred-pound piranha. You don’t swim in his pond. Polceznec probably figures Percy will retire in a couple years and then he can put some Spic-and-Span guy in charge and turn things around.”
I tried to get Dale to eat his meat loaf sandwich before it got cold but he just kept playing with his potatoes. “Why didn’t you tell Tinker all this?” I asked. “It looks like you’re trying to protect your pals on the force again.”
Dale wasn’t happy with that. “Again?”
“You know what I mean.”
He stuck his fork in the top of his potatoes and folded his arms. “If I tell Tinker I’m afraid for Aubrey’s safety, that will only prove her point, won’t it? If only Aubrey wasn’t so damned gonzo about everything.”
Well, Dale was right about that. Aubrey was one very determined young woman. Most reporters are emotionally detached from the stories they cover. It doesn’t matter much if they’re covering a murder trial or a Red Cross blood drive. They go where they’re assigned, gather up the who-what-when-where-and-why, come back and write the damn story, go home and feed their cats. They get whooped up about a story from time to time, sure. But when they do, it’s the
story
that gets them excited, not the reality.
From what I’d seen, Aubrey McGinty was different. With her it was the reality. Yes, she’d told Guthrie Gates she was only interested in Buddy Wing’s murder because it was a good story. But I had the feeling she really wanted to help Sissy James. And if she wanted to investigate why Chief Polceznec left Lionel Percy commander of the 3rd District, it was because the people living there deserved better.
“Now Mr. M,” I said, “It might turn out to be a good story.”
He decided to eat. “It’s not sour grapes. She really could get hurt.”
***
Friday, March 24
Aubrey not only sat on my desk, she pulled her legs up under her chin. It was one of those late March days in Ohio when the weather should have been a lot better than it was, when wet snow covers the sprouting daffodils and tulips, when people are torpid and testy, bundled up in sweaters they’d already put away for the summer. “Look around the newsroom,” I hissed at her. “Do you see anybody else sitting on the top of their desks?”
She didn’t get off, but she did lower her legs and dangle them over the side. I accepted the partial victory. “So, what brings you to the morgue on this wonderful afternoon?”
She yawned. “I finally got that stuff from probate on the good reverend’s estate.”
Suddenly it wouldn’t have bothered me if she were standing on her head. “And?”
“It seems the money trail leads straight to God.”
“You don’t think He poisoned Buddy Wing, do you?”
She was no more in the mood for my smart-assed remarks than I was for hers. “It’s really quite remarkable. Wing only had $6,400 in the bank. A $10,000 life insurance policy. A tiny paid-for colonial in South Ridge. A 1987 Pontiac Sunbird valued at nothing. All left to the Heaven Bound Cathedral.”
“What about all the white suits and loud ties?”
“God got those, too.”
“Then he wasn’t killed for his money.”
Aubrey handed me my tea mug and we headed for the cafeteria. “Do you know Wing only made $34,000 a year. You’d think he was a member of the newspaper guild.”
“And how do you know he only made $34,000 a year?”
“I goo-goo eyed one of the young studlies in homicide into showing me the church’s financial report from their files.”
“You think Guthrie Gates will settle for $34,000?” I asked.
“He was already making $60,000 when Wing was killed.”
“And now?”
“Well, that’s this year’s financial report, isn’t it? Which the
I tried to get Dale to eat his meat loaf sandwich before it got cold but he just kept playing with his potatoes. “Why didn’t you tell Tinker all this?” I asked. “It looks like you’re trying to protect your pals on the force again.”
Dale wasn’t happy with that. “Again?”
“You know what I mean.”
He stuck his fork in the top of his potatoes and folded his arms. “If I tell Tinker I’m afraid for Aubrey’s safety, that will only prove her point, won’t it? If only Aubrey wasn’t so damned gonzo about everything.”
Well, Dale was right about that. Aubrey was one very determined young woman. Most reporters are emotionally detached from the stories they cover. It doesn’t matter much if they’re covering a murder trial or a Red Cross blood drive. They go where they’re assigned, gather up the who-what-when-where-and-why, come back and write the damn story, go home and feed their cats. They get whooped up about a story from time to time, sure. But when they do, it’s the
story
that gets them excited, not the reality.
From what I’d seen, Aubrey McGinty was different. With her it was the reality. Yes, she’d told Guthrie Gates she was only interested in Buddy Wing’s murder because it was a good story. But I had the feeling she really wanted to help Sissy James. And if she wanted to investigate why Chief Polceznec left Lionel Percy commander of the 3rd District, it was because the people living there deserved better.
“Now Mr. M,” I said, “It might turn out to be a good story.”
He decided to eat. “It’s not sour grapes. She really could get hurt.”
***
Friday, March 24
Aubrey not only sat on my desk, she pulled her legs up under her chin. It was one of those late March days in Ohio when the weather should have been a lot better than it was, when wet snow covers the sprouting daffodils and tulips, when people are torpid and testy, bundled up in sweaters they’d already put away for the summer. “Look around the newsroom,” I hissed at her. “Do you see anybody else sitting on the top of their desks?”
She didn’t get off, but she did lower her legs and dangle them over the side. I accepted the partial victory. “So, what brings you to the morgue on this wonderful afternoon?”
She yawned. “I finally got that stuff from probate on the good reverend’s estate.”
Suddenly it wouldn’t have bothered me if she were standing on her head. “And?”
“It seems the money trail leads straight to God.”
“You don’t think He poisoned Buddy Wing, do you?”
She was no more in the mood for my smart-assed remarks than I was for hers. “It’s really quite remarkable. Wing only had $6,400 in the bank. A $10,000 life insurance policy. A tiny paid-for colonial in South Ridge. A 1987 Pontiac Sunbird valued at nothing. All left to the Heaven Bound Cathedral.”
“What about all the white suits and loud ties?”
“God got those, too.”
“Then he wasn’t killed for his money.”
Aubrey handed me my tea mug and we headed for the cafeteria. “Do you know Wing only made $34,000 a year. You’d think he was a member of the newspaper guild.”
“And how do you know he only made $34,000 a year?”
“I goo-goo eyed one of the young studlies in homicide into showing me the church’s financial report from their files.”
“You think Guthrie Gates will settle for $34,000?” I asked.
“He was already making $60,000 when Wing was killed.”
“And now?”
“Well, that’s this year’s financial report, isn’t it? Which the
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