A Question of Fire

Chapter 3

-3-

Thursday

She stood transfixed, frozen like a squirrel

that can't figure out which way to jump. She'd just made the

decision when her body was jolted from behind, arms wrapped around

her, and a lunge not of her own volition carried her out of the

path of the vehicle. She and her rescuer landed together on the

pavement several feet away, rolling and sliding, collecting

scratches and gouges from the rough surface.

The car roared past, out of the parking lot.

Cathy twisted her neck to look at it and tried to lever herself to

make out the license plate. The body sprawled across her own

defeated her attempt as the two of them decided to get up at the

same time and, instead, managed to end up tangled together in a

knot of limbs. The man gathered his breath and collected himself

enough to roll over and away, swearing fluently but without malice.

He rose to a sitting position on the pavement and stayed there,

surveying her with a frown which finally melted into a crooked

grin. Cathy shook her hair back and pushed up to face him.

He seemed content to examine her wordlessly,

so she felt free to do the same. He was worth a stare or two. Curly

black hair and aquamarine eyes graced the sort of face that

belonged on a television or movie screen. He was almost too

beautiful to be true, but a touch of sardonic humor in the lines

around his eyes and mouth redeemed his features from

perfection.

She broke the silence when it threatened to

become uncomfortable. "I haven't had much practice thanking someone

who's just saved my life, so this may be less than graceful. But my

appreciation is heartfelt, believe me." She rubbed a bruise on her

leg. "Felt a few other places, too." She tried to finger-comb her

hair back into place.

The frown reappeared. "Are you all right?" he

asked.

"Fine, thanks."

He got to his feet and offered a hand. She

accepted the assistance and winced as he helped her up.

He looked worried. "You're sure you're not

hurt?"

"Nothing ten minutes in a ladies' room won't

cure."

"Good." His expression lightened, and he

smoothed back his own hair. "It was a near thing, though. Careless

bastard, zipping along the parking lot like that, not watching

where he was going."

"Careless?" Cathy looked up and down the

strip of parking spaces separating one block of apartments from

another. "I wonder."

The man stared at her. "What else could it

be? Does someone have a grudge against you?"

She shrugged. "Not that I know of,

but..."

"But what?"

"Just... I don't know. Probably my

imagination. Hey, look, I really appreciate your help. Do you live

around here? I'll be glad to pay for cleaning your clothes."

He shook his head. "I'll take care of it. No,

I don't live here. And I came to see someone."

"Oh. Well, I don't want to hold you up any

longer. I'd better run, I'm late for work already, but thanks

again."

He didn't move, just watched her steadily, a

small grin playing around his mouth. "You're not holding me up.

You're Catherine Bennett, aren't you? I came here to talk to

you."

"Me? Why?"

"It's a long story. Can we go somewhere

more... private to talk?"

Cathy glanced at her watch. "I owe you a lot,

and I really am grateful, but I'm also really late for work. Do you

think I could meet you somewhere later on?"

The lines around his mouth tightened and

deepened, but his tone remained even. "Do you get a break for

dinner?"

"Yes."

"Good. What time? Can I pick you up at your

office?"

"You know where the Journal office is?

Seven okay?"

He agreed. Cathy said goodbye and got into

her car. No one commented on her tardiness at the office. On the

whole, she would've preferred they had—compared with what would be

said later.

Ray's door was shut when she arrived, and she

knew better than to disturb him. A message waiting on her desk

requested she call Peter Lowell's office. It didn't surprise Cathy

to learn the lawyer wanted to see her. His secretary gave her an

appointment for four that afternoon, which she accepted, hoping

she'd be able to wangle the time off.

She also called the police to report the

attempt on her life. The officer dutifully recorded the details but

warned her that, failing a license number or adequate description

of the driver, they couldn't promise any results. They'd try,

though. And, no, Lieutenant Norfolk wasn't on duty now. Call him

back this evening.

Ray's door remained closed, so she tackled

the rest of the junk on her desk: a memorandum about leave policy,

the latest update on the newspaper's group health insurance plan,

assorted press releases she put aside to sort later, two letters in

response to columns she'd written—one outraged, the other

complimentary—and a chance to win five million dollars in

somebody's sweepstakes.

Finally, the door opened and Cathy started

towards it. She stopped when she saw who occupied the other chair

in Ray's office. Despite her ultra-ladylike air, Adelaide Stinson,

society editor, could be a human volcano when aroused, and the

noises emanating from the room indicated an eruption was pending,

if not already in process.

Cathy tried to back away, but too late. Ray

saw her, gestured her into the room, and didn't ask the other woman

to leave before he shut the door again.

Adelaide was a picture in a short-sleeved

knit top whose shade of pink echoed precisely the color of the

flowers printed on the spring-green wraparound skirt. Pink

espadrilles of the same shade as shirt and flowers completed the

ensemble. Every strand of her rinsed blonde hair occupied its

assigned position. Adelaide was pushing fifty, but still trying to

convince the world she was under forty.

There were three chairs in the room, so Cathy

took the last one. Adelaide watched, blue eyes shooting sparks; she

was the only person Cathy knew who could look demure even when

furious. The woman didn't wait for Ray, but started in as soon as

Cathy settled into the seat.

"Young lady, don't you know that when the

newspaper sends you to a social function in the community, it's

placing the highest degree of trust in you? You occupy a position

of utmost delicacy and responsibility. The people who accept your

presence at their functions trust the paper will send someone who

knows how to behave with decorum, someone who won't embarrass

them."

She stopped to draw a quick breath. "Last

night you were placed in that position, and you betrayed that trust

disgracefully. You created an awkward and embarrassing scene for

the hosts; you completely ruined their party, in fact." Adelaide

was warming to the subject. "You had no business being outside

alone in the darkness, and you most certainly shouldn't have been

consorting with some low type who had the bad taste to bring his

sordid affairs to an event where they didn't belong."

"Bad taste?" Cathy sputtered, torn between

fury and astonishment. "Bad taste?” She drew a deep breath. “Okay,

I suppose murder is in bad taste."

Ray lowered his face into his hands and said

nothing.

Adelaide missed the sarcasm. "It most

certainly is, and your part was even worse. I intend to see the

paper never allows you to cover an event of such importance again.

I don't know what they teach young ladies in college these days.

Certainly not proper behavior."

Cathy looked at Ray, who finally sat up. She

could see the effort he expended to control his expression, and she

realized what he was doing. It irritated her, but she understood.

If he expected an apology, however, he overestimated her.

"All right, Adelaide, you've made your

point." Ray's patience was running thin, but he still tried to

humor her. "I don't believe Cathy wants any more of those

assignments in any case."

"I expect you to be sure she isn't allowed to

represent the paper at any social functions in the future."

Adelaide stood up, but she wasn't quite finished. "God knows how

long it'll take to restore our credibility in the community after

her disaster."

The woman turned and marched out, but Cathy

couldn't resist a parting shot. "I don't want to cover any more of

those affairs, thank you, but I did enjoy the caviar."

Ray smothered a grin as Adelaide closed the

door, harder than strictly necessary, but nothing so crude as a

slam. "A lot of people read our paper just to see their names in

her column," he said.

"Point taken. I won't needle her any more.

I'll try to stay out of her way entirely. But really, Ray: 'bad

taste?' And her 'low type' makes me want to spit bullets. That 'low

type' was a man who apparently struggled to get his life together,

then risked it all to try to help his brother. Sometimes I could

strangle the Adelaides of this world."

"Hey, don't preach to me; I'm converted,

remember? I'm just reminding you of the economic realities."

"Sorry. I guess it was the effort of sitting

quietly and letting her rip me apart."

"Touché," he responded.

"Ray, you're going to let me pursue this

story, aren't you?"

“Not a prayer.” He watched her face and

sighed. “Hell. Do I have a choice?" He tried to raise one eyebrow,

but both slid up anyway. "I expect you to collaborate with Sandy on

it," he specified. "We need to preserve some semblance of

objectivity. But I'm not sure how much story you've got. I talked

to the police an hour ago. They think it's pretty cut and

dried."

"They do? How do they read it?"

"Drugs," Ray said. "Bobby was arrested once

for dealing. And he'd been keeping bad company recently. If he

wasn't selling, he was probably leaning on old contacts for

information. The police think he got into something bigger than he

could handle."

"But what about the message, his claim he had

proof?"

"You heard how much faith Lieutenant Norfolk

had in that proof. The feeling is pretty general. They'll do what

they can, they're not going to be accused of overlooking the

possibility, but don't expect them to bust a gut looking for

something they don't believe exists."

"The case against Danny is tight," he

continued. "They don't have any doubts on that score. He was found

at the scene; no one else was there except the drunk upstairs, nor

evidence of anyone else. Danny claims he was framed, but he's

pretty hazy about the details; can't even describe the man he

claims brought him to the building."

"What do you think, Ray?"

"I get paid to report the stories, not to

speculate about them."

"Sure," Cathy answered.

"Okay." Ray stretched and leaned back in his

chair. "Danny's story is weak, but Bobby bought it, and while he

might be accused of bias, it's also true that he knew his brother

better than anyone else. You tell me Bobby sounded very sure about

what he had, and I trust your judgement."

"On the other hand," he continued, "there's

something to be said for the police position. That proof he had

last time, for instance, was a guy he met in a bar bragging about

setting a fire. Bobby neglected a few details, like getting a name,

address, or even an accurate description. The cops, need I say,

weren't impressed—told him to come back when he had real

proof."

"Bobby thought he'd found it."

"Yeah, but the police are dubious." Ray

reached for a cigarette, then remembered he was in quitting mode

again. "They think it more likely he stirred some other soup

accidentally, maybe stumbled onto something he shouldn't have."

"Any evidence to back that up?"

"Not much, but suggestive. The bullet they

dug out of Bobby, and the fact that only one shot was fired, very

accurately, in the dark."

"Night-sight?"

"Most likely. The guy did the job with one

bullet, in the dark. Very neat, very clean."

"Very professional?" Cathy drew thoughtful

little curlicues on her notepad.

"Seems likely," Ray agreed. "He did slip up,

though. Left a footprint: Nike, size ten and a half. That’s not for

publication"

Cathy frowned over her artwork. "A

professional hit? Bobby really stirred the wrong soup; or the pot

he wanted to stir was a lot deeper than he realized. Why aren't the

police pursuing that possibility?"

"They are."

"Halfheartedly?" Cathy asked. "Last night

Bobby told me Danny was framed, and he wasn't saying it on faith.

He knew. He found something that convinced him beyond any doubt."

She remembered the way the moonlight had shined on his damp face.

"Ray, somebody else knew it, too. What he found was dangerous, so

dangerous someone killed him to keep it secret. I want to pursue

it. I want to know who killed Bobby and why."

Ray sucked in his lips and leaned his chair

even further back. "Cathy, if you're right, then it's even more a

job for the police. They get paid to do dangerous things. Let them

do it."

"I'll be glad to. If I can." She paused and

glanced down at her pad, sighed and punched the point into the

paper. "There’s something else you ought to know. I think somebody

tried to kill me this morning."

"What?" The chair crashed against the floor

as Ray sat up straight. "Are you sure?"

Cathy told him about the car that had nearly

run her down. Just recalling her frozen terror made her chest get

tight, almost choking off her words.

"You're sure it wasn't an accident, a

careless driver?"

"His aim was too good. I'm sure."

"Have you told the police?"

"I didn't have much to give them. I couldn't

see the driver's face—he had a cap pulled down to hide it—and I

didn't get a license number."

"Tell Norfolk when he comes in," Ray ordered.

"He ought to know about this. And for God's sake, Cathy, be

careful. Do you have any idea why?"

She sighed and shrugged. "Whoever killed

Bobby saw him talking to me and probably thinks he told me where to

find whatever he had. He almost did, too. Damn! I know too much,

but not enough. You see why I want to pursue it?"

Ray glared at her. "I see a good reason for

you to take a nice long vacation some place far from here." He

watched her reaction. "Relax, I know you better. Wishful thinking.

But tonight's follow-up on the murder story is going to contain a

statement that Bobby didn't say anything helpful before he

died."

"I'm not going to print what he did say."

He rolled his eyes and scratched his head

with a pencil he picked up from the desk. "Did I say you should? I

just want something general to let the killer know you don't have

anything on him. Okay?"

"Sure." Cathy exhaled a long sigh. "You think

it'll convince him?"

"No," Ray admitted. "But it's one thing we

can try."

"The other is to find whatever Bobby had and

get it into the right hands, pronto," she added. "I suppose we can

rely on the police to check the obvious places, like the air

conditioning system in his home, if there is one. It may not be so

simple, though, and I'd like to pursue it if they don't find

anything. I'll need some flexibility."

Ray stared at her for a minute, making her

wonder if he was trying to figure out how to refuse without

infuriating her. "I suppose so," he said, finally. "I don't like

it, but I'll give you as much leeway as I can. The primary races

won't start heating up for another few weeks anyway. But Cathy...

Be careful, please." He stopped and shook his head. "How do you

plan to start?"

"Peter Lowell left a message saying he wanted

to see me. I can guess what he's after, but I need to talk to him

anyway. I have an appointment in..." She consulted her watch.

"Yikes! Twenty minutes. I want to find out more about both Bobby

and Danny. See if maybe I can talk with Danny. I'd better get

going. "

Ray shook his head again, probably asking

himself why he let himself to be talked into these things against

his better judgement.