Jan Burke - Liar

“Put up your dukes,” I said, and he pulled me into an embrace.

We stood there together for a while, then he glanced at his watch. “There are about four hours of Saturday left,” he said. “What would you like to do?”

I told him. In detail.

I got everything I wanted, my way, and still had no reason to feel selfish.

I didn’t have much time to sort through Briana’s belongings on Sunday; there were household chores that couldn’t be put off, and just after one o’clock I was called into work to help write a memorial piece on a civic leader. The man had had the discourtesy to die of a heart attack after deadline on Saturday night. Having no suspicion of his health problems, the paper didn’t have one of its instant obits ready to go.

If I had only needed to write a history of his generosity to the community, it wouldn’t have been so bad, but I had to get comments. As a result, several times I was placed in the unpleasant position of being the first person to tell one of his friends that he had died. I would wait for the stunned silence or shout of disbelief to pass, express condolences, tell the friend that I knew he or she had worked closely with him, and coax comments. I did get one break-another reporter was sent to talk to the widow.

By the time I got home, I was emotionally drained. Frank was making dinner. I was changing into more casual clothes when Aunt Mary called.

“Did you go to Mass today?” she asked.

“You’ve been hounding me about my sense of duty to my family,” I said, ready to tell her straight out that I was in no mood to talk about the dead. “Are you going to start pestering me on the subject of religion, too?”

“Hmm. I probably should. But here I’ve started out all wrong again. I called to apologize. Realized I needed to when I went to Mass this morning.”

“You don’t owe me any apologies,” I said.

“Yes, I do. Don’t interrupt. I went to Mass this morning, and afterwards, I spoke with Mr. Grady-the gentleman you met at the cemetery?”

“Yes, the one who is redesigning the grounds there for your personal comfort.”

“Now, don’t get smart with me or I’ll lose sight of my purpose. Sean-er, Mr. Grady-told me that I was cruel, and he’s right. He told me-well, I didn’t realize you had been so upset. You should have said something. Better yet, I never should have let things come to such a pass. I should have just called and asked for your help. That’s all.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m all right,” I said. “You weren’t trying to hurt me.

“No, but I did, and I wouldn’t for the world. You know that, don’t you?

“Yes, Aunt Mary.”

Frank, who was only hearing my half of the conversation, said, “Invite her over for dinner. There’s plenty.”

I made a face, but issued the invitation.

“Well, thank you,” she said, “but I’m already engaged for the evening.”

“Mr. Grady?” I asked.

“None of your beeswax. But you listen to me. Just enjoy your time with Frank this evening. Forget about all your horrible relatives and take care of him.”

I was happy to obey this directive.

I hadn’t been in the office long on Monday when the intercom line buzzed. John Walters, now the managing editor of the News-Express, commanded me to come into his office. The workload ahead of me was routine stuff-I knew I would be spending most of the day on the phone, trying to track down some out-of-town contributors to a local campaign fund-so I answered his summons with a sense of anticipation. Maybe he had a more exciting story in mind.

He answered my knock with a scowl and waved me in. He now had a slightly bigger office and a bigger desk and chair, but he’s a large man who seems to crowd any room he’s in.

“Shut the door,” he growled, and used his meaty fist to jab his ballpoint pen into his desk blotter.

He was pissed off. Didn’t look like I was in for anything good after all. But his usual level of sweetness is nearly that of a lemon, so the mood itself didn’t faze me. His next words did.

“I thought we agreed that since you insist on bedding a cop, Mark Baker covers crime stories around here.”

“Right,” I snapped, “whom you bed makes a difference around here- although if it’s Wrigley, you still get to write about jackasses. And did anyone question the guy who wrote about the wool-”

“Enough!” He looked away, and if I hadn’t known him for so long, I might not have understood that he was calming himself down. “One of these days, Wrigley’s going to hear what kind of remarks you make about him, and he’ll can your ass.”

I shrugged. “You haven’t always complimented your boss’s judgment. But you didn’t call me in here because I’m making nasty remarks about Wrigley. What have I done to make you accuse me of trying to butt in on Mark Baker’s territory?”

“I got a call this morning,” he said. “A Los Angeles homicide cop. Guy named McCain. Said he just needed to verify your whereabouts on Wednesday the eighteenth. Wouldn’t tell me anything more.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing.”

“John!”

“I told him that without more information from him, I wasn’t ready to talk to the LAPD about what my reporters were up to. I don’t make a habit of telling the police everything I know-unlike some people around here.”

“You have no right to imply that I talk to Frank about what goes on here at the paper.”

He scowled down at his desk, but eventually said, “No, no, I don’t. I’ll give you that.”

But I had already started thinking of the more important implications of what he had said. “God, I wish you had just talked to McCain! Now you’ve probably made things worse.”

“You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“He suspects me…” I discovered it wasn’t so easy to say. “It sounds ridiculous, I know, but he suspects me of murdering my aunt. Or arranging her murder.”

“What?!”

I explained as best I could.

He was silent for a long time, then said, “You have a lawyer?”

“If you had let McCain know I was here that Wednesday morning, I wouldn’t need a lawyer.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Feeling I get about this guy. He isn’t going to give up easily. Seems like he’s not short on dogged determination.”

“Then he’ll learn that I didn’t have anything to do with Briana’s death. Besides, I can’t afford to hire an attorney just because McCain’s asking questions.”

“Frank aware of this situation?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm. I suppose he’ll be able to tell when this guy McCain represents a threat to you. Anyway, I’ll tell Morey to be more cooperative with McCain than I was.”

Until John’s former position could be filled, Morey was our acting news editor. I wasn’t sure that Morey, with his far from forceful personality, would be able to convince McCain of the truth after John had been so evasive.

John and I talked a little longer, then I went back to my desk. I tried to concentrate on finding people who would talk to me about the campaign funding story. I didn’t have much luck, even though I was carrying the holy card of St. Anthony (who’s supposed to help one find that which is lost) in my pocket. The few out-of-area contributors I did locate were either former Las Piernas residents or relatives of the candidate. A few questions to the latter group made it clear that they were completely uninterested in Las Piernas politics. Four hours of phone calls and I had nothing worth putting into print.

But my sense of frustration wasn’t just a result of my problems with the story, or because of John’s reticence to talk to McCain. It increased not long after I left John’s office, during a phone call from Pete.