Jan Burke - Bloodlines

I looked over my shoulder at the four or five people still in the newsroom, all of them pretending too hard to be busy with things that kept them within earshot. “How about holding this discussion in your office?”

I could see that he was tired and not happy with the idea of a private chat, which he probably assumed would be about the “catfight” after all, but he studied me for a moment, made a grunting noise, and waved to me to follow him to his office.

He sat down at his desk with a sigh and said, “At my age, if I sit down at this time of night, I damned well might not be able to get to my feet again.”

I suddenly forgot everything that was on my mind, because it was clear to me that something was weighing on him, that he had some big worry.

“What is it, Kelly?” he said impatiently.

“Is something wrong?”

“Yes, I’m here on a rainy night long past the time when I wanted to go home. You wanted to talk to me, remember?”

I let him in on everything I had been researching down in the morgue, and told him that I wanted Hailey to work with me.

“Kelly, you told me this wasn’t about the catfight.”

“Well, not directly.”

“You want that little greenling cut loose to help you, though.”

“Yes, as much as possible. And quietly.”

Another grunting sound. “If you don’t mind my asking, just what the hell is the new part of this news?”

After swearing him to confidentiality, which insulted him, I said, “Four or five weeks from now, a question will be decided once and for all-the question of whether or not the person known as Max Ducane is also the actual missing heir.” I told him about the possible DNA tests, although I didn’t mention a word about Warren Ducane. I had John’s intense interest, so I added that if Max was the kidnapped baby, other questions would arise. “It means the child Mitch Yeager supposedly adopted in November 1957 was still living with his birth parents in January 1958. Mitch Yeager will have a hell of a lot to explain. The Express should be ready to talk about the events of 1958 and 1978 again if need be. Which reminds me-his offshore nephews could still be tried for murder.”

“No double jeopardy, because it was a mistrial, right?”

“Right.”

“And someone ought to be talking to Lillian Linworth now-try to find out what made her hesitate. You’d think she’d be the one asking for the test.”

I smiled. I had him, and we both knew it.

He rubbed his face. “Damn, you are a pain in the ass.”

“You say that whenever I get you to change your mind about something.”

“Hmm. You better work all this out with Mark Baker, too. And Kelly, if any little bit of this comes near the police department, or even speaks of what it did in the past, you are not writing that part of the story.”

“Absolutely not. Same rules apply.”

After another moment of brooding, he said, “You don’t like Ethan much, do you?”

“No.”

“I hear rumors about password problems on your computer.”

I narrowed my gaze.

“No one in the newsroom told me,” he said, understanding that look perfectly. “I was contacted by computer services. Which, I might add, is a damnable thing, because I would think a certain reporter would know enough to come in here and talk to me about it.”

“Would you? If I didn’t have any proof?”

“No,” he admitted grudgingly. After a long moment, he sighed and said, “Wrigley thinks we’re all getting too old. At first I thought he just wanted young women to sexually harass, since that’s a favorite pastime of his. But he thinks the world of Ethan-thinks of him as the bright new hope of the Express.”

“That’s because Ethan could be his own long-lost son. His moral twin, anyway.”

John smiled. “Maybe. Maybe. Sometimes I look at what Wrigley wants the paper to become, and I’m not sure I want to be a part of that…vision, shall we say? But then I ask myself what the hell else an old newspaperman like me could do with himself.”

“Nothing else anytime soon, I hope. You have the faith of the staff and the board, John. You know the board will oust him if need be. And if I’m wrong and they let him lead us to disaster and the whole paper is sold, then, well, we’ll leave together. I guess we can take up jumping off bridges, or something else that will provide the same adrenaline rush.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Shit,” I said, sitting down. “The board is seriously talking about selling it.”

“Shut up, Kelly. It doesn’t do either of us any good to talk about it, or the newsroom any good to worry about it. Although knowing this bunch, they’ll know about it soon enough. It’s impossible to keep a secret in the newsroom.”

“They won’t hear it from me.”

“I know.”

I looked out beyond his office, back into the newsroom. Most of the lights were out, large areas of the room lit only by the glow of one or two terminals not set to “sleep mode.” At its busiest, the newsroom was never the noisy one I had first worked in, but this quiet, abandoned space was eerily still, even by current standards. I thought of all the men and women who had worked hard as hell for low pay and little thanks, worked to pull thousands of words together to describe the day in Las Piernas, who had done that day after day for more than a century. Who would tell the story of those days if the paper wasn’t here?

I heard and felt the thrum-thrum-thrum of the presses.

Only sleeping, that’s all. The paper had gone to bed, the newsroom was asleep. In a few hours, the early staffers would arrive, and it would start all over again.

“John,” I said. “Let’s make a pact.”

I turned to see that he had been watching me all the while.

He said, “Why do I think I’d be safer making a deal with the devil?”

“I say, no surrender.”

“We both know it may not be up to us.”

“When it comes to that, fine. Not until then.”

He reached out a big paw and we shook on it.

I went through the darkened newsroom to my desk. My voice mail light was blinking, so I checked my messages. I had one from Max, saying he was sorry he missed me. He sounded happy. While I listened to it, John waved to me as he left.

The next five were the usual messages from people who held local political offices, hoping I’d give them some ink.

The last caller didn’t leave his name, and I didn’t recognize his voice. He had called at seven-fifteen. The message was brief.

“I haven’t forgotten you.”

I slammed the receiver into the cradle and backed away from the desk, as if the phone itself were the menace. I was shaking. I told myself I had had dozens and dozens of similar ones over the years. Maybe Wrigley was right, and I was getting too old for this work. I wasn’t as sure as I used to be that no harm would come to me. Harm had come to me over the years, and although I had survived it, I didn’t feel the need to welcome another visit.

The phone rang. I took a deep breath and lifted the receiver.

“Irene?”

“Frank! Oh-I’m just getting ready to leave.”

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You sound upset.”

I never can fool him. That didn’t stop me from trying.

“Nothing, nothing. In fact, it’s the stupid sort of thing that never used to bother me at all. A crank call on my voice mail, that’s all.”

“Threatening?”

“No threats.” I told him what the caller had said.

“Did you save it?”

“No,” I said. “Sorry, I know that irritates you.”

“Just keep any others, okay?”

“How fun that will be. Where are you?”

“Just outside the front door of the Express. I’ve got the dogs with me in the car. We got tired of sitting around the house.”