Джозеф Хеллер - Maximum Impact

Steve Pace reached over and turned off the alarm, remembering as he did so the last time the ConPac crash had been the lead story on the AP radio news. That was the ghastly day Justin Smith scored heavily on him. Well, friends, score this one for Steve Pace, unassisted. He thought Justin would have been proud.

He rolled onto his back, and his right arm flopped across the empty expanse of the other half of his bed. It hit cool sheets instead of the warm Kathy-body he wished for. She was in Boston, consulting with dear old Dad. There was no way Joe McGovern would tell her to give up an open-ended career in politics to set up housekeeping with a newspaper reporter, for chrissake. “Keep your eye on the ball and swing through nice and smooth,” old Joe would tell her. “Never lose sight of the objective. Don’t let anything distract you.”

Pace felt a blue mood bumping against his professional jubilation. He made an almost physical effort to force it away. He concentrated on what he had to do today, mostly keeping in touch with Ken Sachs and staying on George Ridley’s ass.

He tossed the covers aside and was about to get up when the phone rang.

“Steve, it’s Clay Helm. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“You didn’t. What’s up?”

“Your stock, for one thing. We got a match.”

“The paint?” Pace’s stomach muscles tightened, and he pulled himself into a sitting position, feeling a new adrenaline rush.

“The very same. The blue matched the spectrograph of the sample our tech found on Antravanian’s car, and the yellow flakes your reporter chipped off the truck matched the base color of the burned car.”

“Does that prove intent?”

“Not in and of itself. But since the same blue van was at the scene of the accident later, with its occupants videotaping the recovery of the body, and it was nearby when Mike McGill was killed, and again when you were beaten, the commonwealth attorney has more than enough to take to a grand jury. You and Jill will have to be witnesses.”

“That’s a problem,” Pace said with a frown. “You’ll have to take it up with Avery. I know I can’t volunteer to appear. I think you’ll probably have to subpoena us and be ready to fight off the paper’s attorneys.”

“Understood. We’ll do what it takes. I thought if you happened to be fishing for a story, the paint match might give you something to write.” Pace could hear the smile in Helm’s voice.

“Oh, I think I’ll be able to put it to some use,” he replied. “Have you talked to Lieutenant Lanier about it yet?”

“Yeah, last night. He says the U.S. attorney in the District wants a grand jury, too. That would mean two grand juries gnawing at the same bone. And, ah, I shouldn’t be telling you this, so I didn’t. Understand?”

“Sure.”

“You should check with the Justice Department. If these murders were committed to abet a conspiracy to cover up the cause of a commercial plane crash, they’re going to be coming in with the heavy hitters.”

“Justice knows what you’ve got?”

“Yes. And what the NTSB has.”

“FBI?”

“You got it.”

“Can you narrow it down any further? Like a name?”

“I’d start with the U.S. attorney for the District of Columbia.”

“Stan Travis.”

“The very same.”

“The very same Stanley Eastman Travis III who once said the public should never have any access to any information about federal criminal investigations?”

“That’s the man.”

“Gee, Clay, thanks a lot.”

“My pleasure.”

Pace was in the office before Schaeffer and Wister came in, so he walked down the stairs to see if Suzy O’Connor was around. She was. Pace wondered if she ever went home.

She was scanning a variety of morning papers. Pace plopped down in the lone chair beside her desk. Without an audience of her own staffers nearby, she skipped her usual theatrics and smiled at him.

“I’d ask you how you’re doing, but it’s fairly clear from your front-page run you’re doing fine,” O’Connor said.

“Yeah, things are looking up,” Pace replied.

“So what brings you to Ms. O’Connor’s neighborhood?”

“Have you heard from Sally lately?”

“Incaveria?” Pace nodded. “I heard from her yesterday,” O’Connor responded. “We talked about a story she’s been hammering.”

“Did she say anything about the fatal on 193?”

“No. Is there something new to say?”

Pace gave her a quick synopsis of his conversation with Clay Helm that morning, and the suburban editor whistled.

“That’s something. God, what a story! Are you going with that tomorrow?”

“I hope so.”

“What do the D.C. cops say?”

“I haven’t called them yet.”

“So what can I do?”

“I’m going to ask for a double byline. Sally should share the credit.”

O’Connor smiled and shook her head. “That’s nice of you, Steve, but you’ll have to send flowers or candy. I can’t let her anywhere near that story.”

“Why not? You were hot for her to have a piece of it a couple weeks ago.”

“Things change. This week she happens to be engaged to that state police captain, which would make any involvement in this story a conflict of interest. Our policy is clear.”

“Engaged?” Pace was dumbfounded. “She’s only known the guy three weeks.”

“I guess he swept her off her feet.”

“Or vice versa. She could do that to a man.”

“So she could.”

“It’s strange Clay didn’t mention it this morning. After all, I’m the one responsible for their chance to get acquainted socially.”

“Well, it’s usually up to the lady to announce an engagement, isn’t it?”

“How the hell would I know, Suze?”

She thumped a finger in his chest. “Maybe you should find out. Information like that could come in handy someday.”

Pace stared at her for a moment. “From your mouth to God’s ear, Ms. O’Connor.”

“Oh?” The editor looked interested. “Somebody I know?”

“No,” Pace said, subdued. “Sometimes I’m not even sure I know her.” He got up and walked away, humming the refrain from Doc Watson’s “Life Gets Tee-jus, Don’t It?” Yeah, Doc, it do.

Wister was just sitting down when Pace popped back into the newsroom.

“Well, you’re certainly feeling your oats this morning, running up the stairs,” Wister joked. “A man of your age should think about getting into exercise slowly. Or is this what a banner headline out front will do to your spirit?”

“It helps,” Pace laughed. “Listen, if you think today was good—”

They were interrupted by Wister’s telephone. Wister motioned Pace to wait.

“Really?” Wister said after listening to the caller for about half a minute. “No kidding? What do you make of it?” He gestured to Pace to sit down in the chair next to his desk. “He’s right here. We were chatting when you called… I don’t know, but I’ll ask him to wait until you get in… okay, Avery.”

When Wister hung up, he was shaking his head. “Incredible,” he said. “Absolutely incredible.” He turned to Pace. “Avery got a call early this morning from Harold Marshall, who was bent totally out of shape, almost incoherent. He was ranting about your story, and then he tried to hype Avery on the idea Ken Sachs opened the new investigation because he has a personal interest in seeing Converse bankrupted.”

“Like what?” Pace asked.

“According to Marshall, Sachs did some lucrative work for MacPhearson-Paige.”

Pace nodded. “I think he did do some work for M-P after he left United, but M-P was only one of his clients. He had a very nice business as a rep for clients who had dealings with U.S. Government agencies and overseas.”