David Rosenfelt: Bury the Lead

“Any idea how he got your number?”

He shakes his head. “None.”

“You said you were afraid I would get in the way. Can you be more specific?”

“If you’re looking over my shoulder, it will make it harder for me to do what I want to do.”

“Which is?” I ask.

He looks me straight in the eye. “I’m going to catch the son of a bitch.”

Just then the phone rings. I see him take a nervous breath before answering it. Every call could be the killer. After a moment he picks up the receiver. “Hello?”

He shakes his head slightly, telling me that this isn’t the call. “I’m leaving now,” he says into the phone before hanging up. He stands, grabs his jacket, and heads for the door. “There’s a press conference in twenty minutes.”

I start following him, even though he hasn’t asked me along. “Are you covering it or part of it?”

He smiles the first genuine smile I’ve seen. “Good question.”

We take separate cars to state police headquarters in Hackensack. Because the murders have been committed in three different communities, no one department has jurisdiction, and the state cops have taken over. Even though they’d never admit it, the mayors of the towns in question are breathing a sigh of relief. Real pressure is starting to mount to catch this guy, and the intervention of the state cops takes them off the political hook.

I get stuck in some traffic behind Cummings, and by the time I arrive he is already up on the stage with the state police brass. I take a spot along the side of the room, as the press mills about, waiting for the conference to begin.

“This is a new one for you, isn’t it, Andy?”

I look up and see Pete Stanton, a Paterson police lieutenant and my closest and only friend in the department.

“What is?” I ask.

“Usually, you wait until we identify and catch the scumbags before you represent them.”

I shake my head. “A lawyer can go broke waiting for you idiots to make an arrest. So I’ve already got myself a client.”

“Who?”

I point to the stage. “The intrepid young reporter. And the newspaper he represents.”

Pete was the detective assigned to the first murder, before anyone had an idea that there was a serial killer on the loose. Since I’m basically in an information-gathering mode at this point, I might as well start pumping good old Pete.

“You guys making any progress?” I ask.

“There are a number of leads that we’re aggressively pursuing along with our colleagues in the state police,” he says. “We’re very confident.”

“So you’ve got nothing.”

“Not a fucking thing.”

“You still working the case?” I ask.

He nods. “Barely. Mostly, we just admire the professionals.” He points to the brass on the stage. There’s a rivalry between the state and local police forces that will last until eternity.

“Piss you off, does it?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Temporarily. As soon as the killer moves into New York or Connecticut, it’ll be interstate and the feds will move in. Then the state assholes will be on the outside with us.”

“It would be nice if one of you actually caught the bad guy,” I say.

“Wouldn’t make your client too happy.”

“Which means . . . ?”

Pete nods toward Cummings on the stage. “Look at him. He’s a star. You think he wants this to be over so he can go back to being just another typist?”

I have to admit that, though Cummings isn’t grinning and giggling, it does seem that he’d rather be on that stage than in the gallery down here with his colleagues.

Captain Terry Millen of the New Jersey State Police starts the session with a statement about the latest murder. He then refuses to answer just about everything the media throw at him, expressing his confidence that they’ll understand he can’t reveal information about this ongoing investigation. With that as the ground rule, there was no reason to have this session at all. Did he think he was going to be asked how the Giants will do on Sunday?

Frustrated by the lack of answers they are getting, two reporters direct questions to Cummings. He toes the party line, claiming that Captain Millen has asked him not to respond. Other than getting some television face time, there was no reason for Cummings to have been here at all, but he certainly doesn’t look put off at this total waste of his time.

I would like him a hell of a lot more if he was annoyed.

Like I am.

• • • • •

IT’S ONLY BEEN FIVE DAYS, but it’s already obvious that working for Vince Sanders is not going to get me out of my funk. Nothing new has come up, the police appear to be nowhere, and basically everyone is in the uncomfortable position of waiting for the killer to make the next move. I remain a figure on the distant periphery, with no real role in any of it.

I start spending more time in the office, though it’s not exactly a hub of activity. Most of Edna’s efforts are directed toward honing her skills as the world’s finest crossword puzzle player, interrupting that endeavor only long enough to check financial prices on the Internet and shriek with glee.

A hurricane has hit South America, destroying some coffee crops and sending coffee futures straight up. I make a silent vow not to drink another drop until the Olympics are over.

Kevin comes in for only an hour or so a day. There’s really nothing for him to do, and he has responsibilities running the Laundromat. When he is here, he spends most of his time on the computer, indulging his hypochondria. I looked over his shoulder a few times, and he was in chat rooms on medical Web sites, seeking and giving medical advice, with such noted physicians as LOLA427 and SICKLYONE.

Laurie is coming home tonight, and I’m picking her up at the airport. I’ve got plenty of time until I have to leave, so I decide to play some sock basketball, a challenging game whereby I shoot a pair of rolled-up socks into a ledge above my door. I am not only the inventor of the game but also its most talented practitioner.

To add some flavor and excitement, I set up grudge matches, and today’s game is between the American Heroes and the Al Qaeda Assholes. As captain of the Heroes, I’m in rare form, and we’re ahead seventy-eight to nothing when the phone rings, signaling halftime.

It’s Vince Sanders, making his daily call to check up on the nonexistent developments. “So where do we stand?” is his opening chitchat.

“It’s halftime,” I say. “I’m up by seventy-eight, and two of the terrorists are in foul trouble.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Sock basketball. You take these rolled-up socks, and-”

He interrupts. “And I ram them down your throat if you don’t tell me where we stand on our case.”

He keeps calling it a case, which it certainly isn’t. “Oh, that?” I say. “I’ve got it all figured out. It was Mrs. Plum in the library with a candlestick.”

Click .

I’ve probably talked to Vince on the phone a hundred times, and the next time he says goodbye will be the first.

“You might want to take a look at this,” Edna says.

She’s pointing to a story on her computer. Edna has it set up so that various financial Web sites e-mail her when significant events in her area of interest happen. This one has to do with a merger that has fallen through in the telecommunications industry, sending all similar stocks tumbling in sympathy. Mine is down a point and a half.

“Thanks for sharing that,” I say.

She smiles. “Want me to make you some coffee? It might make you feel better. Everybody’s drinking it these days, you know.”

Stifling my impulse to strangle Edna with my bare hands, I head over to the foundation. I walk in on Willie looking positively giddy; when he sees me, he rushes over and gives me a high five. He’s probably heard that my stock went down.