Bury the Lead

7



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 A*sholes. 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.

That’s not it. “Carrie just walked the f*ck out the door!” he screams.

Carrie is a seven-year-old Brittany spaniel, blind in one eye and as sweet as they come. Willie has just colorfully told me that she’s been adopted, and he goes on to say that her new parents are an elderly couple who are going to take her to live with them on their boat.

I’ve learned that there are few feelings better than rescuing a dog facing certain, anonymous death in an animal shelter and then sending that dog off to a happy life. It immediately cheers me up, and not even Willie’s question a few moments later can fully detract from that.

“You want some coffee?” he asks. “We’ve got Colombian roast, vanilla nut, cinnamon, hazelnut, and three kinds of decaf. I ordered one of those machines that make lattes, but it’s not here yet.” He pronounces “lattes” to rhyme with “fatties.”

For some reason, I don’t feel like coffee, so I leave for the airport to pick up Laurie, even though I’ll probably get there two hours early. My mood is not improved by the fact that I pass two hundred and thirty-seven Starbucks on the way, give or take a couple of hundred.

For years, Newark Airport stood as a monumental tribute to the arrogance of New Yorkers. It has always had great access by highways, ample parking, and not that much air traffic, so planes generally run on time. By comparison, the highways feeding JFK Airport are so jammed that it’s almost faster to walk, parking is a total pain, the terminals look like they were positioned by blindfolded dart throwers, and the planes are always late. Yet for a very long time, many upscale Manhattanites wouldn’t dream of taking off from or landing in Newark. The mere suggestion of it drew frowns, as if they were afraid they’d get cow dung on their shoes when they left the terminal. These attitudes have changed somewhat, but if you see somebody check the bottom of their shoes when they reach their car, you can still bet they’re heading toward Manhattan.

Being from New Jersey, I’m used to cow dung, so I don’t even look down as I walk to the terminal. Once I get there, boredom sets in, since the tightened security makes it impossible to get to restaurants or newspaper stands or even chairs, for that matter. All of those things are in that glorious land beyond security.

About twenty minutes before Laurie’s flight is scheduled to arrive, my cell phone rings. I think it might be her, calling to say she’s landed early and wondering where I’m waiting.

Instead, it’s Vince. “Where are you?”

“Newark Airport.”

“How fast can you get to Eastside Park?” he asks.

“I hope that’s a rhetorical question.”

“What?”

“How does a week from Tuesday sound?”

“Andy, I need you down here. There’s been another murder.”

I’m very sorry to hear that, of course, but there’s no way I’m leaving this airport alone. “Vince, I’m a lawyer. I don’t go to crime scenes. I hold up photographs of them in court.”

“Andy . . .”

It’s time to be firm. “I’ll have to read about it in the paper, Vince. Laurie is coming in, and—”

He cuts me off. “The victim is Linda Padilla.”

I’m outta here.