“Uh, no. A Los Angeles publication. We picked up the story from the wire services and my editor asked me to pursue the subject.”
“I don’t have anything to say.”
“Nothing?”
“It’s ancient history. Nobody cares about that stuff.”
“You’d be surprised. Our readers are still very interested in Sloan Stevens’s death. You do know Fritz was released from the CYA the week before last?”
“You just said that and I don’t give a shit.”
I made a point of scribbling a note and then looked up at her. “Any other thoughts you’d like to share?”
“Look, I’m busy here. What happens to Fritz has nothing to do with me.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure. Someone’s unhappy about his being free and wants to get back at him.”
That got her attention. “Meaning what?”
“An anonymous party is threatening to turn a certain videotape over to law enforcement. The footage was shot in 1979. You probably know the tape I’m referring to since you appeared in it.”
“So what? That tape disappeared ten years ago.”
“Well, now it’s resurfaced with a note demanding a hefty sum of money or the sender will forward a copy to the DA, who could file criminal charges against the boys who participated.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s not ridiculous to the person demanding the money. Far from it.”
“But that’s blackmail, isn’t it?”
“Not directed at you, but you’d be sucked into the mess.”
“I thought the district attorney couldn’t do anything without my cooperation.”
“Not so. The tape is evidence of a crime. Pursuing the matter doesn’t depend on your approval. The DA can file anyway.”
“If Fritz is being blackmailed, how much money are you talking about?”
“That’s not relevant since the party in question doesn’t intend to pay. What we’re hoping for is to identify the culprit before the situation gets out of hand.”
“Oh, good plan. There’s a winner. How will you manage that?”
“By talking to people like you.”
“I don’t understand why you’re involved. You’re a journalist, not a police detective.”
“Investigative reporter,” I said, correcting her. “This is what we do.”
“I can’t help. I haven’t seen any of those guys since the trial.”
“You haven’t had contact with any of them?” I asked.
“I just told you. I’ve seen Roland Berg and Steve Ringer, who were both classmates. Everyone calls Steve Ringer ‘Stringer’ in case no one’s mentioned it. I’ve talked to Bayard a couple of times and that’s the extent of it.”
“How recently?”
“This is bullshit. Why should I tell you? I’m allowed to talk to anyone I please.”
“What about the trial? Did you testify?”
“I had to. They served me with a subpoena.”
“Did you think the sentencing was fair?”
“Sloan died. Someone had to pay.”
“What about the tape?”
“I never saw it. When I heard it disappeared, I thought that was the end of it.”
“How much do you remember about the incident?”
“It wasn’t ‘an incident,’ just a bunch of us messing around.”
“You never reported it to the police?”
“Of course not. We were being stupid. It was nothing serious.”
“If the tape’s put in circulation, you’ll be publicly humiliated whether you were serious or not. You were sexually assaulted.”
“I was not! Maybe it looks that way, but that wasn’t the deal. According to what I’ve heard, it was a stupid home movie all of four minutes long.”
“There’s nothing stupid about rape, Iris. I’ve seen the tape.”
“Well, I haven’t. You want to know what I hate about reporters?” she said. “You eat this shit up. You act, like, all sympathetic and concerned, but you love every minute of it. Other people’s degradation. Other people’s shame. If nothing’s happening, you generate the trouble yourself, just to see how we react. Write it down. Put it in the paper. You’re only doing your job. Right?”
“That’s not how I operate.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I was hoping to be of help.”
“Well, go help someone else. I don’t need anything from you.”
“The others involved might disagree.”
“Then talk to them.”
“Who would you suggest?”
“You figure it out. This is getting on my nerves.”
“What about Poppy? Is she still in town?”
“I have no idea. We’re not friends anymore. She and her boyfriend broke up because of that tape.”
I had a quick flash of a buck-naked Troy going after Iris as she was lolling about on the pool table. I could well imagine it putting the kibosh on Poppy and Troy’s romance. Not many relationships could survive such a graphic betrayal.
I flipped to an empty page in my notebook and jotted down my home phone, which is attached to an answering machine but makes no mention of Millhone Investigations. I tore out the leaf and offered it to her. “This number is local. I work freelance, so I’m easy to reach.”
She held up her hands, refusing to take the note.
“You might change your mind,” I said.
She snatched the paper without making eye contact. “Shit. I’m getting married in a month. This is the last thing I need!”
“Let’s hope the problem is resolved so you can get on with life.”
? ? ?
I spent part of my lunch hour driving to the hardware store, where I picked up window putty and a pane of glass for my broken office window. There wasn’t any trick to removing the remaining shards of glass, scraping out the old putty, and applying fresh putty once the new pane was in place, but it took time and I was annoyed at having to do it.
At quarter to four that afternoon, I changed into workout clothes, packed my gym bag, and in a refreshing change of pace, attended the fourth in a ten-week program of women’s self-defense classes. I had Ned Lowe to thank for that. Being choked to near unconsciousness had made me wonderfully aware of how fragile life is and how easily I can be subdued. The program was mixed martial arts and all of the lessons were basic and to the point: street-fighting at the level of kicks and punches. We were encouraged to favor strategy over technique. As I’d realized while pinned facedown under Ned’s knee, most of what I’d learned about self-defense was bullshit. In the real world, assault is chaotic and we’re seldom afforded the opportunity to land a killing chop to the throat or a damage-dealing knee to an assailant’s groin.