The afternoon was the same, with twenty minutes truncated to fifteen. Now, when they assembled, fast reporters as usual filled the chairs and slower ones leaned on walls. Leo pointed, people began to talk, and Laura didn't listen.
In the past she always had. She'd concentrated hard. She'd wanted to know. What were the stories, what were the angles? Could she contribute? Become part of it? Think of a different way, a new way, a way so unexplored and promising as to bring Laura Stone's abilities to the attention of senior colleagues who might, next time, think to include her when the story was big? Today, though, she was busy. Busy not noticing people not noticing her, busy returning the stares of the starers. She felt Georgie's mournful, helpful gaze, but she didn't look at Georgie. She was busy not seeing the chair Harry was not sitting in, the wall against which he was not slouching.
But not so busy that she didn't respond when Leo called her name.
“Stone.”
“The Harry Randall homicide.” Instantly she answered. She'd practiced this in her head, over and over through the day, through the night as she lay awake on the pull-out couch in her unrecognized apartment. (What had she been thinking, buying this carpet? Didn't those curtains ever shut out the light? Did the refrigerator always hum and stop like that? It must be the noise, that must be why she couldn't sleep.)
“I was on Staten Island this afternoon,” she said, “to talk to a couple of people.”
“You have anything new?”
Leo wanted a piece. Laura's heart skipped. “I will by deadline, Leo.”
Raised eyebrows and traded looks told her how intensely the group was following this exchange. Within minutes of her leaving Leo's office yesterday, the substance of their meeting and its outcome had flash-flooded through the newsroom: Stone has a crackpot theory that Randall didn't jump. But Leo signed on; what the hell does that mean? He's probably just humoring her. Because, you know, of her and Harry. Leo? You must be crazy. Then Jesselson's piece ran this morning, and agnosticism replaced atheism: might be something there, I mean, Leo's got Jesselson on it, too, let's see what comes next.
Leo grunted, a sign he'd heard Laura and that was all for her. But before he could draw down on his next target, words from the other side of the room: “Laura? Write this down.” Hugh Jesselson, rumpled in gray slacks and wrinkled white shirt, propped up the far wall. “Angelo Zannoni. Sergeant, retired, 124.” Glancing at a three-by-five card in his hand, he pounded out a phone number. Laura scribbled it down, then looked at him inquiringly. “Arresting officer,” he said. “Mark Keegan, 1979. Expecting your call.”
Laura smiled. “Thanks, Hugh.”
Jesselson shrugged. “Thanks for yesterday.”
A snicker wiggled around the room. Laura flushed. Jesselson's mouth turned up at the corner, which didn't help.
It had been Laura's idea to run this morning's story on the investigation of Harry's death under Hugh Jesselson's byline. “We can make it look like the cops care. Maybe scare someone out of the woodwork. Let Hugh have it,” she'd argued to Leo. He sat lodged behind his desk, rendered as close to wordless as she'd ever seen him by the spectacle of a reporter offering a front-page byline to someone else.
Jesselson, summoned by sapphire, read her copy. “Doesn't sound like me,” he'd objected.
“Rewrite it,” ordered Leo.
So he had, and Hugh Jesselson, after eight years with the
Meeting concluded, reporters and editors went back to work. Laura dropped into her chair and dialed the number Jesselson had given her.
Four rings, then a growled “Hello.”
“Angelo Zannoni?”
“Who the hell is this?”
“Mr. Zannoni, I'm Laura Stone of the
“He suggest you call me at suppertime?”
Laura glanced up to the newsroom clock. The hour hadn't occurred to her, and in the face of the important work she was trying to accomplish, she was surprised to find time mattering to anyone.
“I'm sorry if—”
“Yeah, sure. You want to come out here?”
“Yes. Yes, if that would be—”
“1491 Fitzgerald, Pleasant Hills. Think you can find it?”
“Yes, I—”
“I'm here.”
Laura took the receiver from her ear, replaced it on its console. She might as well; Zannoni had already hung up.
MARIAN'S STORY
Chapter 10
“It was Jimmy, wasn't it?”
