China Lake by Meg Gardiner

with sorority-girl enthusiasm, trying to look sleek in her white turtleneck and paisley miniskirt. She had a glossy fall of black hair and angular features that were striking rather than pretty. Her handshake was firm.
    I said, ‘‘I have some news that might interest you, about Neil Jorgensen’s accident.’’
    ‘‘You mean the Remnant’s claiming he was gay?’’
    ‘‘No, another angle. An eyewitness account.’’
    ‘‘Whose?’’
    ‘‘Mine.’’
    Her face lit with an eager Miss California smile. This kid should never play poker. She said, ‘‘Come on back.’’
    I went on the record. Sitting at Shimada’s desk in the cluttered newsroom, I described the Remnant’s church service, trying to impart the eeriness and alarm I had experienced, leading her to the moment Isaiah Paxton and Curt Smollek hauled me to the door, the moment when Jorgensen burst in. She was leaning toward me across the desk, eyes acute and unblinking. I paused, a long pause. ‘‘That’s when Jorgensen started yelling.’’
    Shimada spread her hands. ‘‘Yelling what?’’
    I waited, expecting that, like most reporters, she would fill the silence.
    ‘‘Did he say anything specific?’’ she said. ‘‘Did he mention any names?’’
    ‘‘Like whose?’’
    ‘‘Mel Kalajian.’’
    When I couldn’t place it, she said, ‘‘Mel Kalajian, MD. He was murdered last summer. A gay man. The Remnant picketed his funeral.’’
    Now I remembered reading about it. ‘‘Jorgensen didn’t mention him. Why would he?’’
    ‘‘He was Jorgensen’s medical partner. He was killed during a robbery at their offices in July, apparently when he caught some guy stealing drugs,’’ she said. ‘‘He was also Jorgensen’s lover.’’
    I betrayed my surprise.
    ‘‘It wasn’t a secret,’’ she said. ‘‘They weren’t closeted, just sort of Republican about it. They wore Ralph Lauren and bought real estate together.’’
    I considered it. ‘‘You think Jorgensen’s grief overwhelmed him?’’
    ‘‘That’s my take on it. He died because he finally found the strength to stand up to the Remnant. It’s tragic.’’
    She had already written the lead for her follow-up, I bet. She would play it for all the pathos and political correctness the story could offer. I dealt another card.
    ‘‘How long did Jorgensen have? I mean, if he hadn’t been hit by that truck.’’
    Yes, playing poker would be a disaster for her. She leaned back, lips parting.
    I said, ‘‘The hospital didn’t tell you that he was ill?’’
    She blinked, looking as if she’d been caught with her skirt stuck in the waistband of her panty hose. I guessed that she hadn’t spoken to anyone who had actually treated Jorgensen, but had written her story straight from a hospital press release.
    ‘‘What about the paramedics?’’ I said. ‘‘Or his office? Nobody mentioned it?’’
    Her embarrassment was becoming palpable. She said, ‘‘What did he have?’’
    ‘‘I don’t know.’’
    ‘‘Then how can you say he was terminal?’’
    ‘‘You’ve never been around anyone who’s seriously ill, have you?’’
    That was gratuitously rough, but I figured she needed a kick in the pants.
    She picked up a pencil and started doodling on a notepad. Regaining her composure, she said, ‘‘You know, it’s not every witness who shows up here asking to be interviewed. Exactly what are you after?’’
    ‘‘Off the record,’’ I said, ‘‘I want to know what the Remnant is up to, so I can keep my nephew out of their path.’’ She nodded, accepting it. ‘‘Listen, Sally. More is going on here than meets the eye. The Wyomings were really bent out of shape by the news of Jorgensen’s death.’’
    She stopped doodling. ‘‘Now, how do you know that?’’
    I stood up. ‘‘Check out what I’ve told you. If you think it’s worth pursuing, call me. I’m in the book.’’
    I saw myself out, gambling that I’d hear from her.
    That