sorry no-shows at the restaurant. Didn’t sleep worth a damn. The doorbell made my head feel like a gigged catfish. Now I find a good-looking chick in the hallway who tells me somebody shot at Nick and his money is going to the dogs. Have I got that right?”
“Essentially.”
“Yeah. Well, maybe he needs to improve his overall personality. But I sure as hell didn’t take a shot at him.”
I thought I detected the slightest emphasis on the first person singular pronoun.
“Who did?”
“How would I know?” His expression was suddenly disingenuous.
“If you have information that could lead to Nick’s attacker, remaining silent makes you an accessory after the fact.”
“Lady, I don’t know from nothing. Anyway, it sounds like no harm done.” He gave me a wry smile. “Give Nick my regards. And tell the bowwows they’re gonna be rich.” The door started to close.
“One thing more.” I spoke swiftly. “Can you prove you were at the restaurant from nine to eleven last night?”
He kneaded one cheek with his knuckles. “I had a late shift, ten to two. I was here”—he gestured with one hand—“until about a quarter to ten. I wasn’t anywhere near Nick. Where did it happen?”
I didn’t bother to answer. I looked past him into a dingy, small living room that appeared littered with pop cans, DVDs, and fishing tackle. “Where’s your rifle?”
He gave me an odd look. “I am fresh out of rifles. And that’s my quota on weird questions for the day.” The door slammed in my face.
• • •
Reporters’ fingers flashed over laptop keyboards on the gray metal desks that rimmed the
Gazette
newsroom. A balding man with a hypertension flush and an unhealthy paunch sat at a desk in the middle of the room. “Crandall”—his yell was weakened by a wheeze—“where’s the copy on that hit-and-run?”
A thin woman in her fifties with huge eyes, a mop of straggly brown hair, and an aura of toughness barked in a raspy voice, “Almost done, Ralph.” A long strip of red licorice hung from the corner of her mouth, impeding her speech. She chewed, and an inch of the strand disappeared.
I scanned the room’s occupants. A blue-haired woman in her seventies in a navy silk dress flipped pages in a notepad. A mid-thirties man wearing a ball cap backward talked to himself in an indistinguishable mutter as he wrote. My gaze stopped on a mid-twenties man with wiry brown hair, a round face, and an absorbed expression. He typed, paused, typed, gave a satisfied nod. His hand moved to his mouse. He was the right age to have been Nick’s high school friend.
I walked swiftly to his desk. “Albert Harris?”
He glanced up. His brown eyes flicked up and down as he computed my age and social class and tabbed me as a stranger in town. I decided Nick’s former classmate was a young man who thought fast and would not be easy to fool. His crown of tight curls and chunky build gave him a slightly teddy-bearish appearance, but his gaze was penetrating. “I’m Albert. And you?”
“Hilda Whitby. I’m here about the shooting attack last night on Nick Magruder.”
He jerked his head toward the desk opposite his. “Joan Crandall has the crime beat. She covered it, but she’s on deadline about a liquor-store heist. If you want to see the story about Nick’s peril”—his tone was sarcastic—“I can pull it up. It’s short and sweet.” He clicked several keys and text filled his screen. I sat in the chair next to his desk and read:
Adelaide police responded at 9:40 p.m. Tuesday to a 911 call reporting a shooting at the residence of Nicholas Magruder, 819 Mulberry Lane. The police report stated a screen was ripped in a front window of the residence and a bullet was found embedded in the wall opposite the window. The report said no one was injured and Magruder, 24, was unable to describe the purported assailant. No witnesses were at the home when police arrived.
According to the police report, Magruder insisted
“Essentially.”
“Yeah. Well, maybe he needs to improve his overall personality. But I sure as hell didn’t take a shot at him.”
I thought I detected the slightest emphasis on the first person singular pronoun.
“Who did?”
“How would I know?” His expression was suddenly disingenuous.
“If you have information that could lead to Nick’s attacker, remaining silent makes you an accessory after the fact.”
“Lady, I don’t know from nothing. Anyway, it sounds like no harm done.” He gave me a wry smile. “Give Nick my regards. And tell the bowwows they’re gonna be rich.” The door started to close.
“One thing more.” I spoke swiftly. “Can you prove you were at the restaurant from nine to eleven last night?”
He kneaded one cheek with his knuckles. “I had a late shift, ten to two. I was here”—he gestured with one hand—“until about a quarter to ten. I wasn’t anywhere near Nick. Where did it happen?”
I didn’t bother to answer. I looked past him into a dingy, small living room that appeared littered with pop cans, DVDs, and fishing tackle. “Where’s your rifle?”
He gave me an odd look. “I am fresh out of rifles. And that’s my quota on weird questions for the day.” The door slammed in my face.
• • •
Reporters’ fingers flashed over laptop keyboards on the gray metal desks that rimmed the
Gazette
newsroom. A balding man with a hypertension flush and an unhealthy paunch sat at a desk in the middle of the room. “Crandall”—his yell was weakened by a wheeze—“where’s the copy on that hit-and-run?”
A thin woman in her fifties with huge eyes, a mop of straggly brown hair, and an aura of toughness barked in a raspy voice, “Almost done, Ralph.” A long strip of red licorice hung from the corner of her mouth, impeding her speech. She chewed, and an inch of the strand disappeared.
I scanned the room’s occupants. A blue-haired woman in her seventies in a navy silk dress flipped pages in a notepad. A mid-thirties man wearing a ball cap backward talked to himself in an indistinguishable mutter as he wrote. My gaze stopped on a mid-twenties man with wiry brown hair, a round face, and an absorbed expression. He typed, paused, typed, gave a satisfied nod. His hand moved to his mouse. He was the right age to have been Nick’s high school friend.
I walked swiftly to his desk. “Albert Harris?”
He glanced up. His brown eyes flicked up and down as he computed my age and social class and tabbed me as a stranger in town. I decided Nick’s former classmate was a young man who thought fast and would not be easy to fool. His crown of tight curls and chunky build gave him a slightly teddy-bearish appearance, but his gaze was penetrating. “I’m Albert. And you?”
“Hilda Whitby. I’m here about the shooting attack last night on Nick Magruder.”
He jerked his head toward the desk opposite his. “Joan Crandall has the crime beat. She covered it, but she’s on deadline about a liquor-store heist. If you want to see the story about Nick’s peril”—his tone was sarcastic—“I can pull it up. It’s short and sweet.” He clicked several keys and text filled his screen. I sat in the chair next to his desk and read:
Adelaide police responded at 9:40 p.m. Tuesday to a 911 call reporting a shooting at the residence of Nicholas Magruder, 819 Mulberry Lane. The police report stated a screen was ripped in a front window of the residence and a bullet was found embedded in the wall opposite the window. The report said no one was injured and Magruder, 24, was unable to describe the purported assailant. No witnesses were at the home when police arrived.
According to the police report, Magruder insisted
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