Harry Dolan by Bad Things Happen

quietly.
    “We must attend to the things he cared about,” Hideaway said. “One of those is Gray Streets. Tom was the wellspring, the prime force, the motive power—”
    “Get the man a thesaurus.”
    “—the architect of the magazine’s success. Gray Streets was the central project of his life. If it were allowed to decline, or to cease publication—”
    “Nate’s point is, we don’t intend to let that happen,” said Bridget.
    “It’s our understanding,” Hideaway said to Loogan, “that Tom thought highly of your abilities as an editor. Laura shares that view. No one can take Tom’s place, of course. But we’d like you to consider taking over some of his responsibilities.”
    Loogan felt a wave of something like nausea pass through him.
    “I don’t know what to say.”
    “What we have in mind,” said Hideaway, “is for you to continue to do the sort of editorial work you’ve been doing, and to take a hand in the selection of stories for publication. You needn’t worry about being on your own. We would advise you.”
    Loogan tipped his glass side to side, watching the light play over the amber liquid. Several moments passed in silence.
    “You’re reluctant,” Hideaway said.
    “Yes.”
    “There are details to be worked out. You’ll have your own thoughts on how things should be managed. I’m sure we can come to an accommodation.”
    Loogan rose from his chair. “I don’t think I want to talk about this now.”
    “It’s all right, David,” said Laura, rising in turn.
    “Let it rest, Nate,” said Bridget. “He’ll want some time to think about it.”
    Hideaway stood up and Bridget followed suit.
    “Perhaps I could speak to Mr. Loogan alone,” Hideaway said. “Just for a few minutes. You don’t mind, do you, Laura?”
    Laura’s face was unreadable. “I guess not,” she said.
    Bridget shook her head in disapproval, but she followed Laura out and closed the door of the study behind them. Hideaway got a glass and poured himself some Scotch.
    “I handled this badly,” he said. “There are some things it’s easier to talk about one-on-one than in a crowd.”
    He sipped from his glass. Loogan said nothing.
    “Also, it’s too soon,” Hideaway said. “Tom has been gone for four days and we bring you here to talk about commerce. That’s my fault. The others wanted to wait. When I see something that needs to be done, I don’t like to delay. But it’s too soon. You think it’s unseemly.”
    “It was certainly unexpected,” Loogan said.
    “Was it?” Hideaway said. “You must have wondered what would become of Gray Streets. When we asked you to come here tonight, you must have assumed we had some motive. What did you suppose it was?”
    “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
    Hideaway swirled the Scotch in his glass. “Now I’m intrigued.”
    “I thought you wanted to hire me to find out who killed Tom.”
    The lines of Hideaway’s forehead crinkled. “Why would you think that?” “Don’t you want to know who killed Tom?”
    “Naturally,” Hideaway said. “But I’m afraid I’m at a loss. Laura was vague about your background. She hinted that you had a checkered past. She even suggested that you might have been a criminal. I took that as a piece of whimsy.”
    “That’s the way it should be taken,” Loogan said.
    “So you were never a criminal. Am I to understand you were a policeman?”
    “No.”
    “Then why would I want to hire you to solve a murder? Isn’t that a job for the police?”
    “Is that what you believe? I’ve read some of your books.”
    “That’s fiction.”
    “In a Nathan Hideaway novel, the police are never quite up to speed. They’re always a few steps behind.”
    “Fiction, Mr. Loogan.”
    “In a Nathan Hideaway novel, the protagonist is always an amateur detective,” Loogan said. “And he’s always a man who can be trusted with secrets. Secrets you might not want to share with the police.”
    “I don’t think I’m