Irish Coffee by Ralph McInerny Page A

battle dress. She affected denims, men’s shirts, and what might have been combat boots. Emerging from this proletarian apparel that all but concealed her gender was the loveliest face seen around police headquarters. Auburn hair, a complexion of natural tan, and pouty lips that seemed perpetually pursed to be kissed.
    â€œI am,” Stewart said, rising from his chair.
    Laura sat in a chair and threw her denimed legs out before him, making an easy exit difficult.
    â€œWhy are you still following up on the Neville death?”
    â€œRoutine.”
    â€œSure. You and Philip Knight are just staving off boredom. Was it suicide?”
    â€œNo, he gagged while reading the local paper.”
    Laura laughed. She was a reporter for the local television station that was a rival of the one owned by the local paper.
    â€œI want an interview with Naomi McTear. Has she left town?”
    â€œSome people work for a living.”
    â€œWell, I’m going to follow up on it. Nice story. Notre Dame sports information person, cable television sideline commentator. Sounds like conflict of interest. She seemed even prettier in person.”
    â€œDid she?”
    Had Laura any inkling what a knockout she herself was? Stewart was certain she did. The way she dressed was meant to neutralize that but until and unless she wore a mask no one could fail to be struck by her.
    â€œOh, come on.”
    â€œThe prettiest girls go into journalism nowadays.”
    Laura thought about it, as if the remark did not concern herself. She nodded. “If not pretty then pert and perky.”
    â€œHannah Storm.”
    â€œWho’s the one who does tennis?”
    Laura looked at him with narrowed eyes. “You’re dodging me, aren’t you?”
    â€œIn what sense?”
    â€œHo, ho. Did Fred Neville commit suicide?”
    â€œIt’s possible.”
    â€œSo is a smart detective. Is it plausible?”
    â€œAsk a smart detective.”
    â€œI just did.”
    â€œI don’t think so. In an hour, I’ll know for pretty sure.”
    â€œIt’s still an open question?”
    â€œWhat’s a closed question?”
    â€œWhat it sounds like. What will decide the matter?”
    If he went on talking to Laura like this he would be late to let the Knights into Fred’s apartment. “Look, I’ll get back to you.”
    â€œOr vice versa.”

2
    SCOTT FRYE REGARDED HIS employment at Hoosier Residences as a disguise and took some pleasure in playing the role of obsequious menial behind the lobby desk, deferential to the residents, taking secret pleasure in the thought that they took him at face value. How could they guess that his head was filled with scenarios of the screenplays he intended to write? Nathanael West had been a room clerk. Mike Nichols had gone into almost monastic seclusion after he and Elaine May stopped making their hilarious dialogues, tapes of which Scott had all but memorized. After years of hibernation during which he seemed to have spent most of his time in bed, alone, Nichols emerged as the director of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf ? And the rest was history. So too Scott thought of himself as germinating at HR, awaiting the spring when he would awake from his apparent slumber and be revealed as his true self. Meanwhile he had to deal with the invariably bitchy Naomi McTear. He had made the mistake of expressing his condolences when she passed his desk on her way out.
    â€œDo I know you?”
    â€œOnly in my official capacity.”
    â€œDo you know me?”
    â€œDitto.”
    Q.E.D. apparently. Scott retained his fixed professional smile after having been put so decisively in his place. Could her manner be due to profound grief? He doubted it, he knew not why. For all her daring decolletage, the milk of human kindness was not a phrase that leapt to mind in dealing with Naomi McTear. The staff called her McTerror.
    The cable network owned four suites in