in their direction in the first place.
"The girls aren't yours, are they?"
"No. They're the daughters of a friend of mine."
"Well," she said, giving me one of her cards in exchange for mine. "Whoever did it," she said, "it doesn't seem like that big a deal."
"Right," I said. "It isn't. Now back to your wheelchair lady. You aren't planning to write anything about her, are you?"
Our conversation was like a fast-moving game of Ping-Pong with first one player on the offensive and then the other. It was my turn to spike the ball over the net. That comment immediately put Maribeth George on the defensive.
"I was," Maribeth said after a pause.
"Please don't," I said. "Not right away. If you run it prematurely, there's a chance it could jeopardize the investigation."
"Which one?" she asked.
I shook my head and didn't answer. "Maybe both?" she asked. The woman was downright dangerous. "What about after you make an arrest?"
"At that point," I said, "you're welcome to broadcast anything you want. You'll wait then?"
She nodded. "I suppose," she said.
I started to walk away, then turned back to her with one last question. "There were a lot of people down at Pier Seventy yesterday morning. Why do you think the wheelchair lady picked you out of the crowd as the person to talk to—or did she talk to lots of people and you're the only one who's bothered to come forward?"
Maribeth shrugged and laughed a surprisingly self-deprecating laugh. "You know how it is when you're a media babe," she said with a grin. "Lots of people feel like they know you even though you don't know them. I've been a frequent and almost daily guest in thousands of homes since I came back to Seattle last summer. She probably thinks of me as a friend of the family."
"Media babe?" I repeated, not quite believing my ears. "I would have thought…"
Maribeth laughed aloud. When she did, I noticed that her teeth were white and straight. "That the words media babe aren't exactly politically correct," I added.
"You're right," she agreed. "They aren't, and I'd strongly recommend against you using them in public, especially if there are female reporters anywhere within hearing distance. It's like African Americans and the N word. When blacks use it on other blacks, they usually do so with impunity. If you or I were to use it, all hell would break loose."
"What would happen if I called you a media babe?"
She grinned again. "You know about hell, fury, and women, don't you?"
I'm not used to joking around with reporters, but I laughed in spite of myself. "I feel the same way about outsiders who call detectives dicks ," I told her.
"See there?" she said.
Phil Grimes disappeared into the building. We could both see that the group that had surrounded him was starting to break up. "Hey, Maribeth," the cameraman called. "Where'd you run off to?"
"Gotta go," she said to me. "See you around."
She trotted off to rejoin her cameraman, and I climbed into my car. Glancing at my watch, I was surprised to see that the afternoon was half shot. It was already after three. Other than finding a second body, I had accomplished very little. I still had done nothing at all about contacting Don Wolf's next of kin or about finding some kind of foolproof verification for Lizbeth Wolf's I.D. Bearing all that in mind, I headed straight for the office.
On my way to my cubicle in the Public Safety Building, I had to walk directly past Sergeant Watkins' desk.
"Wait a minute," Watty said. "Don't go down there without taking this with you."
He handed me a large white envelope with D.G.I.'s return address printed in the upper right-hand corner. The words HANDLE WITH CARE—CONTAINS VIDEOTAPES had been handwritten in huge block letters across the top of the envelope. No doubt these were the tapes Deanna Compton was going to copy and send me.
Watty looked up at me and grinned. "What is it?" he asked. "One of those Blockbuster evenings?"
"Not exactly," I told him. "I don't think any of
"The girls aren't yours, are they?"
"No. They're the daughters of a friend of mine."
"Well," she said, giving me one of her cards in exchange for mine. "Whoever did it," she said, "it doesn't seem like that big a deal."
"Right," I said. "It isn't. Now back to your wheelchair lady. You aren't planning to write anything about her, are you?"
Our conversation was like a fast-moving game of Ping-Pong with first one player on the offensive and then the other. It was my turn to spike the ball over the net. That comment immediately put Maribeth George on the defensive.
"I was," Maribeth said after a pause.
"Please don't," I said. "Not right away. If you run it prematurely, there's a chance it could jeopardize the investigation."
"Which one?" she asked.
I shook my head and didn't answer. "Maybe both?" she asked. The woman was downright dangerous. "What about after you make an arrest?"
"At that point," I said, "you're welcome to broadcast anything you want. You'll wait then?"
She nodded. "I suppose," she said.
I started to walk away, then turned back to her with one last question. "There were a lot of people down at Pier Seventy yesterday morning. Why do you think the wheelchair lady picked you out of the crowd as the person to talk to—or did she talk to lots of people and you're the only one who's bothered to come forward?"
Maribeth shrugged and laughed a surprisingly self-deprecating laugh. "You know how it is when you're a media babe," she said with a grin. "Lots of people feel like they know you even though you don't know them. I've been a frequent and almost daily guest in thousands of homes since I came back to Seattle last summer. She probably thinks of me as a friend of the family."
"Media babe?" I repeated, not quite believing my ears. "I would have thought…"
Maribeth laughed aloud. When she did, I noticed that her teeth were white and straight. "That the words media babe aren't exactly politically correct," I added.
"You're right," she agreed. "They aren't, and I'd strongly recommend against you using them in public, especially if there are female reporters anywhere within hearing distance. It's like African Americans and the N word. When blacks use it on other blacks, they usually do so with impunity. If you or I were to use it, all hell would break loose."
"What would happen if I called you a media babe?"
She grinned again. "You know about hell, fury, and women, don't you?"
I'm not used to joking around with reporters, but I laughed in spite of myself. "I feel the same way about outsiders who call detectives dicks ," I told her.
"See there?" she said.
Phil Grimes disappeared into the building. We could both see that the group that had surrounded him was starting to break up. "Hey, Maribeth," the cameraman called. "Where'd you run off to?"
"Gotta go," she said to me. "See you around."
She trotted off to rejoin her cameraman, and I climbed into my car. Glancing at my watch, I was surprised to see that the afternoon was half shot. It was already after three. Other than finding a second body, I had accomplished very little. I still had done nothing at all about contacting Don Wolf's next of kin or about finding some kind of foolproof verification for Lizbeth Wolf's I.D. Bearing all that in mind, I headed straight for the office.
On my way to my cubicle in the Public Safety Building, I had to walk directly past Sergeant Watkins' desk.
"Wait a minute," Watty said. "Don't go down there without taking this with you."
He handed me a large white envelope with D.G.I.'s return address printed in the upper right-hand corner. The words HANDLE WITH CARE—CONTAINS VIDEOTAPES had been handwritten in huge block letters across the top of the envelope. No doubt these were the tapes Deanna Compton was going to copy and send me.
Watty looked up at me and grinned. "What is it?" he asked. "One of those Blockbuster evenings?"
"Not exactly," I told him. "I don't think any of
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