version that’ll be less of a problem for me.”
“Like what?”
“You think someone’s going to kill you, and as you’re obviously gifted with admirable powers of intuition, I’m willing to help you out. Let’s call it assistance to a person presumed to be in danger.”
“If that makes things easier for you, sure. Coming back to our discussion, I don’t think this former air force major could have followed me here.”
“He could have sent his men after you. Why did you choose him in particular to be the protagonist of your article?”
“He’s the key figure in the background information my editor gave me. ‘If you want readers to be moved by the story of a people, it has to involve flesh and blood characters they can relate to. Otherwise, even the most in-depth story about the worst possible atrocities is only a succession of events and dates.’ That’s exactly what she told me. She had every reason to believe that describing this man’s career would be a good way to show how governments and populist fervor can turn ordinary people into monsters. It’s quite an interesting subject considering what’s going on in the world these days, don’t you think?”
“Is your editor above all suspicion?”
“Olivia? Absolutely. She’s got no reason to have a grudge against me. We get along very well.”
“How well exactly?”
“What are you insinuating?”
“You’re getting married soon, aren’t you? Jealousy isn’t necessarily the preserve of your male colleagues, you know.”
“There’s nothing ambiguous about our relationship.”
“What about her? Is it possible she could have seen things differently?”
Andrew thought about the inspector’s question.
“No. I honestly don’t think so.”
“Well, let’s rule out this Olivia . . . ”
“Stern. Olivia Stern.”
“With or without an ‘e’?”
“Without.”
Pilguez jotted down the name in his notebook anyway. “What about your fiancée?”
“What about her?”
“Look, Mr. Journalist, forty years as a cop taught me that once you’ve ruled out attacks by crazies, there are only two reasons people commit murder—money and love. I have three questions for you. Do you have any debts? Did you witness a murder?”
“No to both. What’s the third question?”
“Did you cheat on your wife?”
* * *
The inspector ordered another Scotch, and Andrew told him about an incident that might be connected to his own murder.
Andrew had been so caught up in his work that he hadn’t had a chance to drive his old Datsun for months. He kept it in the lower basement level of a parking garage near the Marriott. It was probably covered in a thick shroud of dust by now. The battery must have gone flat; the tires too.
He had a mechanic coming by at lunchtime to tow the car to Simon’s auto shop. He knew Simon would rake him over the coals for neglecting it so badly, as he did each time Andrew brought the car in to be repaired. He’d remind Andrew of all the time and energy his mechanics had put into restoring the Datsun, which he’d gone to such lengths to find to make him happy, then say that a slob like Andrew didn’t deserve to own a vintage car like this one. He’d keep the car in the garage for double the amount of time required to get it running again, like a schoolmaster confiscating a toy to punish a student, but he’d give Andrew back the Datsun running as good as new.
Andrew left the office and crossed 8th Avenue. He greeted the attendant at the parking garage entrance, but the man was immersed in his newspaper and took no notice of him. As he went down the ramp, Andrew heard what sounded like the echo of his own footsteps behind him.
A single neon light cast a feeble glow over the lower basement level. Andrew walked along the central aisle to parking space 37. It was the smallest car in there, sandwiched between two pillars. Opening the door and squeezing himself in took a degree of acrobatics, but he’d
“Like what?”
“You think someone’s going to kill you, and as you’re obviously gifted with admirable powers of intuition, I’m willing to help you out. Let’s call it assistance to a person presumed to be in danger.”
“If that makes things easier for you, sure. Coming back to our discussion, I don’t think this former air force major could have followed me here.”
“He could have sent his men after you. Why did you choose him in particular to be the protagonist of your article?”
“He’s the key figure in the background information my editor gave me. ‘If you want readers to be moved by the story of a people, it has to involve flesh and blood characters they can relate to. Otherwise, even the most in-depth story about the worst possible atrocities is only a succession of events and dates.’ That’s exactly what she told me. She had every reason to believe that describing this man’s career would be a good way to show how governments and populist fervor can turn ordinary people into monsters. It’s quite an interesting subject considering what’s going on in the world these days, don’t you think?”
“Is your editor above all suspicion?”
“Olivia? Absolutely. She’s got no reason to have a grudge against me. We get along very well.”
“How well exactly?”
“What are you insinuating?”
“You’re getting married soon, aren’t you? Jealousy isn’t necessarily the preserve of your male colleagues, you know.”
“There’s nothing ambiguous about our relationship.”
“What about her? Is it possible she could have seen things differently?”
Andrew thought about the inspector’s question.
“No. I honestly don’t think so.”
“Well, let’s rule out this Olivia . . . ”
“Stern. Olivia Stern.”
“With or without an ‘e’?”
“Without.”
Pilguez jotted down the name in his notebook anyway. “What about your fiancée?”
“What about her?”
“Look, Mr. Journalist, forty years as a cop taught me that once you’ve ruled out attacks by crazies, there are only two reasons people commit murder—money and love. I have three questions for you. Do you have any debts? Did you witness a murder?”
“No to both. What’s the third question?”
“Did you cheat on your wife?”
* * *
The inspector ordered another Scotch, and Andrew told him about an incident that might be connected to his own murder.
Andrew had been so caught up in his work that he hadn’t had a chance to drive his old Datsun for months. He kept it in the lower basement level of a parking garage near the Marriott. It was probably covered in a thick shroud of dust by now. The battery must have gone flat; the tires too.
He had a mechanic coming by at lunchtime to tow the car to Simon’s auto shop. He knew Simon would rake him over the coals for neglecting it so badly, as he did each time Andrew brought the car in to be repaired. He’d remind Andrew of all the time and energy his mechanics had put into restoring the Datsun, which he’d gone to such lengths to find to make him happy, then say that a slob like Andrew didn’t deserve to own a vintage car like this one. He’d keep the car in the garage for double the amount of time required to get it running again, like a schoolmaster confiscating a toy to punish a student, but he’d give Andrew back the Datsun running as good as new.
Andrew left the office and crossed 8th Avenue. He greeted the attendant at the parking garage entrance, but the man was immersed in his newspaper and took no notice of him. As he went down the ramp, Andrew heard what sounded like the echo of his own footsteps behind him.
A single neon light cast a feeble glow over the lower basement level. Andrew walked along the central aisle to parking space 37. It was the smallest car in there, sandwiched between two pillars. Opening the door and squeezing himself in took a degree of acrobatics, but he’d
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