reached the sidewalk.
“I don’t know exactly. At risk of stating the obvious, someone killed this woman and the Bloomfield police sure won’t be able to figure out who or why.”
“And you can?”
“Well, I certainly have to try. This may sound strange, but I feel like I owe it to Nancy. She was one of the good guys. And who am I as a newspaper reporter if I don’t look out for the good guys? Besides, I’ve gotten to like her. And whether I knew her or not, she was a colleague.”
“It would be a hell of a good story, too,” Tommy added.
“Well, yeah, and there’s that,” I conceded.
“Can I do anything?”
“No, no. I got this,” I said, knowing it would only make Tommy more eager to help. “You have your own reporting to do.”
“Yeah, but it’s just some stupid city council stuff. I can make time for something like this.”
“I don’t know,” I said, setting the hook a little more. “If Tina found out…”
“Tina doesn’t need to know anything about this,” he assured me. “Come on. You know you can’t do this all by yourself.”
“Well, okay,” I said, smiling inwardly as I thought about what task my newly recruited assistant should tackle.
Nancy’s sister obviously knew something. But after a quick glance at my phone—no missed calls from the 510 area code—I decided I could continue playing it cool and let her come to me.
In the meantime, I had to learn more about Nancy Marino. Because while I could fake my way through her obituary, that didn’t mean I really knew her. Sure, she seemed like a reliable newspaper deliverer and could apparently keep a lunch order straight. But it was also entirely possible Nancy Marino was a hopelessly addicted gambler, a hundred grand in debt to a bookie who finally lost his patience.
Was it likely? No. But put in enough years as a journalist, exploring life on the margins of society, and you start to realize how cunning humankind can be. The gentle Little League coach turns out to be a vicious mobster. The humble parish priest is an embezzler. The prim kindergarten teacher has a raunchy Internet site. It happens.
I’m not saying I assume the worst about people. But it also doesn’t make sense to assume the best. That’s what being a reporter teaches you: don’t assume.
“Hello?” Tommy said, pantomiming like he was knocking on a door. “Anyone home?”
“Sorry. How about you head back to the office and see what kind of paper you can find on Nancy Marino,” I said. “Pull her mortgage, search the court filings, look for liens against her house—the usual.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, and if you bump into Tina, remember: you didn’t see me, you aren’t working on this, you don’t even know me. I’m supposed to be off chasing a bear in Newark.”
“Oh,” he said, as if this made perfect sense. “So what’s your plan while I’m doing all the boring work?”
“I’m heading to the restaurant where Nancy worked and asking some questions. Call me if you learn anything interesting.”
“You, too,” he replied and we parted ways.
I climbed into the Malibu, the interior of which was only slightly cooler than the surface of the sun. The Malibu’s air-conditioning may once have worked well, but that was many years and several owners ago. So it was still sputtering lukewarm air when I reached the end of my two-mile-long journey to the State Street Grill.
The restaurant just in from the corner of Bloomfield Avenue and State Street used to be one of those prototypically scuzzy/wonderful Jersey diners, named after its original proprietor—Willy? Henry? Something ending in a y —until the current owners decided the best way to renovate was with a wrecking ball. They tore down the old diner and in its place raised the State Street Grill, an attractive stucco-faced building with Art Deco metal awnings and a hip, retro look.
I had been to the new place a couple of times since moving to Bloomfield two years earlier. So I knew that
“I don’t know exactly. At risk of stating the obvious, someone killed this woman and the Bloomfield police sure won’t be able to figure out who or why.”
“And you can?”
“Well, I certainly have to try. This may sound strange, but I feel like I owe it to Nancy. She was one of the good guys. And who am I as a newspaper reporter if I don’t look out for the good guys? Besides, I’ve gotten to like her. And whether I knew her or not, she was a colleague.”
“It would be a hell of a good story, too,” Tommy added.
“Well, yeah, and there’s that,” I conceded.
“Can I do anything?”
“No, no. I got this,” I said, knowing it would only make Tommy more eager to help. “You have your own reporting to do.”
“Yeah, but it’s just some stupid city council stuff. I can make time for something like this.”
“I don’t know,” I said, setting the hook a little more. “If Tina found out…”
“Tina doesn’t need to know anything about this,” he assured me. “Come on. You know you can’t do this all by yourself.”
“Well, okay,” I said, smiling inwardly as I thought about what task my newly recruited assistant should tackle.
Nancy’s sister obviously knew something. But after a quick glance at my phone—no missed calls from the 510 area code—I decided I could continue playing it cool and let her come to me.
In the meantime, I had to learn more about Nancy Marino. Because while I could fake my way through her obituary, that didn’t mean I really knew her. Sure, she seemed like a reliable newspaper deliverer and could apparently keep a lunch order straight. But it was also entirely possible Nancy Marino was a hopelessly addicted gambler, a hundred grand in debt to a bookie who finally lost his patience.
Was it likely? No. But put in enough years as a journalist, exploring life on the margins of society, and you start to realize how cunning humankind can be. The gentle Little League coach turns out to be a vicious mobster. The humble parish priest is an embezzler. The prim kindergarten teacher has a raunchy Internet site. It happens.
I’m not saying I assume the worst about people. But it also doesn’t make sense to assume the best. That’s what being a reporter teaches you: don’t assume.
“Hello?” Tommy said, pantomiming like he was knocking on a door. “Anyone home?”
“Sorry. How about you head back to the office and see what kind of paper you can find on Nancy Marino,” I said. “Pull her mortgage, search the court filings, look for liens against her house—the usual.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, and if you bump into Tina, remember: you didn’t see me, you aren’t working on this, you don’t even know me. I’m supposed to be off chasing a bear in Newark.”
“Oh,” he said, as if this made perfect sense. “So what’s your plan while I’m doing all the boring work?”
“I’m heading to the restaurant where Nancy worked and asking some questions. Call me if you learn anything interesting.”
“You, too,” he replied and we parted ways.
I climbed into the Malibu, the interior of which was only slightly cooler than the surface of the sun. The Malibu’s air-conditioning may once have worked well, but that was many years and several owners ago. So it was still sputtering lukewarm air when I reached the end of my two-mile-long journey to the State Street Grill.
The restaurant just in from the corner of Bloomfield Avenue and State Street used to be one of those prototypically scuzzy/wonderful Jersey diners, named after its original proprietor—Willy? Henry? Something ending in a y —until the current owners decided the best way to renovate was with a wrecking ball. They tore down the old diner and in its place raised the State Street Grill, an attractive stucco-faced building with Art Deco metal awnings and a hip, retro look.
I had been to the new place a couple of times since moving to Bloomfield two years earlier. So I knew that
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