Suggestion of Death Read online

  “I’ll call you. I’ve got ready access to your name and phone number. But keep away from me and don’t tell anyone about me.” He handed a piece of paper to Jim and walked on.

  Jim blotted his sweating head on his sleeve as he stood just inside the alley and watched Noel reach the other end and disappear around the corner. He looked at the piece of paper. It not only had the former Mrs. Albert Johnson’s name, address, and phone number on it, it had four others. He stuffed it into his pocket, took a couple of steps back out onto the sidewalk, and dropped down to tie his shoe. As he glanced around, he didn’t see anyone watching so he strolled the next half block to his car, feeling like he was caught in an espionage movie.

  * * * *

  The job interview that afternoon at The Daily Sun went well. Mr. Carpenter, the editor and publisher, was a nice fellow, not too straight-laced, not too liberal. He showed Jim around the paper and took him for coffee at what was apparently a hangout for local newspaper and radio people. Jim hit it off not only with Carpenter, but the other folks. He seemed to fit right in, and Carpenter all but offered the job. The trouble was, the job was just not Jim’s idea of the way to spend the rest of his life, and the money wasn’t good either.

  “I have to tell you, the hours aren’t eight to five,” Carpenter had said over coffee. “There’ll be days you’ll leave while it’s daylight and others, the middle of the night.”

  Jim nodded. He needed a job but hated to settle for something he’d be unhappy with and if something better came along, it’d be unfair to Carpenter to leave. “You’ve been a little vague about the duties of the assistant editor.”

  Carpenter shook his head. “Jack-of-all-trades, sorry to say. We’re a small outfit. If the proof department, such as it is, needs help, you’re it. If someone in layout calls in sick, I trust you can help with layout. And when circulation needs help, you’ll cover for the circulation manager, including throwing papers if you have to.”

  “Sir, what about Wednesday nights?”

  “Weeknights you’ll be covering local sports.”

  Jim studied the tops of his shoes, his stomach tight.

  “That a problem?”

  “Just thinking about what I’ll tell my kids when I can’t see their games.”

  “Tell them you have to work to pay for their sports equipment.”

  Heat flared in the back of his neck. He stiffened, glancing at Carpenter to gauge for any malice in his words. His face didn’t reflect any. Jim understood what Carpenter was trying to say, but he’d miss his Wednesday visitations.

  Almost as bad, Carpenter said he’d be expected to sell some ads each month. Sell ads? That was one thing he’d never done in his entire life.

  Carpenter said he’d call to discuss it more with Jim the following week, the terms and whether Jim was interested and though Jim didn’t say no, he went away wondering if he shouldn’t wait and see if something else opened up. Another job might come through. One of his novels might sell.

  A solid gold bar might fall out of the sky and knock some sense into him.

  He was afraid to talk it over with Patty. The money was about halfway between what he was getting in unemployment and what he used to make as an investigative reporter. Would she want him to take it, to settle? Or to aim higher. He wished the answer would be to aim higher, but she seemed awfully pushy and unreasonable lately.

  During the fifty-mile drive back to his house, Jim pulled out the piece of paper Noel had given him. The list had the names and addresses of five women, with a man’s name under each address.

  Albert Johnson was the fifth name, and he knew Johnson was dead.

  The others were Clark, Winkleman, Flores, and Klein. Who were the other men? Were the women their ex-wives and/or the mothers of their children?

  The biggest question, what was in it for Noel?

  On Monday he’d go back to the courthouse and talk to the guy. In the meantime, after he checked his messages, he’d head for the library and see what he could find out on the Internet.

  And then he remembered. Patty. The invitation to come by and tell her what was going on. That definitely took priority with him.

  Chapter Nine

  Jim’s answering machine blinked with two calls. Two phone calls in one day was a record for him lately. He pressed play and listened as he chugged a long glass of water.

  “Jim Dorman, this is Edgar Buck, Editor with Dallas Downtown Magazine.”

  A shiver of excitement riveted through Jim, and he almost choked. He slammed the glass on the counter.

  “We’re interviewing three people for the reporter position, and you’re one of them. If you’re still interested in a job with us, your interview will be on Monday at 10:30 a.m. Call me back and confirm, please.”

  “Yes!” He pounded the counter. “Yes. Yes. Yes.” Dallas Downtown Magazine. Wow. He pressed the stop button and searched for a pen and paper to write down the number. His hand shook as he scribbled the information on the back of a paper bag. A job with Dallas Downtown Magazine would be worth moving away for. The money would be right; the work would be in his field. The kids would only be a forty-five minute plane ride away from him. He wouldn’t be able to see them on weeknights, but most weekends he’d be able to make it.

  Jim returned Buck’s call. This was one interview he couldn’t miss. A few minutes later, the interview confirmed, he pulled out his wallet and counted his cash. Not enough to get there and back. Dumping out the change jar, all he saw were pennies, maybe enough for a gallon of gas. The only way to get to Dallas would be to borrow money. His stomach smoldered. He’d planned to discuss the job with Patty but asking her to finance the trip would be sinking to a new low. Still, what else could he do? He didn’t doubt she’d make the loan, that she had some money set aside she could give him. She’d always kept a small savings account for emergencies. He had to ask her, remind her she’d be getting a big return on her money, but could her opinion of him get any worse?

  He hit play again to retrieve the second message. “This is Mrs. Ethel Peterson of the district clerk’s office. I understand you’re writing a book and would like to interview me. If you can come in next Tuesday, I can see you then. Please call and let me know.”

  Jim called the clerk’s office to confirm. After leaving a message for Mrs. Peterson, he asked to speak to Noel but was told he wasn’t in. He hung up. The guy would probably be pissed when he found out Jim called, but Jim wanted to know what those names meant.

  Things were finally trending his way. He plopped into his easy chair with one of the remaining beers from his refrigerator. It was a generic brand, the cheapest the grocery store carried, but to Jim it tasted like the finest import. He’d bought a six-pack the last time he’d sold a story and saved them, meting them out as reward for each minor achievement: a story completed, a rewrite accomplished, a painful job interview for a position he knew he would not get because he was overqualified.

  But today was different. He was celebrating. Not only had he successfully sailed through the interview with The Daily Sun—the job offer basically on the table—but he had another—better—position to interview for. And he’d begun gathering information for his Deadbeat Dad piece. Plus, he was intrigued with the Johnson thing. Figuring out what happened to Mr. Johnson was enough to get his mind off a lot of other things. Noel’s dramatic behavior had to mean there was something going on he wanted Jim to know about.

  All he needed now was to sell a novel. What if he could get a big contract? And national recognition? Fame and fortune would be at his feet. He might even get a Pulitzer. Pat would really have to take him back then. He laughed at himself. It was about as likely to happen as getting hit with that gold brick.

  Kicking off his shoes, Jim reached for the phone again and dialed Pat’s number.

  “Hi, Beautiful,” he said when she answered.

  “Who is this?”

  “Very funny. I was wondering if I could come over. I have something important to discuss wi
th you, and I’d rather not do it over the phone.”

  “Jim, it’s Friday night.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s Friday.”

  “Yeah? So what’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Tsk. Tsk. Some people go out on Friday nights.”

  Spots clouded Jim’s vision. He felt like he’d been flattened by an eighteen-wheeler. His jaw locked, and he couldn’t speak for a moment while he popped it loose. “You have a date?”

  “Is that so impossible for you to believe?” Her voice rose an octave.

  “No. I apologize. I didn’t mean anything. I just—well, there’s something important I need to discuss with you.” It was hard to believe she’d do that to him again. She’d been so encouraging in court. He’d taken her behavior as a sign. How could she betray him after that?

  “So you said. What is it?”

  “I wanted to do it in person.” He rubbed his jaw.

  There was a long silence. “I’m only going out to dinner. You want to come at nine-thirty?”

  His vision cleared, and he breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks.” He wasn’t sure he could handle the thought of her sleeping with someone else. “By the way, where’re the kids?”

  “Spending the night with friends. I’ve been doing battle with them for weeks over it. And finally caved.” She sounded like she was worn out. “I know I have to trust other kids’ parents, but it isn’t easy, especially when Jeanette’s friendship with her little girlfriend is so new. Well, we can talk more later,” Pat said. “‘Bye.”

  The phone clicked in Jim’s ear as he muttered, “Goodbye.”

  The back of his head pounded. He rubbed his neck and forced his shoulders down, away from his ears. The afternoon had started out so well. Now things didn’t seem so bright.

  He wanted his wife back. He stood at the window. The dusty yard was patches of grass not even long enough to mow. Most of the wildflowers had withered and died. Summer in the Hill Country without rain could be stifling.

  He wanted his wife back. He was ready to apologize for his mistake. Was she ready to apologize for hers? Not that he needed her to apologize. He didn’t need her to admit she’d been wrong or to ask forgiveness. She needed to figure out what she needed so she could come back. Whatever would make her feel better, make her be able to enter into the relationship.

  He wanted his wife back and no matter how long it took, no matter how patient he had to be, he would never quit wanting his wife back. He walked from the side window to the back one, stretching out his arms, trying to get some movement in his muscles. The acres behind his place stretched out as far as he could see. No clouds in the distance or close by. Just clear, blue, and hot. Whatever he needed to do to get her to think seriously about a reconciliation, he would do it. They’d both been wrong, behaved badly. He was rarely home. She found someone else. Not an uncommon story.

  He swallowed from his beer can. Cheap, warm beer. Puke. He couldn’t figure out what she wanted from him. She’d already punished him enough. Was she still making up her mind about them? He doubted that dating, now that she was alone again, would help her make a decision.

  Whatever, he only hoped she wouldn’t have sex with another man. Her boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—had been bad enough. But that was history. He could get past that—had gotten past that—but shuddered at the thought of another man putting his hands on her now. His stomach tightened and nausea hit him.

  Jim tossed the rest of the beer and went upstairs. He pulled off his shirt and threw it into a corner before digging around for a fresh one. Better yet, he’d shower. Half a day of driving in his car with its half-assed air conditioning system would make him smell offensive to the other people in the library. At least, if his memory served, that’s how Patty would phrase it. He’d better hurry if he wanted to get there in time to do anything significant before closing.

  He soaped up and rinsed quickly. The best shirt he could find had only a few wrinkles. If he could afford an iron, he would have ironed it, but he couldn’t, so he didn’t. When he got a job, he’d be able to send out his shirts again. Another thing he missed. He pulled on a pair of jeans and fresh socks and his running shoes and tucked a pair of shorts into a bag. After the library closed, he’d run a couple of miles.

  At the library, he blew by Frieda with a wave of his hand. He had about an hour left before closing. By Friday night, Frieda was too exhausted to hold the door for anyone.

  Finding a free computer, he selected the dates that included his first court hearing and started searching the obituaries for each day, looking for Albert Johnson’s name. The process was arduous, and Jim’s eyes burned with fatigue. Next time, if there were a next time, he’d come in the morning.

  The obituary was not long. No cause of death. He turned to the previous issue of the paper. There it was a small, but succinct, article.

  Car Flips Off Hill.

  A one-car accident claimed the life of Albert Johnson, 35, Monday night on Highway 80. Johnson lost control of his vehicle at the curve of Suicide Hill five miles north of town. Highway Patrolman Felix Gonzalez said the car smashed through the guardrail, rolled down the hill, and ended up wedged against an oak tree. The Department of Public Safety reported there were no witnesses.

  Gonzalez said empty beer cans were found in the vehicle. Johnson’s mother reported he had a history of heart problems. An autopsy will be performed. He is survived by his mother Latrice Johnson, and four minor children.

  Jim stared at the article. Albert Johnson went off a hill and died. What about the other four men on the list? If he could find a way of broaching it, he’d ask Patty if she knew Mrs. Johnson from WiNGS. Maybe someone in that group knew more than she was letting on. He made photocopies of the relevant articles and left the library, briefly waving at Frieda again on his way out.

  There were a lot of small parks in Angeles, surrounded by hills, trees, and picnic benches, but only one large enough for joggers. Jim drove over to Dunlap Park and ran several miles. It had gone from ninety-five degree heat at midday to eighty, a more bearable temperature. The run made him feel better. Fresh air filled his lungs. He enjoyed looking at the clear, blue sky, still not a rain cloud in sight, which wasn’t particularly a good thing up in the hills, which had long been suffering from a drought.

  There were a number of runners, but not nearly as many as the fall or spring brought out. He only recognized a couple of them and nodded as he ran. Finally, he drove to Pat’s house. It wasn’t close to nine-thirty, but he wanted to see who was dropping her off.

  He parked his Mustang on the corner near the house, scooted over, and ducked down in the seat on the passenger side so he could get a clear view of the front door. He didn’t want Pat to see him when she came home, but he just had to see her—see how she behaved with whomever she was with—and see whom she was with. Visions of oiled biceps danced in his head. And a scalp full of hair, no receding hairline. And a job. The guy had to be employed, otherwise why would Pat waste her time on him? One bum in her life was enough. Maybe she truly deserved better than him. Nah, he was a reformed man and things were going to be different. He could feel it.

  Jim tried to be patient as he stared out the window at the empty street and wondered where she was and what she was doing. She probably didn’t give him a passing thought when she was on a date. If she did, he hoped she didn’t compare him with some muscle-bound rich man. He’d never known what went on in her head. Never could figure out what she was thinking until he would return home one day and be surprised by a tongue-lashing for something he didn’t even know he did.

  When things ended, in-between the shouting, the insults, the name-calling, she claimed she’d been telling him they were having problems for a long time. Somehow, he’d never heard her. Never gotten the message. He would have been willing to work on the relationship if he’d known. Truly known. He shrugged. He wanted to believe that, anyway.

  Jim glanced at his watch. It was past nine-thirty. His jaw
ached; one of his teeth felt loose. He flexed his jaw and glanced down the road. Still nothing.

  Okay, he had to admit he had heard her. He’d heard her but thought it would go away, wished it would go away. Didn’t want there to be problems. Ignored the problems—ignored what she said. And it hadn’t gone away. At the end, he offered to work things out with her, to go to counseling, but she’d said it was too late. She claimed to have asked him several times—but he wouldn’t go—but now that he was willing, it was too late. She was right, he must admit. Everything she said was true.

  A soft rapping startled him and drew his attention to the driver’s side of the car. He shifted back across the seat to the driver’s side and rolled the window down. Pat’s perfume floated inside. Her eyes crinkled.

  “Aren’t you coming in?” Her breath smelled faintly of garlic and some kind of alcohol. She had on two of those tank tops she wore around the house, layered, as if two of them hid any more breast than one.

  His heart thumped like an adolescent boy’s. Somehow she’d gotten home, and he’d missed her arrival while he sat outside like a stalker. “Just getting my thoughts together.” He rolled up the window.

  She stepped away so he could open the door. Her cut-off jeans were slit up the thigh to her hip on one side. The elastic of her panties showed. He hoped she didn’t wear that on the date. Though a breezeless evening, the temperature felt like it was still in the eighties. Perspiration glistened on Pat’s cheeks. Her eyes seemed to hold a question. Jim searched his brain for some explanation for sitting out in his car instead of going to the door.

  They walked together back to the house. Jim waited for her to blast him, to accuse him of spying on her, to scream bloody-murder so he’d feel like an insect, but she didn’t say anything. He thought he detected a quirky smile skirting the corners of her mouth. No way was he going to mention how totally asinine he was being if she wasn’t.

  “So how was dinner?” he asked as he followed her into the house.

  The house was like an inferno. No wonder perspiration shined on her face and body. No wonder tendrils of her hair stuck together like an artist’s damp brush.