Madman's Thirst (8 page)

CHAPTER 11 – THE REGISTER

Scarne had never been to the
Richmond
Register’s
spanking new publishing complex on Fingerborad Road in Arrochar.
All aluminum and glass and sharp angles, it was a far cry from the newspaper’s
original brink and mortar monstrosity in Rosebank, which now served as a
T-shirt factory.

When staying with the Mack clan
during and after college, he had often accompanied Dudley to the old newspaper plant
when his friend had to drop off a death notice or arrange advertising for his family’s
funeral business. Occasionally, both boys would stop by the sports department
to deliver the scores and highlights of the various community or parish
basketball and baseball games. In the beginning, the highlights stressed how
brilliantly Dudley Mack and Jake Scarne had performed. That annoyed not only
their teammates, but also the opposition, which, in basketball, consisted of
wiry, black doo-ragged toughs from the projects and, on the baseball diamond,
frustrated Irish, Italian or Polish fireplugs. Hard fouls on the courts and a
succession of bean balls soon convinced them to spread the glory around in
print. (“I didn’t know any of those mooks could read,” Dudley had commented
after a taste of chin music from an irate pitcher.)

One thing hadn’t changed at the
new building. There was still not enough parking. Scarne circled the lot twice
before sliding his lovingly restored 1974 MGB into a “Handicap Parking” spot.
He assumed the cops left the newspaper alone. Having seen men and women
sprinting from their handicap-tagged cars to make tee times at golf courses,
often carrying heavy bags, Scarne knew Handicap Parking was one of the nation’s
great scams. For every legitimate handicapped person there was a robust family
member who used the car on errands, or some political contributor who wheedled
a sticker out of city hall.

Despite his belief, Scarne felt
momentarily guilty as he got out. It would be obvious to anyone that no one
with even the slightest disability could climb out of a low-slung roadster. To
make matters worse, he spotted a senior citizen with a walker being helped from
his car by a teen-aged girl nearby. Scarne suppressed the temptation to fake a
limp as he headed to the front door. He walked into the spacious lobby and up
to a reception desk, which was piled high with that day’s edition. A woman who
looked as if she held the prints for Guttenberg looked up from her crossword
puzzle and smiled at him. 

“Can I help you, young man?”

Her voice was firm, her diction
clear. Scarne recognized her immediately, but didn’t believe it.
Her voice was

“Mrs. Quinn?”

“Yes, do I know you?”

Madeline Quinn was an institution
at the paper when Scarne had dropped off the ball scores and funeral notices.
She must have been in her late 60’s back then. Was it possible she still worked
the reception desk at the paper?

“I used to give you the death
notices with Dudley Mack, Mrs. Quinn.” He would have never thought to call her
Madeline. “I’m Jake Scarne.”

“Well, of course you are, dear. Hard
to forget a couple of reprobates like you two.”

Scarne was oddly pleased that she
remembered him, whatever the reason.

“You’re a little thicker around
the middle, perhaps, although not as thick as Mr. Mack. He still stops by, just
to say hello. They mostly just email the notices now, of course. I told him to
cut back on the corned beef. He tells me that when I kick the bucket he’s going
to cremate me and flick his cigar ashes in my urn and tell everyone I’ve put on
weight. Wonderful man. Can’t believe everything you read about him in the
papers, can you? Although I guess I shouldn’t say that around this place. Give
me a straightforward crook any day, rather than some of these political types.”

Scarne smiled down at the little
old lady, who was obviously long past the point where she had to watch what she
said.

“You look wonderful, Mrs. Quinn.”
It was true. Her hair was all white, but there was plenty of it, and it was
nicely coiffed. Her skin tone was good, and there were surprisingly few
wrinkles for a woman who had to be past 80. “How have you been? I would have
thought you’d have” … Scarne caught himself … “retired by now.”

“And do what? Climb the
Matterhorn? See the world? Been there, done that. They’re going to name a
cruise ship after me. No, I’ve got to keep working. Going on 60 years here.
Second longest employee at the paper, after Frank Bacci, down in printing. He
started as a kid, maybe 15, running galleys back and forth. Now he’s the
foreman. Doesn’t do much, everything is automated. I think they put a mirror
under his nose every now and then, just to be sure. He’s aiming to get his
75-year pin, and I’m not betting against him.”

She turned away for a minute to take
a package from a UPS driver.

“Where was I?” It was obvious she
enjoyed Scarne’s visit. “Oh, yes. I’ve been here forever. Thought we’d be put
out to pasture when the family sold out to the mucky-mucks, but old man Simons
– he was a peach – had them write into the contract that we could stay on as
long as we wanted. I don’t think the new owners thought we’d hang on like this,
but they’ve been pretty decent about it. Both Frank and I got written up in
People
Magazine
in an article about the nation’s longest-serving employees,
something like that. It’s good public relations for the corporation, which
could use some. They’ve even stopped with the buyout offers. But I’m rambling
like an old lady. I guess you’re not here to put in some ball scores. Most
people just call them in now. Place has gotten pretty hoity-toity. We don’t
just let people wander in anymore like the old days. Too bad, really. So, who
are you here to see?”

“I have an appointment with Beldon
Popp.”

“Well, let me call up for you.”
She picked up the phone and punched a button. “Peggy, dear, there is a Mr.
Scarne to see Mr. Popp. Of course. I’ll send him right up. You’re a peach.” She
hung up and pulled over a pad of visitor’s tags, tore off one and wrote
Scarne’s name down, adding a little smiley face. She handed it to Scarne, who
peeled off the back and started putting on his left lapel when she stopped him.
“No, no. Put it on your right side. It makes it easier for people to read your
name when they shake your hand. Remember that when you go to a convention. What
are you up to now? Still friends with Mr. Mack?”

“We keep in touch,” Scarne said.
“I’m a private investigator. Looking into the death of Bob Pearsall’s daughter.
I guess that must have been quite a shock to everyone around here.”

Mrs. Quinn didn’t seem surprised,
only interested. Tough to surprise people in their eighth decade, Scarne knew.

“We were all broken up about it.
Elizabeth was a darling girl, and everyone loved Bob. Man loses his wife and
only child in such short order, well, I don’t have to tell you how sad that is.
Is there new information?”

“There might be.”

Scarne didn’t offer anything else.
His purpose in mentioning the reason for his visit was to get the word out. With
Mrs. Quinn as a conduit, everyone at the paper, and the borough, would soon
know of his inquiries.

“Well, I wish you good luck. Just
go through that door over there and take the elevator to Editorial, on the
third floor. Tell the receptionist there that Mr. Popp is expecting you. More
security here than at the Pentagon. His office is in the far corner. She’ll
direct you.”

Two minutes later Scarne was
ushered into Beldon Popp’s corner office by his assistant, who directed him to
a comfortable chair.

“Mr. Popp will be right back. He
had to run downstairs to the computer room for a minute. Can I get you
anything?”

Scarne declined and began to look
around. It was his experience that you could tell a lot about a person by his
or her office. Beldon Popp’s desk was surprisingly uncluttered for a newsman.
Other than a phone, laptop computer, the de rigueur in/out trays and an odd
paper clip or pen, it was barren. There was no lamp, but the panels of the
recessed ceiling lighting provided plenty of illumination. Only half of them
were on, probably because during the day sunlight would stream in from two
directions.

 The ledges below the office windows,
and a large bookcase on the opposite wall, were filled with awards, plaques and
photos. Scarne counted 20 of the latter, all but one showing Beldon Popp with
various people, obviously at a dinner or ceremony of some sort. Popp with the
President. Popp with the Governor. The new one, not the indicted one. Popp with
Senators. Popp with Martha Stewart and Barbara Walters. Popp with the
Steinbrenners. Popp with Derek Jeter. Scarne was instantly envious.

There was one photo that brought a
smile to Scarne’s face. It showed Popp sitting between Donald Trump and Aristotle
Arachne on some dais. Trump and Arachne looked as if they had swallowed worms. It
was common knowledge that the two real estate moguls despised one another;
their frozen smiles indicated that whoever arranged the seating was in for a
very hard time. If Emma came through with an introduction, perhaps Arachne
could help out with more than NASCAR. He might know some people on Staten
Island. Scarne made a mental note to tease him about the photo.

The plaques and awards were mostly
from local civic or political groups: the Republican, Democratic and
Conservative parties; the Catholic Youth Organization; The Protestant Pastors’
League; B’nai B’rith,  the Chamber of Commerce; the Borough President’s Council
on the Arts; the Boy and Girl Scouts; the Richmond County Bar Association; the
Staten Island Police Association (Scarne was now more confident about not
getting a ticket for his Handicap Parking violation); the Richmond Court
Officers Association; the bar association and dozens of charitable and
non-profit organizations.

 Scarne was reading some of the
inscriptions when Beldon Popp came through the door. After a cursory
introduction and handshake, Popp waved him to a chair.

“Seems pretty quiet out there,”
Scarne said, indicating the half-empty newsroom.

“Yes. It’s a tough time to be a
newspaper. We’ve had some cutbacks.”

“I remember the old building.
People were sitting on top of each other.”

Popp laughed.

“So, I heard. That was too small,
and this is too big. Had they seen the Internet coming they probably would have
never moved, or at least they would have built something smaller.”

“And cheaper?”

“You’re right about that. I’d
rather pay reporters than a mortgage, but what are you going to do?”

“Well, don’t feel too bad.
The
New York Times
made the same mistake, only about a billion dollars bigger.”

“Yeah, there’s that,” Popp said,
smiling. “So, what can I do for you?”

“Well, as I explained over the
phone, I’m looking into the murder of Elizabeth Pearsall. I thought you, or
someone on your staff, might provide me with information.”

“Can I see your credentials?”

Scarne pulled out his wallet and
opened it to his private investigator’s license. He handed it across. While Popp
made a charade of studying it carefully, Scarne sized him up. The managing
editor of the
Register
was of medium build and height, with an incipient
belly that, probably as a result of all those award dinners, strained against
his vest . He was a lot younger than Scarne expected, perhaps in his early
40’s, and had a full head of black hair, crew cut, flecked with grey at the
sides. He was trying for a moustache, probably to offset his bushy eyebrows,
large, sad eyes, and long nose.

“Who hired you?” Popp said as he
passed the wallet back.

Scarne smiled enigmatically. Popp
reached in a drawer and pulled out a pipe. He didn’t light it, but put it in
his mouth as he tilted his chair back.

“Do you have new information?”

“Yes.”

“Can you share it with me?”

“Only that I have reason to
believe that the murder wasn’t random. The girl wasn’t the target. Her father
was.”

Popp stared at Scarne.

“That’s preposterous. Why hurt the
daughter? Why not just kill Bob?”

“I’m working on the theory that
killing a
Pulitzer Prize
winner, hell, killing any newsman, might get
people wondering what he was working on. But a seemingly random tragedy that
drives him into retirement is another thing.”

“Who would be that sick?”

“That’s what I intend to find out.
By the way, where is the
Pulitzer
?” Scarne pointedly looked over at the
other awards. “I’d have thought you would display it prominently.”

Popp was offended.

“It was displayed ‘prominently!’
Out there in the newsroom, where it was won. I sent it out to have it properly
framed and to add a dedication to Bob. It will be hung in the main lobby. We’re
going to have a little ceremony.”

Scarne was properly chagrined.
After an awkward moment, Popp said, “But who would want to hurt Bob? The
nursing home people?”

“I don’t know. Were there any
other stories that he was working on, something someone might not want him to
pursue?”

“Bob was always tilting at
windmills. He was a bit of a dinosaur that way. I’m sure he pissed off a lot of
people.” Popp seemed to consider what he said. “Look, don’t get me wrong. He
was a good editor and a good friend. Have you spoken to him? I’m not sure he
would like someone rooting into this, however well intentioned.”

“I’m not going to bother him
unless I have to.”

“Good.” Popp smiled and crooked
his pipe at Scarne. “Look, I’d like to help. But I can’t think of anything that
Bob was working on that would cause someone to murder his child.”

“Did he have a particular interest
in that racetrack that NASCAR is planning out here?”