Safe at Home (2 page)

It was almost dawn when Andy came back. I didn’t hear him. He was just suddenly there, with his arms around me and his whiskers scratching my neck. We had a spectacular reconciliation. I fell asleep again with tears on my cheeks. Not all of them were mine.

When I woke up a few hours later, I found myself among friends. Elwy was on one side of me, purring in his sleep. Andy was on the other, snoring. I extricated myself gently, found my nightie, and went to the kitchen. It was still early, but I felt too cheerful to waste the morning in bed.

I put on the kettle and went down for the papers. There was nothing about the latest murder, which had been discovered after the morning edition deadline, but the 7:00 CBC Radio news led with it.

The victim was an eleven-year-old Chinese boy. His nude body had been found in an empty warehouse. Like the first two victims, he had been raped. A police spokesman—Andy, presumably—had not ruled out any connection with the murders of the two other children.

Elwy, who can hear the tiniest of kitchen sounds from the deepest sleep, was butting my ankles and demanding food before the tea had steeped, but Andy didn’t stir until I’d finished my second cup. When I heard him in the shower, I started his coffee.

By the time he emerged, wrapped in a towel, looking damp, groggy, and sexy, I had his cup poured, complete with a revolting three sugars. He mumbled his thanks, directed a kiss somewhere in the vicinity of my right ear and took the paper to the kitchen table.

“Breakfast?” We’re seldom temperamentally compatible in the mornings. Because I was one hour and two cups of tea up on him, I was the brighter, for a change.

“Maybe in a minute,” he said, blowing on his coffee to cool it enough to drink.

There was no point trying for conversation. I took my good spirits into the shower. When I got out, Andy was up to speed.

“Did you leave any hot water for me to shave?”

“About as much as you left me to shower,” I said. “Wait twenty minutes and it will be fine.”

“I haven’t got twenty minutes,” he said, wiping steam from the mirror. “You should have woken me earlier.”

“Not my job, chief.”

I went and poured another cup of tea, my own blend of Irish Breakfast and Earl Grey, ambrosia after the teabag slop from metal pots I’d been suffering in American hotels. I took it back and perched on the edge of the tub to watch him shave.

“Another little boy, eh? Is it the same guy?”

“It looks like it,” he said, through the lather, then paused and looked at me in the mirror.

“Normal rules, right?”

“Of course.”

One way we’ve been able to get along as a couple has been to keep our conversations off the record. Andy, as most of us, needs a sounding board. He wouldn’t usually choose a reporter for that role, but I feel no need to share his conversations with colleagues. When we met, the Titan murders were on my beat, and we stepped all over each other in our investigations, but I don’t normally cover crime. This is not to say that my colleagues who do haven’t tried to get information from me, but I have no conflict in loyalties. Besides, I love the inside stuff so much that I’d be crazy to jeopardize my source, and I like to think that my contributions are useful. As I often remind him, I found the Titan killer before he did. He doesn’t like the reminders much, but still talks to me.

“We might have a break with this one. There were some signs of struggling. We hope he might have some tissue under his fingernails to link him to the killer.”

“And the guy might have scratches.”

“Right. The other two were drugged, and there was no sign of a struggle with either one. Forensics found a mild sedative, like valium, in the stomach contents. That hardly narrows down the field of suspects.”

“So, what do you think? He slips them a mickey, molests them, then kills them to shut them up?”

“No. The first boy. Benjamin Goldman, was killed first, then raped. The second, Marc LeBlanc, was raped first. So was this one, with a bit more violence, it looks like. He’s getting more confident.”

“Oh, God.”

“They’ve all been killed by suffocating, probably with a dry-cleaning bag. We’re pretty sure it’s the same guy now but we can’t find the connection.”

“Maybe there isn’t one. Maybe it’s just random.”

“If it is, we’re going to have an even harder time finding him. We’ll just keep looking for the link.”

“What do you know about the kids? Don’t their parents keep track of them? How could they just disappear?”

“They were good kids. They’d never been in trouble. There was no reason not to trust them on their own. The one last night was on his way to school from swimming practice. His teachers figured he was home sick.”

“I can’t stop thinking about their parents.”

“Neither can I. My own boys take the subway when they come to see me. Why not? I’ve never given it any thought. They’re responsible kids. But next time I’ll pick them up.”

He rinsed his face and towelled it dry, then stared at himself in the mirror. His eyes caught mine in the glass.

“I’m going to get this son-of-a-bitch, Kate. I promise you that.”

He went into the bedroom. I followed him and did my best to deter him from dressing, with little success. I had to be losing my touch. Or maybe it was the flannel nightie.

“Okay, get off me,” he laughed. “What’s your day like?”

“It’s going to be crazy,” I said. “Opening day is wild enough, but this one is going to be doubly insane in the new stadium.”

The equivalent of the gross national product of an emerging nation had been spent by several levels of government and a consortium of corporations to build a palace of pleasure with a retractable roof, all part of Toronto’s obsession with being “world class.” I hadn’t seen it since it had been finished, but by all reports, it was spectacular.

“Will the roof work?”

“They say it will. I still have to be convinced. Right now I’m more worried about the press box, and about finding my way around.”

“Where’s your sense of occasion?”

“When the occasion is opening day, all I can think about is the drunks in the stands and the streakers on the field. I’ll start enjoying it tomorrow, when the place isn’t filled with event freaks.”

“Just a typical cynical sportswriter,” he teased.

“On the contrary, a romantic who doesn’t want strangers sullying the purity of my game.”

“When will you be done?”

“About eight, I would think.”

“I probably won’t be, but I’ll call you later.”

At the door, he hugged me hard.

“I’m glad I came back last night,” he said.

“So am I. Be careful out there, all right?”

“You watch too much television.”

Despite my protests to Andy, I was kind of excited about opening day in the new stadium. I left for work before I had to, because I was itchy to get going. Besides, I wanted to drive my car for the first time in two months.

I traded my aging sports car in on a reconditioned Citroën Deux Chevaux when the snows came last fall. With its snail-shaped body and peculiar gearshift, it looks more like a toy than a car. I’ve had people pat it when I’m stopped at crosswalk.

It coughed a bit, the way I do on a bad morning, before the engine caught. I kept the rag top closed. It was mild for Toronto in April, but my blood had thinned in Florida.

I had decided to pay a rare visit to the office on the way to the ballpark. I hadn’t seen the boys in a while, and my mailbox could probably stand emptying. Besides, Jake Watson, my editor, likes to see me in the flesh from time to time to make sure there isn’t an imposter cashing my cheques.

I don’t spend much time at the paper because most of my work is done at the ballpark or at home, thanks to my handy-dandy micro-computer and modem, but that suits me fine. The
Planet
offices always depress me. At the risk of sounding like a terrible old fart, newspapers aren’t what they used to be.

It’s the quiet that bothers me. There’s no shouting for copyboys (there are no copyboys, even, just office persons), no typewriters clattering or phones ringing; just the eerie clicking of computer keys and the muted warbling of the phones I still don’t know how to use. Besides, they won’t let me smoke any more.

It was just 10:30 when I arrived. The toy department, as some call our corner of the world, was pretty empty, but the coffee wagon which makes its daily stop right next to my desk had drawn a crowd.

This meant that catching up on all the office gossip was easy. There was also the usual advice tendered about how the Titans could turn things around. And I wasn’t at all surprised when the beautiful and ambitious Margaret Papadakis parked her shapely butt on the corner of my desk.

“Andy Munro’s a pretty tough case,” she tried, for openers.

“He sure is,” I smiled.

“Have you talked to him since the latest murder?”

“We’ve had words,” I said.

“Did he tell you about it? It was pretty gruesome.”

“The old faithful ‘grisly discovery,’ eh? What would you police reporters do without that phrase?”

“Come on, Kate. Whose side are you on?”

“In this instance, I don’t believe I’m on anyone’s side, Margaret. I didn’t know there were sides.”

I felt slightly torn, in fact. The journalist in me identified with Margaret. Cops, including Andy, as I well know from frustrating experience, don’t trust reporters, and the sensationalist coverage we give crimes like these doesn’t help the situation.

Sometimes, obviously, it is in their interest to get publicity. The problem for reporters like Margaret is that when they do decide it is in their interest to let go of some information, they do it in convoluted police-speak. Try making lively copy out of doubletalk about “alleged perpetrators” and “probable assailants” when your readers are screaming for the blood of the Daylight Stalker.

On the other hand, hard work overcomes all sorts of adversity. I had ended up getting the story myself. If a lowly sports reporter, looked down upon by hotshots like her, had done it, why couldn’t she?

“Sorry, Margaret. I’d like to help you, but I’ve got a conflict. I’m sure you understand.”

She reached across my desk and dropped her empty coffee cup in my wastepaper basket. Then she smiled and stood up, smoothing her snug leather skirt over her hips.

“I guess I’ll have to see if I can develop some sources of my own,” she said, before gliding across the room.

Bitch. Worse, a gorgeous bitch under thirty who was on a story with my man. I felt like a character out of the afternoon soaps the ballplayers like so much. I’d have to ask one of them how Pamela or Tiffany would handle the situation.

I put my nasty thoughts aside and began going through a six-inch stack of press releases and mail from readers. Mine is the worst desk in the office. We each have to share a large workstation, as they are now called, with another reporter, with only a foot-high partition between us. Because I’m so seldom there, they figured it was a good dumping spot for Richard Greaves, the school sports guy. He’s an eager little beaver who doesn’t realize that the only reason his stories get into the paper is so that kids and their parents can see their names in print. But Dickie takes his job more seriously than the publisher does.

You can’t fault his dedication. He bombs around in an old van with his camera equipment in the back, covering the games he thinks are most important. He’s not a bad photographer, either, and he can put together a good little round-up with all the names spelled right. He’s also got a good network of young stringers who phone him in the scores.

It’s a thankless job, but he does it really well. Not that anyone else notices. Because he hasn’t got a major beat, the poor guy is dumped on a lot by the other reporters, so I usually try to be nice to him. Besides, he’s good-looking and quite charming. If only he would shut up occasionally.

“Have you heard about my tournament, Kate?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“I’m trying to get the
Planet
to sponsor a kids’ baseball tournament this summer. What do you think?”

“Aren’t there already dozens of little league tournaments?”

“Not like this one. We would have big prizes and lots of publicity. It would be good for the paper.”

And for Dickie, I suppose. He was doing a bit of empire-building. If he couldn’t get the major beat he lusted after, he was going to turn his little corner of the section into something important.

“It’s not a bad idea,” I said.

“I’d like to get the Titans involved,” he said. “I was thinking maybe some of the players could give out the prizes, or maybe they could supply free tickets to Titan games. What do you think?”

“They might go for it,” I said.

“Let’s have a beer later and talk about it,” he said, putting on the charm. “I’d like to tell you my ideas. Maybe you can put in a word to Jake. Besides, I want to hear all about Florida.”

Promises don’t cost anything. I said I’d see him later. Much later, I promised myself. Appeased, he went back to his interminable phone calls.

After a few minutes, Jake Watson stopped by my desk on his way back from the morning editorial meeting. It was good to see him, fat and sweating in his ubiquitous winter tweed suit. He was one of those WASP Canadians with British pretensions, the black sheep of his banking family. When the season changed, he would be in seersucker. I could hardly wait. The tweed was starting to take on a life of its own.

“Hi, stranger,” he said. “Good to have you back. Care to step into my office?”

“Yes, sir, boss, sir,” I said. Jake was a friend, and nothing annoyed him more than when I kowtowed. This time he just laughed as he put an arm across my shoulder and escorted me to his office.

He closed the door behind us and pulled an ashtray out of his bottom desk drawer. We lit up like naughty children behind the barn.

“You’ve got to say one thing about those juiceless bastards and their bylaws,” he said, exhaling with pleasure. “They’ve put the adventure back in smoking.”

“Yeah, sure. You’ve got an office door to close.”

“Doesn’t mean there haven’t been complaints. Hell, let them fire me. I’d retire to the Dominican Republic on my severance pay. Speaking of which tropical paradise, how is the pride of San Pedro looking?”

He was referring to Alejandro Jones, the blithe spirit who plays second base for the Titans, last season’s American League rookie of the year and one-man proof that baseball can still be fun in the era of big paydays and crushing performance pressure.

“He’s fine. If anyone can get them out of this tailspin, it’s Alex. If only the rest of them were like him.”

“What about the losing streak? Should you be putting that in any sort of context?”

“Lots of teams have lost seven straight to start the season. They’ve got a long way to go before they threaten the record. Talk to me in a week, maybe, but right now, I don’t see any reason to cover them in anything but a normal way.”

“Feel the same way about Washington’s slump?”

“That’s different. I wouldn’t be surprised to see them bring up Kid Cooper. He’s ready, and when you’re going this bad at Tiny’s age, it might be something more than a slump. I don’t think they’re going to give him a chance to work out of it.”

“Want to write about it?”

“Let’s wait until something happens. I know what I want to say, and I’ve put together some stuff on his career, ready to go. I don’t want to run it yet, though.”

“We can’t be sure the other papers won’t jump the gun.”

“No, we can’t but I don’t want to be a ghoul. I’m not going to count Tiny out until he’s been benched.”

Jake looked skeptical.

“We’re not talking about a major scoop here, Jake. Let them write his epitaph before he’s cold, if they want. You know mine’s going to be better, whenever it comes out.”

“Handy having you back in town, Kate,” Jake smiled. “Else I might not remember how indispensable you are.”

“If you’d ever compliment me, I wouldn’t have to congratulate myself all the time,” I said.

“Not my style. Anything else going on I should know about?”

“Something’s up with Joe Kelsey. I can’t figure out what it is, but he’s gone inside himself, somehow. He’s never been exactly gregarious, but these days he’s really withdrawn.”

“It doesn’t seem to be affecting him on the field.”

“Oh, he’s playing better than ever. He just doesn’t seem to be enjoying it as much. Anyway, it’s not a story. Just a little mystery. And he’s avoiding me like mad.”

Joe Kelsey, also known as Preacher, is the left fielder. He’s an earnest black man from Oakland who has been in the Titan organization since he left high school. He went a bit wild for a year in the minor leagues, getting mixed up with drugs and, apparently, some sexual experimentation he’d like to forget, but found God, cleaned up his act, and has been solid ever since. He doesn’t thump the Bible excessively, which is fine with me.

He’s a complicated guy, always has been, but before this season has always talked freely to me.

“You’ll figure it out, eventually,” Jake said. “When are you going to the ballpark?”

“Soon. I’ve got to explore. Besides, I want to beat the traffic.”

“I’ve got a parking pass for you here somewhere. And your Titan credentials.”

“Thanks. Who else have you got covering?”

“Jeff’s doing a column. I’m sending Roger Chan, the new kid, to do a sidebar. Tell him what you want. Cityside is sending three or four bodies to cover the stadium, the traffic, and the fans. You and Jeff figure out how to divide up the rest. I’ll probably come down myself for a couple of innings. Bill Spencer and Jay Morse are the photographers. Let them know if you want anything special.”

“Well, I might ask them to get some candid stuff of Tiny, just in case.”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, by the way, I’ve got two months’ worth of expense sheets for you to sign.”

“The only thing you can be counted on to hand in on time. Get out of here.”

“Yes, boss.”