Eye Contact (16 page)

“Like what?” she asks, exhaling her first drag of smoke. It drifts toward the air conditioner then blasts toward the ceiling on a stream of chilled air. She reminds him, “Lights in the hall were dim till the police changed the bulbs. Wasn’t much you
could
see.”

“I understand,” says Manning, coaxing her along, “but I’m curious if you noticed anything that was at all distinctive, a feature like, well … red hair.”

She thinks, shakes her head. “Nah,” she tells him, blowing smoke, “don’t recall his hair.” Then something clicks. “Guess you might say his limp was peculiar.”

Manning freezes. He asks, “The man at the door
limped
?”

“Yeah.” Dora Lee whirls her cigarette—like Bette Davis—thinking. “Him and Clifford were talking at the door for a minute, then Clifford stood back and let the other guy in. He walked through the door with a bad limp. Or maybe he just had shit on his shoes and didn’t want to track it on Clifford’s pretty rugs!” She roars with laughter and smoke. Coughing, she wipes a tear from her eye. “Then the door shut. Never saw him again.”

Manning has opened his notebook, scribbling to keep up with her story. He tells her, “This could be an important new detail.” At the same time, he reminds himself that this could also be an invention of hers, a too-obvious “clue” intended to cast suspicion away from herself. He asks, “Why didn’t you mention this before?”

She shrugs. “Just thought of it.”

Exactly, he tells himself. Even so, it’s an intriguing detail that he cannot blithely dismiss. If she’s not lying about the limp, he needs to get to work and find a suspect matching her description—Victor Uttley, for example, but there is no reason to think that Chicago’s swishy, Rollerblading cultural liaison to the world would have any connection to Cliff Nolan or any interest in Zarnik’s claimed discovery. If, on the other hand, Dora Lee is not lying but merely mistaken about the limp, the “man” at the door could still be Lucille Haring or Zarnik himself. And finally, if Dora Lee is lying about having seen
anyone
at the door, she herself may be Nolan’s killer.

He caps his pen, checks his watch, rises from the chair. “Thank you, Dora Lee. I’ve got some thinking to do.”

He’s also got some housekeeping to do—cleaning out Cliff Nolan’s desk downtown in the
Journal’s
newsroom.

Arriving at the Journal Building around noon, Manning enters the editorial offices and walks the halls toward his own cubicle, noting the eerie weekend calm, the scarcity of staff, the anemic ring of a distant phone. Stopping at his desk to check for messages, finding none, he walks another aisle that takes him to Cliff Nolan’s desk.

Predictably, Nolan’s cubicle seems disarrayed. He hasn’t sat here in nearly a week, and there’s the clutter of messages and other memos that continued to accumulate until the news broke that he would not be returning. Gordon Smith must have phoned this morning to alert someone that Manning would be cleaning out the desk—a neat stack of corrugated boxes has been delivered to the cubicle, along with packing tape, labels, and a fat black marker. So Manning sets to work, quickly clearing the desktop, sorting its unremarkable contents into various boxes, labeling them
trash, morgue, office property, personal,
and such.

Moving onward to the desk drawers, he finds, as expected, that all but the center pencil drawer are locked, so he strolls out to the center of the newsroom, hoping there might be someone at the metro desk who knows where to find a key. Nothing is happening at this hour, and one of the city editors actually dozes in front of his terminal. Manning snags a copy kid (one he’s never seen before—the new ones get broken in during slow shifts) and explains his predicament. After a bit of confused searching and a few phone calls to God-knows-where, Manning is surprised that the kid manages to produce a master key.

Back at Nolan’s desk, Manning unlocks the drawers, excited by the prospect that they may contain clues to the reporter’s murder. Manning also wonders if maybe, just maybe, Nolan’s missing laptop computer has been stored here in the desk all along. But this anticipation proves for naught, as the drawers contain nothing more than office supplies, morgue folders, files of Nolan’s own past stories, and the inconsequential junk that spawns in the dark recesses of any desk over the years.

With all of this properly sorted into appropriate cartons, Manning is ready to leave, sliding the drawers closed in sequence. The last of these, however, the big lower file drawer, slides with more difficulty than the others. Curious, Manning kneels and peers into it. Empty. But then he realizes that the drawer is deeper than it first appeared—there’s an adjustable metal divider closing off the back section of it, and there must be something heavy back there. Is it the laptop?

He extends the drawer fully, removes the divider, and finds—to his disappointment—just another stack of morgue folders, perhaps a foot thick. Grousing, he stands, closes the drawer with his foot, and carries these files to the carton that will be returned to the morgue. Placing them in the box, he is about to tape it shut when he notices that these last files are different from the others. The manila folders themselves are identical, but their labels are handwritten, not typed.

Retrieving the folders from the box, he sits in Nolan’s chair and begins flipping through the files in his lap. They contain a few photographs, copious handwritten notes (conspicuously, nothing is typed or printed by computer), and copies of old news stories, some from the
Journal,
but many from other sources. Each file pertains to a different person. “Oh Jesus, Cliff,” Manning mutters aloud, realizing that his colleague has been collecting the sort of unsavory information that typically serves a single purpose—extortion. Sure enough, there’s a slim, recent file on Lucille Haring. There’s another name he knows, too.

Manning feels his stomach turn, and he wonders for a moment if he might vomit. But the sensation passes, and he rises. Once he has sealed the various labeled cartons he has filled, he places them in the aisle for removal. Then he flumps Nolan’s secret files into another box, unlabeled, and carries it out of the newsroom.

M
ONDAY MORNING HAS
dawned hot and sticky in the city. Chilled air gushes from vents in the loft where east windows brighten with a white sky. There are no telltale signs that a mob partied here Saturday night—all is in order for the start of a new week. It will be a busy one for both Neil and Manning.

The opening of Celebration Two Thousand on Saturday is now only five days away, and Neil is up to his neck in last-minute committee work. The little time he’s spent at the office lately has been occupied by preparations for the festival, and he’s had to rely on other architects in the firm to pick up some of his work. But there’s a big project, a corporate headquarters, that’s been back-burnered too long, needing his attention before it can proceed. He decided to arrive early at the office today in order to spend some time working on it uninterrupted. So he’s up with the sun this morning, showered and dressed already, brewing coffee in the kitchen.

Manning is due for a challenging week as well. In contrast to Neil, who knows exactly what he must accomplish during the next few days (Neil has a clipboard with a checklist that keeps getting longer, not shorter), Manning is faced with the uncertainties of not one, but two vexing stories. He knows that Professor Zarnik’s claimed discovery is a fraud, as is the actor who claims to be Zarnik. He fears that Nathan Cain has been unwittingly drawn into some far-reaching conspiracy, but he hasn’t a clue as to the nature of the plot or the motive behind it. Further, all his instincts suggest that the Zarnik plot is somehow related to Cliff Nolan’s murder, and yesterday, while going through Nolan’s desk, he discovered to his utter dismay that the esteemed science editor had a dark side, a taste for “dirt.” Worst of all, Manning has knowingly misled his readership—and that, more than anything, goads him to get some answers fast and set the record straight.

Like Neil, Manning has risen earlier than usual this morning. He appears from the shower wearing a pair of linen shorts, then pads down the stairs to find Neil pouring coffee. He gives Neil a kiss, stands back to look at him, and steps near again to tweak the knot of his tie. “You
are
the early bird today. No time for …?”

“’Fraid not,” Neil tells him, patting Manning’s thigh. “If I can just get through this week, we’ll get our lives back—I promise.” He hands Manning a mug of coffee and sits at the breakfast table to review his clipboard.

“Is the paper here yet?” Manning asks while rummaging inside the refrigerator.

“You won’t find it in
there.
Want me to check?”

“No thanks, kiddo. I’ll go look.” Crossing to the door, he notices Neil studying the list. “Nose to the grindstone already, eh?”

Immersed in thoughts of the chores that await him, Neil doesn’t answer.

Manning joins him at the table, spreads open the freshly delivered
Journal,
and slurps from his mug as he glances over page one. Nothing earthshaking—Sunday, as usual, was a slow news day.

Manning sips from his mug again and swallows; Neil does the same. Manning turns a page of the
Journal;
Neil turns a page of his checklist. Sip, swallow, turn. Sip, swallow, turn. “Even the letters are nowhere,” Manning mumbles.

“Hmm?” Neil isn’t listening.

Sip, swallow, turn—then something catches Manning’s eye.
“What?”

Neil looks up. “Hot story?”

“No,” says Manning, “it’s this ad.” He slides the paper across the table so Neil can get a look at it.

It’s a full-page ad, full-color too, congratulating Pavo Zarnik on his momentous discovery. “You’ve done Chicago proud!” it trumpets. “The City of Big Shoulders welcomes you with open arms!” There’s a picture of Zarnik, another of the mayor, and a drawing of little planets playing hide-and-seek in a benign star-dusted universe. The ad concludes, “The Office of the Mayor salutes one of Chicago’s favorite sons.”

Neil looks up from the paper. “Pretty lame.”

“Yeah,” Manning snorts his agreement. “It’s also a waste of tax dollars. Do you have any idea what that page cost?”

Neil shrugs. “Thousands.”

Manning rises, stands behind Neil, and looks over his shoulder at the ad. “If you ask me, it’s an overly generous gesture if it’s simply intended to make Zarnik ‘feel good.’ Other than that, what’s the point?”

Neil shrugs again, then notices something on the page. He peers close.
“Aha!”
He taps his finger on a line of agate type buried at the bottom of the ad.

Manning strains to focus. “It’s a bit early for that, babe. What does it say?”

Neil reads, “‘Paid for by the Office of the Mayor, City of Chicago, Victor Uttley, Cultural Liaison to the World.’”

“You’re kidding,” says Manning.

Neil tells him, “Until last night, I’ll bet you didn’t even know we
had
a cultural liaison to the world. Point is, it’s been sort of hush-hush. It’s a patronage job, naturally. Victor Uttley is related to someone who must have had a favor coming. The position was dreamed up a few months ago, and Victor fits it to a tee. He’s an ineffectual bureaucrat whose job is on the line.”

“What does he actually do?”

“Good question. Basically he just bugs the festival committees. I don’t think he
means
to be intrusive—he’s looking for something to justify his paycheck.”

Manning circles the table and faces Neil from across the newspaper. “So this ad is meant both to congratulate Zarnik and to pump up the esteem of Uttley’s office.”

“Exactly.”

“God. …” Manning takes his coffee from the table and crosses the room, rising several steps to a platform area in front of the big east windows. He gazes vacantly at the sky, squinting through the sunlight, thinking.

Neil moves the paper aside and returns to the perusal of his checklist.

Manning turns, backlit by the white haze, and asks, “Victor Uttley—who
is
this guy? Does he have any qualifications as a cultural ambassador?”

More amused than annoyed by the repeated interruptions, Neil closes the pad on his clipboard and shoves his chair back a few inches, sitting sideways to face Manning. “He’s no Alistair Cooke, but he seems well versed in the arts. Mostly theater. He was an out-of-work actor waiting tables somewhere before he lucked into the mayoral appointment—good thing his uncle’s a ward boss.” Neil winks.

Manning raises the mug to his lips and drinks. With his other hand, he scratches his scalp, then rubs the back of his neck. Thinking aloud, he says, “It’s curious that Uttley would make such a hoopla about Zarnik. Uttley’s job security would seem to depend more upon the success and prestige of Celebration Two Thousand. What interest would a ‘cultural liaison’ have in astronomy? It doesn’t fit. Does it?”

Manning’s question was rhetorical, and Neil doesn’t bother to answer. Instead, he simply watches Manning as he poses in thought, nearly naked, on the platform that displays him as if on a stage. Gaping windows give the world a glimpse of the profoundly beautiful man whose intimacy has been Neil’s alone to savor for the past two years. Something stirs between Neil’s legs. He grins. I’d take you here and now, he telepaths, but I’m ready for the office, and duty calls. No time to linger. Sorry.

Manning says, “Too weird. Just yesterday, Cliff Nolan’s neighbor told me that the man she saw at Cliff’s door had a limp, and I’m still not sure if I should believe her. When she told me this, Victor Uttley sprang to mind—he fits the description perfectly—but I couldn’t imagine that he would have any connection to either Pavo Zarnik or Cliff. Now this splashy ad. Who knows?”

“He doesn’t strike me as a killer, if that’s what you’re driving at.” Neil is talking about Victor Uttley, but he’s thinking about Manning. Damn, what a hot man, right there in front of him, his for the asking. “By the way, don’t be thrown by his fey manner—he’s straight, thank God.”

“He’s
straight
?”

“Sure is.” Neil steps up to the platform, and drapes his arms over Manning’s shoulders. “But guess what—I’m not.”