Daryl’s mouth hangs agape as he ponders this revelation. “Sorry,” he says after a moment, “I don’t follow you at all.
What
was playing?”
Manning repeats, “The Verdi
Requiem
—the traditional Catholic Mass for the Dead, as set to music by Giuseppe Verdi. He was a nineteenth-century composer of grand opera and other large-scale works. The
Requiem is
one of his most enduring and ‘popular’ pieces, probably the most bombastic. It’s a very long setting of the Mass, requiring a huge orchestra and chorus. The point is, I don’t know anyone who sits down and actually listens to the whole thing. The part that everyone
likes
is the “Dies Irae” section, near the beginning. It opens with four explosive bursts of sound, depicting the wrath of doomsday. Played loudly enough, those blasts could easily mask four gunshots. Cliff had four bullets in his back.”
“Okay …” says Daryl. Having never heard the music, he’ll have to take Manning at his word. “But there were no fingerprints on the disc.”
“Exactly. CDs are fingerprint
magnets.
That disc should have been covered with prints—Cliff’s prints. The fact that there were none at all means that the disc was almost certainly handled, cleaned, and played by the killer, not by Cliff.”
Daryl nods. “And that brings us back to the central question: Who killed Cliff Nolan?”
Manning inches his chair closer to Daryl, who leans forward to listen. With lowered voice, Manning tells him, “I now have five possible suspects. First, there’s the actor who is posing as Zarnik. His obvious motive for murder would be to avoid exposure as a fraud by Cliff, but why the whole ruse in the first place?
“Second, there’s Lucille Haring, who works up in Nathan Cain’s office, on loan from the Pentagon. She’s a computer wiz, with access to drafts of reporters’ stories, even as they’re being written. The Pentagon may have some involvement in the Zarnik scam, and Haring would have known that Cliff was ready to blow the whistle. What’s more, she’s a lesbian, and Cliff had threatened to expose her to the military brass, which would be the end of her career—so she was
plenty
motivated.”
Daryl asks the obvious question: “Have you
talked
to her?”
“I’ve been trying,” Manning assures him, “but we can’t seem to connect. I got another voice-mail message from her today—she can’t meet tonight or tomorrow night because she’s ‘terribly busy with an important project.’ It sounds like a runaround, and I should probably just confront her upstairs in her office during the day, but I don’t want Nathan Cain to get wind of this till I have some firm evidence.”
“A wise precaution,” Daryl agrees. “Who else?”
“Third on my list is Carl Creighton, a prominent local attorney who was possibly being extorted by Cliff. He apparently has some connection with both Zarnik and the Christian Family Crusade—but what’s
their
role in all this?
“Fourth is Dora Lee Fields, Cliff’s next-door neighbor, a real character. She’s an Elvis impersonator, a CFC member, and a pistol-packing redneck who threatened to kill Cliff for some peace and quiet—she couldn’t stand his loud music, and it was loudest on the night he died. She may be trying to divert suspicion from herself, but she told me that Cliff had a visitor that night, a tall man with a limp.
“And that brings us to suspect number five, Victor Uttley, Chicago’s cultural liaison to the world. He was at Saturday’s party—that tall, effeminate number with a limp from a recent Rollerblading mishap. He’s the one responsible for all those expensive ads that have been running this week, congratulating Zarnik. So he has an interest in Zarnik’s discovery, which we know to be a sham. What’s more, he’s well connected in the theater world, and we’re reasonably sure that ‘Zarnik’ is an actor. That might be an important connection, which is why I asked you to do some research on Victor Uttley.”
Manning glides his chair back a few inches, dropping his arms to his sides. “And that, I’m afraid, is all I’ve got.”
Daryl taps one of the manila folders on Manning’s desk. “You’ve got a morgue file on Uttley. I dug out everything I could, but there wasn’t much—a couple of tepid acting reviews, a metro story about his appointment to the mayor’s office, a few mug shots from his agency.”
As Manning thumbs through the folder, Daryl adds, “You’ve also got a shitload of messages from him. He’s antsy to talk to you. In fact”—Daryl plucks one of the slips and dangles it in front of Manning’s face—“he’ll be stopping by the office this afternoon, right about now, hoping to catch you.”
Daryl has barely finished his sentence when David Bosch pops into the cubicle. “Hey, Mark.” He’s winded and grinning. “Guess who’s out front.”
Daryl picks lint from his sleeve, showing no interest in David’s news. At the same time, he notes with great interest that David’s casual attire is virtually identical to Manning’s.
“Okay,” Manning tells David, “I’ll bite. Who’s out front?”
“Victor Uttley! I happened to hear him tell the receptionist that you were expecting him, so I said I’d run back to get you.”
“Damn, what a coincidence,” says Manning, straight-faced.
This prompts a chortle from Daryl, who’s busy admiring the contour of David’s firm buttocks. When David notices the direction of Daryl’s gaze, Daryl looks up to tell him, “Nice pants.”
“Oh. Thanks.” Then David tells Manning, “So … grab your notebook.”
Obediently Manning rises, picking up his notes, his calendar, and his Montblanc. Noticing that Daryl’s gaze has returned to David’s pants, he says without inflection, “Stop that.”
Oblivious to the subtopic, David asks Manning, “Mind if I tag along?”
“I insist,” Manning tells him, clapping an arm over his shoulder. “After all, you’re part of the team.” And they start off down the aisle together, affording Daryl a nice view of both backsides.
Daryl calls after them, “Oh, David?”
He turns. “Yeah?”
“How was Wisconsin?”
“Sweet, man.”
Uh-huh. Daryl smiles, rises, and strolls off in the opposite direction toward the heart of the newsroom, where he’s late for switchboard duty.
Manning and David escort Victor Uttley into one of the little conference rooms that surround the reception area outside the editorial offices. It’s a stark closet of a room with white, undecorated walls, badly scuffed by chairs on casters, clumped around a center table.
“Have a seat and get comfortable,” Manning tells Uttley, adding, “or at least try to.” Manning shrugs an apology for the tight quarters, shuts the door, then joins David and their guest around the table.
Uttley winces as he sits, trying to find a comfortable space for his lame leg. “Thank you, Mark,” he says, “for seeing me without an appointment.” His lanky frame and long features appear drawn and emaciated in this sterile environment, which is too brightly lit, seemingly from nowhere.
Manning replies, “Sorry I’ve been so hard to reach. David and I have been working on a story that took us out of town. Have you met, by the way?”
They mention having seen each other at Saturday’s party, shaking hands to make it official. As they reach across the table, their chairs shift position, banging the walls.
“So, Victor,” Manning continues, flipping open his pad, “what is it that you’ve needed to see me about?”
Uttley hesitates. Through a skittish laugh, he says, “Actually, I understand from Neil that you’ve been wanting to see
me
.” He pulls one of his skinny cigarettes from an inside jacket pocket and lights it, not bothering with the holder, not bothering to ask if anyone minds.
“Come on, Victor. You’re first. What’s this about? I spotted you downstairs in the lobby Monday morning.”
He sucks his first drag, then blows the smoke sideways, over a shoulder. “I wondered if you’d seen the ads we ran—from the mayor’s office—congratulating Professor Zarnik.”
Manning snorts. “They were hard to miss. And while the
Journal
appreciates the revenue, I must admit that the ads baffled me. From the mayor’s perspective, what’s the point—to pump up the prestige of the city?”
“Precisely!” says Uttley, suddenly energized, fluttering both hands. “A city’s self-perception is a tenuous, gossamer thing.” The orange dot of his cigarette traces circles in the air. “We owe it to the citizens of Chicago to seize any opportunity to remind them that they inhabit a miraculous urban playground of culture and science.”
David stifles a laugh. Catching a glance from Uttley, he pretends to cough, shooing smoke with his hands.
Uttley looks about for an ashtray, but there is none, only a lipstick-stained Styrofoam cup left on the table from a previous meeting. There’s an inch of coffee in it, to which Uttley adds his cigarette, extinguishing it with a hiss.
“Thank you,” David mumbles through another feigned cough.
“
Anyway
,” Uttley continues, “I just wanted to make sure you had seen the ads. Plus, the mayor asked me to convey his personal thanks to you for breaking the story and helping to spread the city’s good name.” He smiles.
“Do express my gratitude to the mayor,” says Manning, aping the smile. This doesn’t make sense, though. Uttley could have simply phoned the message, or sent a card, maybe a plant. Why all this skulking-about, this urgent face-to-face meeting? Uttley’s behavior has been more typical of an informant’s, a “source” who’s about to impart a hot tip. But this is
nothing.
Manning tells him, “I was only doing my job.”
“Your humility,” says Uttley, “is a credit to your profession.”
Oh brother. “I was wondering, Victor, if perhaps the mayor’s office could be of assistance in facilitating some background research for another story I have planned—it has nothing to do with Zarnik.”
“We’ll be happy to try. Is this the matter that Neil mentioned on the phone yesterday, the laser show?”
David looks to Manning with a quizzical blink, having never heard of this story.
“That’s right,” Manning tells Uttley. Then he explains to David, “At the end of Saturday night’s human-rights rally, some new laser technology will be used to display a huge pink triangle over the stadium; special projectors are being installed on top of the Journal Building and two other towers. The sky show will continue every night for a year, throughout the run of Celebration Two Thousand. Nothing has been published yet about Saturday’s finale—it’s being kept as a surprise. But once people get a look at it, there’s bound to be widespread interest in how it works. So …” Manning turns to Uttley. “I’d like to arrange access to one or more of the projection sites to get a firsthand look at the equipment.” He opens his datebook. It is Wednesday—the week is half gone already. “I’d like to do some snooping by Friday. Any later, it’s anyone’s story.”
Uttley tells Manning, “One of the projectors is on top of this building. Why don’t you just hop on an elevator and take a look?”
David looks from Uttley to Manning—it’s a logical suggestion.
Manning tells them, “Let’s just say I have my reasons. Can you help me?”
“Probably. I’ll let you know by tomorrow. We’ll shoot for Friday.”
“I appreciate it, Victor.” Manning makes a note in his calendar and closes it. While capping his pen, he thinks of something. Uncapping the pen again, he flips open his steno pad. Adopting a chatty, conversational tone, he says to Uttley, “Even without the laser spectacle, it sounds as if the opening ceremonies on Saturday should be sensational. Neil tells me you’ve had a hand in the planning, Victor.”
He puffs with pride. “
That’s
putting it mildly. The mayor’s office is keenly aware that Saturday’s program will affect the world’s perception of this city for years to come. Planning is crucial, of course, and I’ve tried to keep an eye on the committees.”
“I’ve always been something of a music buff, so I’m especially interested in that aspect of the festival. I understand there’s a possible glitch in lining up the Three Tenors.” He pauses, deciding to gamble, then asks, “Is it true that Paganini may cancel?”—naming not a reigning tenor, but a long-dead violinist.
“That’s just a rumor,” Uttley assures him. “All systems are go—he’ll be here.”
“Oh, good,” says Manning, adding with wry understatement, “I wouldn’t want to miss
that
.” He jots a brief note, telling himself, This guy wouldn’t know Bach from Bruckner. If he could mistake Paganini for Pavarotti, he surely lacks sufficient musical knowledge to synchronize four gunshots to the “Dies Irae” of Verdi’s
Requiem.
Victor Uttley did not kill Cliff Nolan. As suspected, Dora Lee Fields may have invented the man with a limp.
Manning closes his notes and pockets his pen. The meeting, it seems, is finished.
Victor rises from his seat, extending his hand. “I’m glad we finally connected. If there’s anything else—”
“Actually,” Manning interrupts, “there is one other bit of unrelated business I wanted to discuss with you.”
“Oh?” Victor settles into his chair again, scraping the wall.
“You’re an actor,” says Manning. “Correct?”
“I was, yes, but my new position leaves no time for such pursuits.”
“Of course,” Manning tells him, “but I understand that prior to your cultural-liaison days, you were building a promising career within the professional theater here.” That’s a stretch, Manning knows, but he’s trying to ingratiate himself.
And it works. “The critics seemed impressed,” says Uttley. “I was starting to get consistently favorable press. But … civic duty called.”
“Might one say, then, that given your background, coupled with your new position, you’re thoroughly ‘connected’ to the theater scene in Chicago?”
“Oh my, yes.” Victor squares his shoulders. “And beyond.”
Manning again flips open his notes. “Excellent. The reason I ask is that I may have use for a contact within the theater world. I’m sniffing out a future story that could turn into something of an exposé. It involves a prominent figure—a local woman who’s been getting some publicity recently—who I have reason to believe may be an impostor, a professional actress. If that’s the case, do you think you’d be able to help me identify her?”