“Don’t forget Tito Negraponte,” I mutter.
“Not for a moment! Our bass player, plugged in the bupkis by a couple of beaners supposedly recruited by the aforementioned ambitious young widow. Unfortunately, we have no suspects, no supporting witnesses and damn little evidence, circumstantial or otherwise. Which brings us to our pretty little love song, the alleged motive behind all this mayhem—”
“Hey, I just figured out what you can do for me.”
“Wait, Jack. I’m not finished—”
“Just give me a quote. That’s all I want.”
Tarkington snorts. “Are you deaf on top of everything else? Let me repeat this: You’re not here. I’m not here. We’re not having this chat.”
“One crummy quote,” I nag him. “Not for publication now, but later.”
“The only thing I’ve got to say to you is be very careful, Slick. Don’t be a nitwit and get yourself whacked. And that’s strictly off the record.”
“One quote, Rick, come on. It doesn’t have to be substantial, for Christ’s sake.”
“Oh, there’s a load off.” Tarkington scowls.
I try dusting off an old standby from my hard-news days. “What if you were to say the state attorney is ‘investigating a possible link’ between the deaths of Jimmy Stoma and Jay Burns, and the coldblooded shooting of a third member of the band. You don’t have to mention Cleo or the song. Just say you want to find out if somebody’s bumping off the Slut Puppies. It’s a helluva headline, you’ve got to admit.”
“Except we’re not investigating a damn thing.”
“Yes, but you would investigate—wouldn’t you, Rick?—if more evidence turned up. Startling new evidence, as we say.”
“Be sure and call me when that happens. Then you’ll get your precious quote.”
My predicament, which I’d rather not explain to Tarkington, is that I’ll need more than a string of baroque incidents to sell the Jimmy Stoma story to our managing editor. Abkazion might be a Slut Puppies fan, but he’s also a hardass when it comes to the front page. He’ll want to see a quote from somebody in law enforcement saying they smell a rat. Tarkington would be ideal. Unfortunately, he’s a hardass, too.
“Are you telling me,” I plod on, “it’s all coincidence, everything that’s happened since Jimmy died?”
“Hell, I don’t believe much in coincidence,” he replies matter-of-factly. “I think you’re probably onto something.”
“And the blood’s not enough to make you pick up the phone? His own sister’s blood?”
Tarkington glares as if I’ve just spit up on his boots. “What blood, you fucking bonehead? The sample you stole when you broke into the lady’s house? Jesus W. Christ.”
“Rick, I needed to know for sure. That’s why I did it.”
“And I need a warrant, old buddy. You find me some PC and I’ll find a judge and then we’ll go cut us a piece of that rug, nice and legal.” He stands up, stretches his arms. Throws in a yawn, in case I’m not taking the hint. “Jack, don’t get bummed. You’ve got quite a story here… ”
“But what?”
“A helluva story, as you say. But you’re not done yet. It’s still missing the pretty ribbon and the bow.” Tarkington nods toward his stack of files. “Now you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a couple widows of my own to interview. They aren’t nearly as chipper as yours.”
“Okay, but first give me your impression—in a word, Rick—of everything you’ve heard so far.”
“Intriguing,” he says.
That’s good, but it’s not what I’m looking for. Abkazion will demand something stronger.
“How about ‘suspicious’?” I venture.
“Yeah, all right. It’s suspicious.”
“Highly suspicious, would you say?”
“I would say goodbye now, Mr. Tagger. And if my name appears in the paper this week under your byline, it’d better be because I’ve croaked in some newsworthy way.”
That’s what I mean about Rick. I couldn’t even joke about something like that. As soon as the office door closes, I take out my notebook and jot the following:
Asst. State Atty. R. Tarkington says he’s preparing to investigate circumstances of J. Stoma death and disappearance of Stoma’s sister. “Highly suspicious,” says the veteran prosecutor.
Forgive me, Woodward, for I have sinned.
The pier at Silver Beach is not a big draw at high noon on a hot August day. I arrive half an hour early and, from the safety of my car, I scope the place thoroughly with binoculars. Team Cleo has had two days to run the phone number I wrote on the compact disc, an easy job for any private investigator.