Stone said, “It just made him madder. He jumped on Spano and choked him. Constantine tried to pull him back and the gun went off.”
Police have subpoenaed the bank records for the escrow account Constantine maintained for the Keegan family. It is alleged by some sources that the cash for the payments was passed from Spano to Constantine by FDNY Captain James McCaffery, who died on September 11.
Edward Spano will be arraigned today on Staten Island. He is expected to enter a plea of self-defense.
The investigation is continuing.
LAURA'S STORY
Chapter 16
The Invisible Man
Steps Between You and the Mirror
November 2, 2001
Morning in the newsroom. Laura, as always, early; other reporters drifting in one by one, stopping by her desk to ask, How are you doing? Are you okay? All of them sympathetic, all of them kind. But some—the honest ones, Laura thought—not suppressing their ironic and envious smiles when they said, Hell of a way to get a story.
Five clocks in plain view, none of them moving. Just get through the meeting, Laura told herself. Just that.
Laura's desk phone ringing. No, she thought, no, whoever you are and whatever you want, I can't. Even as she thought that, she grabbed the receiver up.
“Laura Stone.”
“Owen McCardle.”
An unfamiliar voice, a familiar name. Laura cast about. “I'm sorry—”
“Friend of Jimmy McCaffery's.”
Yes. “Yes, I remember. You were at Engine 168. Harry interviewed you.”
“I want to talk to you.”
“Mr. McCardle, after what just happened—”
“I want you to come here.”
“I—”
“It's goddamn important, Miss Stone.”
Anger slammed Laura as though McCardle's fist had pounded her through the electronic distance between them.
Laura closed her eyes. But that brought, not longed-for emptiness, but—again, once again—the sight of Kevin Keegan, swaying, clutching his bloodied chest. Staring not at Edward Spano, the man who'd shot him, but at Phil Constantine, motionless, frozen. Only his eyes reached for Keegan. Then Keegan fell.
I want to go home, Laura thought. Not to Harry's empty apartment, or her own, not to anyplace in this ruined city. Home.
“It's goddamn important.” McCardle's voice, each word separate, a boiling fury.
Too tired to argue, Laura said, “All right.” What choice was there? With the sinking feeling that she knew the answer, she asked, “Where is ‘here'?”
The ferry ride, one more time. Manhattan shrank as Laura stood on the back of the boat in the bright sun and watched. She didn't want to look forward, couldn't bear to see anything more coming toward her.
From the terminal she took a cab, leaning back against the seat. After yesterday, she was not ready to be seen in Pleasant Hills.
The cab drove past a school, a red-brick building she hadn't noticed before. The thought struck her: I could teach. English lit. Shakespeare, Yeats, Auden. The echoing halls of her midwestern high school came to her, the blaze of golden trees in autumn, the blue of the lake. Let Jesselson have the rest of this. Let him do the digging to prove Spano killed Harry. I'll leave. I'll get out now. There's still time.
The idea was comforting and also exciting. Yes. After this interview. Whatever McCardle had, she'd take it down, hand it to Jesselson, pack up, and fly home.
Would you mind, Harry? she asked. Now that I'm this close, now that it's this obvious? Do I have to stay, and watch, the way we all watched the towers burn and fall and keep burning? This time, can't I turn away?
The house where the cab left her was compact, well kept. A white fence edged the front yard. Against it, yellow and orange chrysanthemums burned. The doorbell sounded a three-note chime, and the door was opened instantly by a man who had surely been waiting, waiting. He said, “Laura Stone?” and moved aside to let her in as though the answer were not in doubt.
She replied, “Mr. McCardle?” though there was no question about that, either. He had a drooping gray mustache, the rough, uneven skin of a man who spends his time outdoors, and angry gray eyes.
Unnerved by those eyes, Laura stopped just inside the door and asked as he closed it, “What's this about?”
McCardle shut the door, strode into the living room, pointed to the sofa. He sat in an easy chair but didn't speak. How shall I handle this, what should I do? Laura wondered. She waited for instructions from Reporter-Laura, but none came. And at that—Reporter-Laura's silence, her absence—a slow tide of fear began to rise.
“Jimmy McCaffery gave me that ten years ago.” McCardle's hands remained on the arms of his chair, but