Bury the Lead - By David Rosenfelt Page 0,3
now and always sends the twenty-five dogs at the foundation into a barking frenzy. I pick it up and shout into the receiver, “Hold on!” I then wait the thirty seconds or so that it takes for the dogs to quiet down before I speak into the phone again. “Hello?”
“How can you stand that barking?” It’s Vince Sanders, editor of what passes as the local newspaper in Paterson. Vince is always pissed off about something; this time the dogs just happened to have given him a good reason.
“Fine, Vince, how are you?”
“Did you hear what I said?” he snarls.
“I hang on your every word.”
“Then hang on these. Come down to my office.”
“When?” I ask.
“When? A year from August, bozo.”
Although the “when” question didn’t go too well, I decide to try another one. “Why?”
“You’re still a lawyer, aren’t you?”
“You want to hire me?”
He doesn’t consider this a question worth answering. “Be here in twenty minutes.”
Click.
• • • • •
VINCE SHOULD BE a happy camper these days. His paper’s circulation has gone through the roof since the murders began, mainly because Daniel Cummings, through whom the killer has chosen to speak to the public and police, is one of Vince’s reporters.
Vince brought Cummings in about six months ago from somewhere in Ohio, I think Cleveland. He made him his top crime reporter, although Cummings can’t be more than thirty. I’ve only met him once, but he’s a pretty easy guy for a defense attorney to dislike, a strong law-and-order type who clearly believes in a presumption of guilt.
I’ve known Vince for about a year. He’s cantankerous and obnoxious on the surface, but when you chip that away and dig deeper, you find him to be surly and disagreeable. You probably could say Vince and I have become good friends, if your definition of “friends” isn’t too rigid. We’re not “Ya-Ya Brotherhood” types, but we hang out some in sports bars and trade insults, which fits my definition pretty well.
Vince usually starts off our conversations with five minutes of complaining, but he doesn’t do that when I arrive this time. Instead, he offers me a chair and starts telling me what’s on his mind, almost like a normal human would do. “I want to hire you,” he says.
Since I’m a criminal attorney, I’m surprised. Under all the bluster, Vince is a straightforward, ethical guy. “Are you in some kind of trouble?” I ask.
“Of course not. I want you to represent the paper. Not officially. Like a consultant.”
Vince’s paper is owned by a newspaper syndicate, which employs lawyers by the barrelful. “You already have lawyers. What do you need me for?”
“They’re idiots. Besides, you’ll be dealing only with me. They won’t even know about you. You’ll be my own private idiot.”
I’m not understanding any of this. “So you’re going to pay me?”
“Pay you? Are you out of your mind?”
My friends share two common views about money. They think they don’t have enough, and that I have too much. “This is what I do for a living, Vince. I’m a lawyer. I got an A in money grubbing in law school.”
He throws up his arms in an exaggerated gesture. “Fine. You want my money? No problem.” He yells out so he can be heard beyond the closed office door. “Shirley! Don’t mail that check to the Orphans Fund! I need it to pay the big-time lawyer!” He turns to me, shaking his head in disgust. “It’s just as well. Little brats don’t have parents, they think that entitles them to three meals a day.”
I know that Vince is lying; I would know that even if he had a secretary named Shirley. But I’m not going to get any money out of him, and I’m curious as to what is going on, so I accept a jelly donut as a retainer. For the rather rotund Vince, it’s a significant payment.
Vince describes his concern about the newspaper’s position in the Daniel Cummings matter. He has no idea why the killer has chosen Cummings as his conduit, and though he loves the resulting boost in circulation, as a journalist he’s uncomfortable that his newspaper seems to have become part of the story.
“These last couple of weeks there have been more cops in here than reporters,” he says.
“But you’ve been cooperating?”
“Of course. I mean, there’s no source to protect, right? Daniel’s only source is the killer, and he has no idea who he is.”
“So what are you worried about?” I ask.
“I’m not sure. Nothing specific, but who knows where