Death Notes

the Toyota. My starter was good, my engine in tune. I cut the motor.
    ‘What do you want?’ I asked.
    ‘Get out of the car,’ the voice said.
    ‘Forget it.’ I waited for an answer, then cranked the ignition when nobody spoke.
    ‘Wait!’
    A blur of green popped out from behind the VW. The Toyota’s engine sputtered to a steady hum as a lithe feminine figure came toward me.
    Her suit was impeccably cut and without a single wrinkle. It fit her slender figure like a glove. The cooler-than-cool trendy glasses looked more like a prop than a necessity. She was beauty-pageant gorgeous, tall and auburn-haired, without a blemish or a molecule of misplaced fat. I struggled to keep the annoyance out of my voice.
    ‘What are you doing here, Abby?’
    ‘I wrote the note,’ she said.
    ‘You idiot.’ I reached for the gearshift and shoved it into first.
    ‘Wait! You wouldn’t have come if I’d signed it.’
    ‘You’re right about that.’
    ‘I need to talk to you, Ronnie. Please. Just for a minute.’
    ‘No reporter’s ever satisfied with just one minute. Especially not you. Besides, have you ever heard of a phone? A lot of people use them to make appointments, you know.’
    ‘It’s about Match, Ronnie.’
    ‘If you’re trying to surprise me, Abby, it’s not working.’
    ‘Just hear me out. Please.'
    I shut off the engine. Abby’s notebook and pencil were in her hands, poised and ready by the time she reached the side of the Toyota. I stayed inside so she had to stoop down like a car hop taking an order.
    ‘Are you working for Sharon Margolis?’
    ‘I don't need my client roster published in your newspaper, Abby. Who I work for is nobody’s business.’
    ‘What if I attribute it to an anonymous source?’
    ‘Look, Abby, just because we went to high school together doesn’t mean I’m going to throw out my ethics so you can write a story. Since when did your paper start doing interviews? I thought you guys just made the stuff up.’
    ‘That’s not a nice thing to say, Ronnie. Are you working on Match Margolis’s murder?’
    ‘You’re not listening, Abby.’
    ‘What did Match say to you before he died?’
    Shit. ‘Abby, don’t put that in the paper.’
    Her eyes lit up. ‘What did he say? Did he tell you who killed him? Did he say why? Why haven’t the police acted on it?’
    ‘Don’t print that, Abby.’
    ‘He told you something, didn’t he? And you’re working with the police to catch the killer, aren’t you? Is Nicholas DuPont your main suspect? Is that why you were up there talking to him?’
    ‘I could have been talking to anybody.’
    ‘But you weren’t.’
    So much for discreet secretaries.
    ‘Abby...’
    ‘Why did Match pick you? Were you involved with him? How did you meet? If you were involved with him, why did Sharon Margolis hire you?’
    ‘Abby !‘
    Her perfectly lipsticked but wide mouth slapped shut. ‘Abby, I swear to you, if you print any of this crap in that cheap little rag you work for, I’ll personally shove that notebook down your throat - sideways. Do you understand?’ Maybe I’d never quite forgiven Abby Stark for printing my name in the school paper under those who got an F in American History when she knew I’d pulled a C. Or maybe it was the time she’d written that feature about me without interviewing me or even asking to interview me when I was a parole officer.
    She looked at me with huge, liquid eyes and a pretty-baby pout.
    ‘I’m just trying to—’
    ‘To what? Set the record straight? Get the story right? Forget it. You wouldn’t know how to begin. Leave me alone, Abby. This is not a game. Somebody’s been murdered. There’s a killer at large. Keep away from me and don’t you dare print a word about any of this. And if you ever pull another stunt like the little intrigue you used to get me down here, I’ll have you arrested.’
    ‘Ronnie, don’t—’
    ‘Goodbye, Abby.’
    I turned the key in the ignition and my engine roared to life like a symphony. I left Abby Stark - girl reporter wannabe who never fact-cheeked a word in her life, much less an entire story - sputtering in my exhaust.
     

24
     
    I regretted losing my temper with Abby Stark, but not as much as I regretting having run across her in the first place.
    My threats wouldn’t daunt her. She’d been sued a few times, assaulted more than once, and still she kept fabricating ‘news.’ Nothing would keep her from printing whatever she damn well pleased. And one