Spiral

‘John-boy’ and—”
    ”How about Sundy Moran, then?”
    A short hesitation, and a different tone. ”Cuddy, I got work to do. I’m sorry about your mugging or whatever, but hey, Lauderdale’s not exactly Small-town America, you know?”
    ”I’m learning, Mitch. I’m learning.”

    Room service brought my sandwich plate, and I ate it with one of the antibiotics because the label read take with food. Then I went through the White Pages in the room. Lots of ”Morans” listed, but no ”Sundy.” I called directory assistance, but without a town or city, they couldn’t help me. Hanging up, I had a thought and picked up the phone again.
    ”Mo Katzen,” said the gruff voice on the other end of the long-distance line. ”What are you bothering me about?”
    I pictured the old reporter, sitting behind his desk at the Boston Herald, an even older typewriter still squatting where a computer should be. ”Mo, it’s John Cuddy, calling from Florida.”
    ”Florida?” I could hear him roll something—probably an unlit cigar—from one corner of his mouth to the other. ”What are... oh. You down there kind of..
    He’d been at Nancy’s memorial service. ”Kind of, Mo. Listen, I need a favor.”
    Usually, it would be ten minutes of pulling teeth to get him to the point of helping. This time, he just said, ”Name it.”
    ‘You know any reporters on a paper down here called the Sun-Sentinel?”
    A moment before, ”That’s the big one north of Miami, right?”
    ”Right, Mo.”
    ”Yeah. Miami’s got a Herald, too, though I don’t know who owns them. If it’s our—”
    ”Mo?”
    ”Yeah?”
    ”I’m in kind of a hurry here.”
    ”Oh, sure, John, sure. Let me see, let me... Yeah. Good gal, too, as a matter of fact. Missouri by way of New England, but I’m ninety percent sure she’s at your paper there. Let me spell her name for you, though, ‘cause it’s different.”
    I didn’t ask Mo Katzen different from what, though I did suggest to him what he might tell her about me.

    If the Fort Lauderdale police department would remind you of a resort hotel, the Sun-Sentinel ’s building looked like it belonged to a law firm. A large and prosperous one.
    At the security desk in the palatial lobby downstairs, I asked for Oline Christie. I was given a clip-on pass and told to go to the tenth floor. When the elevator doors opened there, the law-firm image got reinforced by a wide, internal stairway and plush carpeting, the walls full of dramatic photos.
    The image was reduced some by the second security desk just in front of the stairway. I mentioned the name of Mo’s friend again, but this guard suggested I wait a minute, because the reporter had just called about me.
    ”Mo Katzen seems to think highly of you.”
    Soft, Southwestern inflection. I said, ”We’ve known each other a long time.”
    Oline Christie sat in the swivel chair, her back to the computer monitor on her desk in the cubicle. Brown hair, blue eyes, and just to the smart side of pretty.
    ”Quite a bandage,” she said.
    ”You know how doctors are these days. Overkill.”
    ”Uh-huh.” Christie’s expression never changed. ”So, what can I do for you, Mr. Cuddy?”
    ”How about ‘John’?”
    ”Fine. I’m Ah-leen.”
    ”I’ve been hired to do a confidential investigation for someone down here. The name ‘Sundy Moran’ came up, and I was wondering if you knew anything about her.”
    ”Sundy Moran. The woman who was killed in that motel room?”
    ”Yes.”
    Christie’s face grew a little smarter. ”Right around the time the Held girl was drowned.”
    ”I believe so.”
    Christie leaned forward in her chair. ”John, we don’t go any further without leveling with each other.”
    I didn’t say anything at first, assessing if I could trust her eyes and Mo’s recommendation. Then I decided I didn’t really have a choice.
    ”Oline, I need some help here, but it can’t get printed, at least not yet.”
    ”That’s a start.”
    ”A start?”
    ”Toward leveling.” Christie leaned back in her chair, swaying slightly. ”I was off the day of that bizarro birthday party at the Helides house, so somebody else got to be lead reporter on the killing there. That doesn’t mean I haven’t followed the story, though, and you look a hell of a lot like the man seen going through their security gate a few days ago.”
    ”I was.”
    ”So,” said Christie, drawing out the word, ”what’s the connection between Veronica Held and