Yesterday's News

from any civil service requirements.”
    “New one on me.”
    “Yes. Rather shakes one’s faith in the democratic process, doesn’t it? In any case, however, the current chief is nearing retirement, with two potential successors vying in the wings.”
    “Namely?”
    “A second Porto , Joseph Hogueira, the captain of uniforms here. And Cornelius, or Neil, Hagan, the captain of detectives.”
    “Jane mentioned Hagan.”
    “As well she might. Hagan took personal charge of Coyne’s death. And the cop allegedly, and I stress allegedly, on the take from Gotbaum, Coyne’s nefarious employer, was one Mark Schonstein, son of Hagan’s former partner when Hagan was in uniform.”
    “And Jane figured that Hagan would bury a murder as a favor to an old partner’s kid?”
    “Well, it does go a bit deeper than that.”
    “How do you mean?”
    As he spoke, Peete regarded the remaining four fingers of vodka with renewed respect. “There was an incident, oh perhaps fifteen years ago. Way before my time, so I’ve heard only the retellings. But basically, Hagan and Schonsy—that’s what everyone called the elder Schonstein, Schonsy—Hagan and Schonsy are on patrol when they pick up a local punk on some kind of charge. Perhaps ‘Failure to Give a Good Account of Himself.’ That was a wonderful catchall when I worked in New Jersey . Anyway, there’s a row in or near the cruiser, and when they get to the hospital, Schonsy is covered with his own blood, and the kid is dead of a broken neck.”
    “Schonsy killed the kid in a struggle?”
    Peete shook his head. “The way the story goes, the kid attacked Schonsy, and Hagan hit the kid to get him off his partner, but the impact was at just the wrong angle, causing the fatal spinal injury.”
    Maybe Jane wasn’t entirely off the track after all. “You see it that way?”
    “I’ve covered the police in ten different cities over a checkered thirty years. I’ve yet to see a cop not back up his partner.”
    “You also think Hagan buried Coyne’s death as a payback?”
    “Please, good sir. Be serious. After all this time, Hagan is going to risk hurling his promotion to chief into the toilet to do another favor for an old partner whose life he already saved once?”
    “If that’s the way it happened, no.”
    Peete started waving toward the bartender, and I got up to leave before he had another. Bottle, not drink, that is.

Walking past the receptionist, I said, “Arbuckle is expecting me.”
    Down the corridor and back inside the city room, I was struck again by the din. If Jane Rust did have a confidential source, Coyne or anybody else, I couldn’t see her trying to talk by telephone over the noise in the air.
    Holding a sheaf of papers and a red Flair pen, Arbuckle came out a door, mumbling to himself. Through the opening and to his rear, I could see a conference table and six or eight people rising around it. I was moving toward Arbuckle when she appeared behind him and looked at me full flush.
    “Beth!” The word was out of my mouth before I could think better of it.
    The woman smiled. The hair and the eyes were identical, but the neck was too long, the teeth too big....
    She said, “Close but no cigar, friend. It’s Liz, Liz Rendall. Do I know you?”
    “No. You just remind me of someone. Sorry.”
    Arbuckle said, “Liz, moonstruck here is the private eye from Boston . He gets today, no more, then he’s gone. Got it?”
    Instead of acknowledging him, Rendall said to me, “Had lunch yet?”
    “No.”
    “Come on.” She put the papers she was carrying on a desk near Peete’s and threw a sweater around her shoulders, shawl-style.

    “Don’t ask me why they call it the Village Inn , since there’s no place for sleeping over and Nasharbor hasn’t been a village since before the Civil War, but the menu will remind you of Mom’s own cooking.” The place had plate-glass windows, Formica tables, and vinyl booths. There was a soda fountain on one side and Andy Williams coming over the tinny stereo system. I ordered Today’s Special: a cup of soup, grilled tomato and cheese sandwich, and an iced tea. I decided not to commit to the Indian pudding just yet. Aside from Liz Rendall and me, the only person in the place under sixty was our waitress.
    “Why so many senior citizens?”
    Rendall sipped her water. “Because the owner here offers them a special two o’clock to five o’clock discount. And because fifty cents off means they can ride the transit