Yesterday's News

getting will increase their name recognition for the future. I think that’ll come across as guilty arrogance, not innocent righteousness, once I have a shot at them.”
    We ate dinner, my filet mignon garnering almost the level of praise the price tag warranted. The wine was just right, and Nancy put some symphonic music on the stereo system that the doctor couldn’t bear moving from the custom-built cabinet next to the hearth. We lay back, slanted in toward each other on the couch, sipping the last of the wine.
    “I like where you live, John.”
    “It’s grown on me the last couple of hours.”
    “Thanks to the company?”
    “Mustn’t fish for compliments, counselor.”
    She slid her hand up to my neck, flicking and tugging gently on the roots right at the hairline.
    I looked into her eyes, blue and wide-spaced, the freckles that multiplied week by week as the sun scaled higher in the early summer sky. “After the kind of stuff you had to deal with today, I’d understand if you’d rather not tonight.”
    She moved her head slowly, left to right. “I waited long enough for you, John Cuddy. I’m not about to miss any chances now. And besides, after the kind of stuff I dealt with today, what I’d really like is a night of nice, slow lovemaking, to put sex back where it belongs rather than turn against it.” She stood up and walked to the stereo. “I know a lot of this is new for you still, and I don’t want to suggest anything radical, but how would you like to make love to music tonight?”
    “Good idea.”
    “Any requests?”
    “Well,” I said, putting down my glass and coming up behind her, “let’s avoid the ‘Minute Waltz.’”

    I got to a sitting position and picked up the telephone by the third ring. Every muscle was tight but strangely refreshed from the Nautilus workout and being with Nancy . The circulating floor fan blew the sheets against my legs as Nancy groped for an unfamiliar light switch. The luminescent dial on the clock radio read 5:45 a.m.
    “Hello?”
    “John?”
    “Who is this?”
    “John, it’s Mo, Mo Katzen.”
    “ Mo. What the hell is it?”
    “I’m in the newsroom, John. At the Herald. One of the guys here just heard from somebody he knows down near Nasharbor.”
    “What happened?”
    “It’s the Rust girl. Jane Rust, the reporter. They found her dead in her apartment. Suicide, looks like.”
    “Shit.”
    “I thought you oughta know,” he said, and hung up.

How did she die?
    “I don’t know, Beth.” Bending down, I arranged the mums longways to her. There were a few sport fishing boats in the harbor below her hillside, but the people on them looked more involved in basking than baiting and casting. “Preliminary indication is suicide, but I don’t have any details.”
    Were you going to take her case?
    “I don’t know that, either. Mo Katzen really couldn’t vouch for her. She’d just been a student of his years ago. And she struck me as a little... high-strung.”
    High-strung or strung out?
    “Good question.”
    I mean, do you think she was suicidal?
    “No.” I was surprised to hear myself say that, but it was true. “No, when she left me, I thought she was getting a grip on herself, like talking with me had settled her down. She even gave me a check, which she figured would force me to get back to her.”
    Which you wouldn’t have been able to do if she’d killed herself in the meantime.
    “Exactly. Of course, that doesn’t mean that something couldn’t have pushed her over the edge after she left me yesterday afternoon.”
    Is it legal to keep her check?
    “Getting mercenary?”
    You know what I mean. Is it legal for you to go on after she’s dead?
    “There’s nothing in the licensing statute, so Nancy couldn’t say for sure. And it’s tough for her to advise me when she’s technically a government lawyer who’s not supposed to be handling private clients.”
    So what are you going to do?
    “First, I’m going to pick up my new car.”
    What happened to the Fiat?
    “Forced retirement. The new one—or at least the newer one—is a Honda Prelude.”
    From Renault to Fiat to Honda. Does that mean you’re moving up in the world?
    “At least moving.”
    What are you going to do about the reporter?
    “I’m going to drive down to Nasharbor, stay a few days, and see if I can convince myself that Jane Rust was both wrong and suicidal.”
    Stay well.
    I turned to go.
    And John?
    “Yes?”
    Give Nancy my best.
    “I