Genetic, I suppose." From there they talked about children, about boyfriends and husbands (Miss Breckman's had left her ten years before; she was, she said, "currently in the market").
Mostly what Miss Breckman wanted to talk about, though, was the news. "So you're a real reporter?" Her eyes focused on Rune like a scientist discovering a new kind of bug. "More of a producer, really. Not like a newspaper reporter. It's different in TV news." "Oh, I know. I watch every news program on the air. I always try to work the day shift so I can be home in time to watch Live at Five. It's a bit gossipy, but aren't we all? I don't care for the six P.M. report - that's mostly business - so I fix my dinner then, and I watch the World News at Seven while I eat." She frowned. "I hope you won't be offended if I tell you your network's nightly news isn't all that good. Jim Eustice, the anchorman, I think he's funny-looking and sometimes doesn't pronounce those Polish and Japanese names right. But Current Events is simply the best. Do you know Piper Sutton? Sure you do, of course. Is she as charming as she seems? Smart . . . sweet . . ."
If you only knew, lady. . . .
Rune began steering toward the Boggs story, not quite sure how much to say. If Rune was right about Boggs's innocence, of course, she was pretty much calling Ms Figurine here a liar, and - come to think of it
-a perjurer too. She opted for the indirect approach. "I'm doing a follow-up story on the Hopper killing and I'd like to ask you a few questions." "I'd be happy to help. It was one of the most exciting times of my life. I was in that courtroom and there was this killer right there and he was looking at me." Miss Breckman closed her eyes for a moment. "I was pretty darn scared. But I did my duty. I was kind of hoping that after I came out of the courtroom there'd be all these reporters shoving microphones at me - you know, I love those microphones with the names of the stations on them." "Uh-huh. Maybe I could set up my equipment?" While Rune did that, Miss Breckman hoisted Courtney into her lap and rattled on nonstop. Bringing the little girl was a great idea - she was like a pacifier for adults.
When the portable light clicked on and the red dot on the Ikegami flashed, Miss Breckman's eyes took on an intense shine to a degree Rune figured they would never reach ringing up an American Express charge in Junior Sportswear. Rune said, "Could you move over there." Nodding at a Queen Anne chair upholstered in forest-green needle-point. "I'll sit wherever you like, honey." Miss Breckman moved and then composed herself for a moment. "Now, could you tell me exactly what happened?" "Sure." She told the camera about the murder. Coming home from shopping, seeing the men argue. The gun appearing. The muffled shot. Hopper falling. Running to the phone. Hesitating . . . "You saw him pull the trigger?" "Well, I saw this flash and the gun was right up against the poor man's body." "Could you see what kind of gun it was?" "No, it was too dark." "And you couldn't hear what they were saying." "No." Her head turned, eyes gazing into the courtyard. "You can see . . ." Beautiful shot! Rune zoomed past her and focused on the cobblestones. "... it's pretty far away." Rune dug into her purse and pulled out a piece of paper. She looked at it then said, "The police report said you weren't interviewed until the day after the shooting. Is that right?" "Uh-huh. The next night, two men showed up. Detectives. But they didn't look like Kojak or anything, though. I was kind of disappointed."
"You didn't contact them right away?" "No. Like I told you, I was pretty shaken by the whole thing. I was scared. What if it was a drug killing? You know what you see on the news? Practically every day, mothers and children are being murdered because they're witnesses. But the next morning I saw a news report on Wake Up With the News that said they'd arrested this drifter. Not a hit man or anything. So when the detectives came to me I didn't hesitate to tell them what I saw." "It also says that the police asked you if you'd seen anything and you said, Tm sorry I didn't talk to you sooner but I did see it. I mean, I saw the shooting.' And the detective asked, 'Did you see the man who did it?' And you answered, 'Sure I did. It was Randy Boggs.' Was that pretty much what you said?" "Nope, not pretty much at all. That's exactly what I said."
Rune just smiled and resisted an urge to say, No further questions. She suddenly felt a shadow over her didn't like the vibrations. Rune looked sideways to see what angel of death was hovering over her in the newsroom and found she was staring into Piper Sutton's eyes. "Hi," Rune said. Sutton didn't answer. Rune's eyes skipped around the room, wondering why exactly the woman was frowning so intensely. Rune said, "Guess what I've got." She touched the tape. "I talked to the witness and-" The flash of anger was like a fast shutter on a camera. And so Fiene and brutal that Rune gasped. Then Piper Sutton regained control though her eyes were still cold. "You've got a little bit to learn about life." She seemed to swallow something at the end of the sentence, probably: young lady. Rune began, "What did I-?" Then it hit her - oh, shit. The London assignment.
"Nobody's forcing you to work for a network like ours." Now, the temper was once again on the move - the patented Sutton temper. It was rolling downhill, an avalanche, and Rune was about to get buried. "You have your choice. But if you're going to work here, goddammit, you've got to behave like an adult, or-" "I was going to tell you about the London job. I'm sorry." "-you can go pick up paychecks at some fucking restaurant!" The voice dropped threateningly. "I take you out to dinner, where you and that urchin of yours embarrass the hell out of me and I make you a proposition that no one your age has ever been offered before!" Now the screeching began. Rune blinked and sat back, her eyes wide. "And do you even give me the courtesy of an answer?" Heads perked up Throughout the studio, no one dared look and no one didn't listen. "I'm sorry." But Sutton cranked up a few more decibels. "Do you even show me the respect you'd show a cabdriver? Did you say, 'Thank you, but I've decided not to accept your offer'? Did you say, 'Piper, could you please give me a few days to think about it some more?' No, you goddamn well didn't. What you did was say . . . zip. That's what you said. And then you went on your merry way." "I'm sorry." Rune heard herself whining and didn't like it. She cleared her throat. "I got caught up in the story. I was going to tell you-" Sutton waved her hand. "I hate apologies. It's a sign of weakness."
Rune wanted to cry but sat hard on the tears. Sutton was speaking to the ceiling. "Everything about this story has been wrong. I knew it was a mistake. Stupid of me. Stupid, stupid." Rune swallowed. She touched the file. "Just let me explain, please. What happened was I talked to the witness." Sutton smiled coldly and shook her head, exaggerating her lack of comprehension. "What witness?" "The one who convicted Randy." "Oh, sure, that explains your behavior." Sutton's sarcasm was thick.
"No I can prove that she didn't see Randy Boggs." "How?" "She's a real, like, newshound." "A newshound? What the fuck is that?" "She watches all the news programs every day. She didn't give any description of Boggs until after she'd seen him arrested on TV. When the-" Sutton's hands raised like a martyr's. "What exactly are you getting at?" "Listen. When the police showed up to interview her she said, 'I saw who did it and it was Randy Boggs.'"
Silence. Pin-resounding silence. Sutton gave a short bark of a laugh. "That's your proof?" "You can't see into the courtyard clearly from her place - it's too dark. Miss Breckman saw Randy on the news. She saw him being arrested. That's where she got the description - from TV. Otherwise, how would she know his name? She didn't describe him first. She said, right off, 'It was Randy Boggs.'"
Media circus . . .
Sutton considered this with a splinter of interest. But then she laughed. "Keep at it, honey. You've got a long way to go." "But doesn't this prove that she's a bad witness?" "A piece in the puzzle. That's all it is. Keep digging-" "I thought-" "That we'd go with it?" "I guess." A brittle nail leveled at Rune's face like a bright red dagger. "This is the big time. You keep forgetting that. We don't run a story until it's completely buttoned up." She walked stridently through the newsroom on her clattering heels while employees moved quickly but unobtrusively as far out of her way as they could.
18
Downstairs, in the lobby, Rune surveyed the job and didn't like what she saw. A directory of residents, containing over a hundred names. "Help you?" The doorman's accent seemed to be Russian. But then Rune decided she didn't know what a Russian accent sounded like; the man - wearing an old gray uniform shiny on the butt - might have been Czech or Rumanian or Yugoslavian or even Greek or Argentine. Whatever his ethnic origin, he was big and snide and unfriendly. "I was just looking at the directory." "Who you wanna see?" "Nobody really. I was just-" He smiled slyly as if he'd just caught on that three-card monte games were rigged. "I know. They done that before." "I'm a student." "Yeah, student." He worked a spot on the inside of his mouth with his tongue. "How long you worked here?" she asked.
"Six months. I just came over here. This country. Lived with my cousin for a while." "Who worked here before you?" He shrugged. "I dunno. How would I know? You make good money doing it? You know what I'm saying?" "What do you mean? I'm a student." "I've heard it all. You think I haven't heard it?" "I'm an art student. Architecture. I-?" "Yeah." The smile was staying put. The tongue foraged. "What you make?" "Make?" Rune asked. "How much you sell them for?" "What?" "The names." He nodded. "You sell them to companies send everybody that junk mail. No junk mail in my country. Here! It's everywhere." "What I'm doing is I'd like to talk to some people who live here. About the design of their apartments." A nod joined the smile.
There was nothing worse than being accused of something -you hadn't done - even if you were doing something you shouldn't've been doing. She rummaged for a minute in the dark recesses of her bag until she came up with a stiff bill. A twenty. Hot out of the ATM. She handed it to him. Zip. It vanished into his pocket. "How much you make?" Another twenty joined its friend. "Ah." He walked off, pressing his hand to the pocket that held the crisp, non-reimbursable bills and Rune turned back to her task.
The smart thing would have been to find out which rows of apartments looked out over the courtyard where Lance Hopper had been shot but she didn't know how soon the Slavic-Ruskie South American capitalist would be back to suck up another bribe. So she started at the top left of the directory. From Myron Zuckerman in IB she speed wrote straight down to Mr., or Ms., L. Peters in 8K. Twenty minutes later, the doorman returned, just as she finished. "Still studying?" he asked snidely. "I just finished." "So tell me, yeah, which company you with? One of the big ones? Am I right?" "It's a big one," Rune said. "Is in Jersey, right?" "How'd you guess?" "I've been around. I seen a lot. You can't fool me." "I wouldn't even try."
Scorching pain roamed around in her back. The inside of her ear was sweating. Her voice had gone from low soprano to throaty alto and she'd have to clear her windpipe with a stinging snap every few minutes. Rune had been sitting in her cubicle at the studio, speaking into a phone, for nearly eight hours straight.
Hello I'm a producer for Current Events the news program Mr Zuckerman Norris Williams Roth Gelinker we're doing a segment about the Lance Hopper killing you probably remember the man killed in the courtyard of your building several years ago I'm hoping you can help me what I'm looking for is ...
It was late, edging beyond eight o'clock. Past bedtime for Courtney. The little girl sat at Rune's feet, tearing scheduling sheets into the shape of Easter bunnies.
. . . How long have you lived in apartment 3B, 3C, 3D, 3E, 3F. . . ?
"Rune, bunny." Whispering, hand over mouthpiece: "Beautiful, honey. I'm on the phone. Make a momma Easter bunny now." "That is the mommy." "Then make a daddy."
Rune's poll of the tenants so far: One was Miss Breckman. Eight had unlisted numbers. Twenty weren't home when she called. Thirty-three had moved into their apartments after Hopper's death. Eighteen hadn't been home the night of the killing (or said they hadn't). Nineteen were home but didn't see anything related to the murder (or said they didn't). That left twelve on her list. A bad number. If there'd been only three she would've called them. Twenty, she'd have given up and gone home to sleep. But twelve . . .
Rune sighed and stretched, hearing some remote bone protest with a pop. Courtney yawned and tore a bunny in half with fidgety glee. Quitting time, Rune thought. I'm going home. Then she thought of Sutton's raspy, bitchy voice and fuming eyes and she picked up the phone.
Which was fortunate because when she asked Mr Frost, 6B, if he knew anything about the Lance Hopper killing he paused for only a moment then responded, "Actually ... I saw it happen." "You put that in a bottle and you've got yourself something," she said.
Rune had walked into the apartment, right past the elderly man who'd opened the door, and stepped up to a glass case. Inside was an elaborate model of a ship - not a rigged clipper ship or man-of-war but a modern cargo ship. It was four feet long. She said, "Audacious." "Thank you. I've never made ships in bottles. To tell you the truth, I don't like hobbies." She introduced herself.
