"Lovey! Lovey McNair! Come down here right now! This whole situation is getting out of hand!" I clasped the newel post and called authoritatively up the staircase.
"Darling, don't shout. I'm right here."
She emerged from the dining room, wrapped imperiously in a noxious, pink peignoir. Her husband, David, stood behind her in a quilted, maroon smoking jacket, his pipe held effeminately in one hand.
"Damn it, Lovey!" I stopped and recovered my composure. "I am most upset. May I speak to you privately?"
"David, if you don't mind?" she asked.
He shrugged foppishly and returned to the dining room.
Taking me by the elbow, Lovey led me upstairs to the bedroom she occupied. She closed the door and indicated that we both sit on the lush, ruffled bed.
"Now, dear, whatever is troubling you?" Lovey folded her fat hands across her ample bosom.
"Your goon called my house a few minutes ago."
"Oh dear. He wasn’t supposed to do that."
"He made threats, Lovey! He threatened that stupid reporter, and he threatened my daughter! What in God's name are you doing? And how dare you think you have the right to interfere with my daughter's life!"
"I'm not doing a thing. Why would I want to bother Kay?"
"You said something to that monster, that disgusting excuse for a human being, and I want to know what it was!"
Lovey's hard eyes met mine. "I simply mentioned that I had seen your daughter having lunch with Marcus Henning and that you were concerned people would talk."
"What business is it of yours?" I felt the hysterics rise in my throat and struggled to stay in control. "I don't need you to go solve any of my problems for me—and certainly not in the way you solve problems! Of all the people in the entire world to tell that Kay was even back in town!"
"Marian!"
The tone of her voice told me I was treading once more on dangerous ground, but I didn't care. "Someone's going to get killed one of these days, Lovey! Then where will we be?"
"You're blowing things all out of proportion again." Lovey's voice dropped, ominously. "You're watching too many soap operas. No one is going to get murdered."
"I don't watch any soap operas, and you know that! He threatened Kay! Whatever you've done, you've dragged my daughter into it, and I won't stand for it!"
"He can be rather unsettled at times, can't he?"
"Unsettled? Unsettled? He's unhinged! He's a dangerous maniac!" I screamed. "I want this called off, right now!"
"I haven't called anything on, my dear."
"I will not have my daughter's life put in danger or have anyone's—" the word clogged in my throat "—murder on my conscience!"
"You're making this into another one of your dreadful melodramas, Marian. If it will make you happy, I will speak to him this afternoon." With a dismissive wave, she signaled that the conversation was over. She stood and opened the bedroom door. "Shall we?"
At the foot of the stairs, she patted my shoulder. "So nice of you to drop by," she said, loud enough for David to hear. "I do hope I've calmed any fears you have about the New Year's Ball. Do drop by again."
"Call it off, Lovey," I hissed. "Call it off, right now."
"Yes, you too, dear."
Abruptly, she shoved me out onto the porch and slammed the door behind me.
"You can't do this to me, Lovey McNair!" I pounded on the door. "I won't let you do this! Do you year me, Lovey? Do you hear me?"
Chapter 4 Marcus
I stared up at the Aurora Building, a high-tech honeycomb next door to Hawk’s and just a few blocks down from the paper on Detroit Street.
Jess knew the bare bones of what I was doing, but not much more. He wanted me to turn the whole thing over to an attorney, where it rightfully belonged, but I refused.
"Let's give whoever this guy is behind Aurora Development a chance to fix things. Let me go talk to him," I told Jess.
"You're a journalist, not a hired gun," he answered. "You're supposed to be objective. You've got no business getting involved personally."
I shrugged.
Remember Jefferson City. Don't screw this one up too,
was what he really was telling me.
You've got too much to lose this time.
If only I knew how much.
I took a deep breath and opened the heavy glass door.
Inside the lobby, an elderly security guard sat benignly behind a wide round desk, pouring himself a cup of coffee from a Thermos bottle. A directory hanging beside him proclaimed this as the Aurora Building, listing all the tenants, but none of them specifically was Elizabeth's landlord.
"Pardon me," I leaned over the security guard's desk. "Can you tell me where the Aurora Development Corporation offices are located?"
"It's all Aurora Development, pal." The guard drained his cup and poured another.
"If I wanted to speak to someone about one of Aurora's rental properties, who would I talk to?"
The guard lowered a fuzzy eyebrow over one eye and glowered. "Residential or office space?"
"Residential."
"Third floor, number three-forty." The other eyebrow lowered suspiciously.
"Thank you." I stepped away from the desk and into the elevator. As the door closed in front of me, the guard was still staring intently at me, speaking quietly into the phone.
Suite 340 lay at the end of a gray hallway muffled with grape carpeting. There was no name on the door. I knocked once. When there was no answer, I went in.
The office consisted of two, possibly three, rooms. The room I stood in was unfurnished, except for a telephone that sat in a corner, swirled in electronic umbilical cords; in the other stood a brass coat tree with an expensive suit jacket hanging on a wooden hanger.
"What can I do for you?"
I turned around to see a beefy, barrel-chested bull of a man, at least six feet tall, coming from the other room. The sleeves of his custom-tailored shirt were rolled halfway up, exposing muscular, grizzly bear arms. His hands looked huge and lethal as he wiped them on a paper towel.
There was something in the face, something I couldn't put my finger on, but I felt we had met before. He recognized me, too; there was a glimmer of recognition in his narrowed black eyes.
"Hello, I'm Marcus Henning, with the
Jubilant Falls Journal-Gazette
."
"I know who you are."
"Oh?"
"You're a reporter."
Maybe that was it. I had seen him, or he had seen me at one of those idiot social functions I was forced into covering. Still, he didn't have that practiced air of boredom I had seen so often. There was something feral, something raw. I couldn't figure it out. Ignoring all my instincts, I extended my hand in greeting.
"I need to speak with whomever is in charge of Aurora Development residential rental property."
"That would be me."
"And you are?" Like an old gunslinger, I pulled my notebook from my back pocket.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. "I work here," he said finally.
"You don't have a name?"
"Not to you." The fuzzy hulk in the fancy shirt balled up the paper towel and tossed it into an empty corner.
"What exactly do you do?"
"I run the place."
"I see. Well then, sir, a woman named Elizabeth Kingston claims to rent from your firm. Is that true?"
The goon cocked his head and thought for a moment. "Yeah. She's a tenant."
"She claims to have contacted you repeatedly about the condition of her apartment and that you or your firm have refused to make repairs."
"Aurora Development insists on keeping their rental properties in excellent condition." A prepackaged PR answer. He knew what I was after.
"I'm surprised to hear that." I wish I could remember where I met this Neanderthal. I flipped a page on my pad and began to read the list of needed repairs. "My investigation of her apartment shows two broken windows, a semi-functioning toilet, peeling paint and wallpaper. That doesn't sound like excellent condition to me."
"Nine times out of ten, it's the tenant that tears those places up like that."
"I see. Do you recall being contacted by Miss Kingston to make repairs?"
"I couldn't understand her if she did." He’d talked to her, alright. Otherwise he wouldn’t know about her speech impediment.
"That doesn't mean she deserves substandard housing. You know there are also two children residing in that apartment?"
"So?"
"What if that littlest kid decides she's a little hungry and has some paint chips for lunch? What if she's done it three times a week for the last three years? What would happen then? What do you think a steady diet of lead-based paint does to a kid’s brain?"
He shrugged.
"It causes brain damage. I guess you won't mind if I take some of those paint chips down to the health department and have them analyzed for lead content?"
"Listen buddy—" He stuck a hairy finger beneath my nose. "There’s no need to make threats here."
"When was the last time the fire inspector came through that place? Or does Aurora Development pay off the local inspectors? Can I assume repairs will be made, or at least well underway by September first?"
"That's next week! I can't—"
"If you can't get started on them, the
Journal-Gazette
is prepared to run the story on the front page. Do I make myself clear?"
The miscreant stepped back. "I understand."
"Then I can contact Miss Kingston and assure her work will begin immediately?"
"Well, I have to contact my supervisor."
"And who is that?" I poised my pen above my paper.
"It's, ah," he stopped abruptly. "Somebody who lives out of town."
"Why can't you tell me? What are you hiding?"
He shook his head. "None of your business."
"It won't take much digging for me to find out. Why don't you just save us both a lot of trouble?"
"I've had about all I'm gonna take from you, buddy." He jabbed a thick finger into my tie. "I suggest you get out of this office right now."
"Then repairs will begin on Elizabeth Kingston's apartment as soon as possible?"
"I said get out!"
"In case you or your mysterious supervisor decides to contact me, here's my card."
The ape shredded the card, dropping the confetti on the grape carpet. "If you don't get out of this office," he said, speaking slowly. "You'll never see daylight again!"
"Have a nice day—asshole." I waved and slammed the door behind me.
Hopefully that will do it, I thought, punching the Down button at the elevator. I may not have a story if he does, but at least Elizabeth—
Pain ripped through my left arm, as I felt it twist up between my shoulder blades; someone grabbed a handful of hair, and I tasted blood as my face slammed against the elevator button.
"Listen, dick brain." The Neanderthal's voice roared in my ear. "If I were you, I wouldn't mess around here any more. There's more trouble here than you or that hare-lipped little bitch ever thought about. You got me?"
"You son of a bitch!" I sputtered, against the wall.
"I said, you got me?" My face slammed against the wall again, and stars swam around my left eye.
Suddenly, the elevator chimed, its parting doors my only escape. The Neanderthal pulled me away from the wall and shoved me in.
"Don't come back."
* * *
"Oh my God, Marcus, what happened to you?" Jess stood up from behind his computer.
I flopped down in the seat next the city desk, a wet wad of brown industrial paper towels against my face. "I met the landlord from hell."
"Jesus Christ! Is this that welfare mother story you were telling me about? What happened?"
"Yeah. I asked him his name."
Jess turned to the other reporters beginning to assemble around us, barking out orders. "Somebody go get me a photographer! I want this documented! I want the police called! Nobody does this to one of my reporters!"
"Hold on, Jess! No cops. Not yet."
"What? Wait a minute!"
"No, you wait a minute! This is my story, and I'll handle it the way I want." Dropping the wet paper towels in the trash, I swiveled in my chair and quickly logged onto the newspaper's computer system, where a newsroom phone message file was kept. "Anybody call from Aurora Development or about Aurora Development?" I asked no one in particular. Scrolling down the green screen, I saw four messages from Elizabeth and one from Kay. Something must have happened, but Elizabeth left no number. I waved everyone around me away and dialed Kay's number.
"So, how did it go?" she asked.
"This goon that operates the place wouldn't give me his name, but I think I got through to him." Gingerly, I touched my swollen face.
"You really think so?"
"No doubt. I made an impression."
On the wall.
"Have you heard from Elizabeth?" I asked, trying to change the subject. "She's called here a couple of times, but didn't leave a number."
"She's not scheduled to come back to the center until next week, unless she walks in."
"You’d let me know if you heard anything, right?"
"Of course! Marcus, I'm so grateful for all this. I hope she has some good news. What can I do to thank you?"
"Oh, there are a few things that come to mind."
Kay started to speak, then stopped, I assume, to put me back in my place.
Quickly, I did it for her. "How about a simple dinner?"
"Much better suggestion. I'll see if I can get a babysitter for Friday night. How's that?"
"Great. See you then. I better go. I need to get down to Elizabeth's place and see what she needs. Then, I've got to go down to the clerk of courts."
"OK. See ya Friday." The phone clicked in my ear.
I wouldn't do this for anyone but you, Kay. Or would I? What was my real reason? To salvage a failing ego? Rebuild myself in my best friend's and my boss's eyes? Remind him that I was the real journalist we both remembered? Or simply to make myself look good in the eyes of the woman I loved?
* * *
Elizabeth's eyes were shining, as she opened the door.
"Mizzer Henning! They were here today!" she crowed triumphantly. "Wait! Who did 'at to you?"
"Never mind. Who was here?"
"A man to fix my apartment! Look!" Her bony finger indicated two new panes of glass in the living room window.
"Did he do anything else? Did he leave his name? A card?"
She shook her head to all three questions, but she was clearly thrilled that at least something had been accomplished. "But he said he come back and do the rest real soon!"
"Good. The man that you give your rent money to, did he come with the repair man?"
She shook her head again.
"That's okay. He sure didn't waste any time." So my visit made a difference. I only hoped Aurora Development would complete the job. "Elizabeth, do you happen to know his name?"
She puckered her sallow brow. "It was on his desk."
"Desk? What desk? The office was empty when I was there this morning." Damn it, this was getting weird.
Elizabeth opened her arms wide. "Big brown desk, right inside the door."
"And it's there on the first of the month, when you go to pay your rent?"
"Uh-huh."
That's strange. "Listen, I have to get back to the newsroom. It looks as though things here are on the upswing. If someone doesn't come back in the next week or so to start the rest of the repairs, you let me know."
I wanted to believe that my one confrontation had caused all of this activity, but a niggling voice deep inside said that I had not heard the end of this.
At the clerk of courts office, I learned Aurora Development was a tangle of dummy corporations that ended with a firm called Land Management Limited. The owners were not listed, just the names of Martin Rathke of Rathke, Fitzsimmons, Wyler and Dean, the prominent legal firm in Jubilant Falls.
A bunch of lawyers wouldn't be so stupid as to be messed up in trash housing, would they? Or is it all a front for someone else?
Rathke, Fitzsimmons had a large staff of fresh, starving young attorneys who handled most of their corporate legal affairs in Jubilant Falls, as well as ninety percent of the civil cases. Privately, Jess and I referred to them as the Thundering Herd. The senior partner Martin Rathke was a large man, resembling not so much your average well-to-do barrister as a remnant from the days of snake oil salesmen and hanging judges.
I remembered our crime reporter John Porter asking once why Rathke never ran for a judgeship.
"He's got more power right where he is," an old-timer had cryptically answered. I hadn’t understood, at the time. I was too busy writing up weddings and engagements. I could use the old guy's knowledge here and now, but he died a few months after his retirement, from a heart attack finishing his final fishing trip off the Gulf Coast. Instead, I made a call.
"Rathke, Fitzsimmons, Wyler and Dean."
"Martin Rathke, please."
"May I ask who's calling?"
"Marcus Henning,
Jubilant Falls Journal-Gazette
."
"One moment." There was a click, as I was put on hold and music to drill teeth by played in my ear.
Halfway through some mindless string arrangement, there was another click, and Rathke's oily voice came on the line.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Henning. What can I do for you?"
"Mr. Rathke, can you tell me who wons Land Management Limited, the company behind Aurora Development?"
"Son, that's privileged information. I can't tell you that," he chortled.