20

“TWO WEEKS AND no suspect in the Vonn murder,” said sleek Jonas Dessinger. He touched his forehead. “That’s Thursday’s lead story, all editions. And I want to know why our illustrious Sheriff’s Department is holding the Wolfman Neemal but won’t charge him in the murder.”

“You got it,” said Teresa Dessinger. “Yours, Andy.”

Andy nodded. “I’m interviewing Janelle’s sister tonight. Lynette. If it goes well, I’ll have that for Thursday, too. She told me on the phone she had some letters from Janelle.”

Letters she should have given to Nick when he interviewed her, thought Andy. He felt slightly guilty about keeping them a secret from Nick until he read them.

“Ask her how she feels about two weeks and no suspects,” said Jonas. “And I also want a tough editorial on whether or not a homicide detail rookie is the right man to be heading up this case. Laud the O.C. Sheriff’s Department all you want, but isolate the dick and put the floodlights on him. All editions.”

“Wrongheaded,” said Andy. “I won’t touch it.”

Jonas chuckled and snugged his silk suit coat. Then sat back. “Actually, Andy-you have to touch it. You’re going to write it and you’re going to sign it. It will mean something, coming from the Journal’s best crime reporter.”

“And the dick’s brother.”

“Exactly.”

You prick, Andy thought, but held his tongue. Jonas had been even more abrasive than usual since early last week, when Nick and Lobdell had written Janelle’s age in black ink on the associate publisher’s forehead. When Nick told him, Andy had laughed with grand satisfaction. Then seriously cussed out Nick for complicating his job. Nick had seemed more worried about it than he was. Around Jonas, Andy had played deaf and dumb.

“Jone,” said Teresa. “Maybe Andy could write both but leave the editorial unsigned? No reason to set brother against brother like that. Nick gives Andy extra info. He’s valuable to us.”

Jonas eyed his cousin with contempt. Then turned his gaze to Andy. Same gray eyes as Teresa, Andy thought. How could one pair be so brightly beautiful and the other so brutally stupid? He glanced at the associate publisher’s forehead, then away. Wasn’t there still some sign of abrasion, and the dark outline of 19? Almost biblical. Could ask David about it.

“I’ve made my decision, Teresa,” said Jonas. He fiddled with a gold cuff link. “Andy’s writing both and signing both and that’s final. Now, onto ‘Nation,’ then the local editions…”

Andy sank down in his chair a little. Listened to Jonas and the editors and reporters argue whether to lead the “Nation” page with Buzz’s upcoming space walk or Cong artillery pounding Saigon. Watched Teresa take notes and make comments, puzzled that such a smart and organized woman could also be sexually qualmless and practically insatiable. Since they had worked the Oaxacan grass into the routine, their nightly sessions had gone from an hour to two, sometimes three hours. They were going through rubbers and ice cream at an astonishing pace. He was constantly sore and occasionally exhausted. He had begun to wonder if he was satisfying her. And she had said something yesterday evening on the phone to Chas Birdwell that was still bothering him. Something about “Seven Seas time.” Seven Seas was a salad dressing. But the Seven Seas was also a motel in Newport not far from the Journal building. Andy pondered this as Teresa carried the vote for Cong artillery.

The Newport Beach edition decided to lead locally with a review of the opening of the French farce Let’s Get a Divorce at South Coast Repertory theater.

Chas read his proposed lead:

“The South Coast Repertory production of Let’s Get a Divorce opened yesterday, and though brightly performed, it can’t compare with such diversions as playing poker or fighting with your wife.”

“Hmmm,” said Jonas.

“Change ‘wife’ to ‘spouse,’” said Teresa. “More than half our readers are female.”

“Do it,” said Jonas. “Huntington Beach? What do you have?”

The Huntington Beach reporter read:

“You can move the oil derricks out of the small town but you can’t move the oil, too.”

“Tight,” said Jonas. “Becker?”

Andy sat up and tried to bring some force to his voice.

“A tough new city ordinance that jitterbugged into law last month will bounce the monkey, twist, frug, and mashed potato right off three Laguna nightclub stages.”

“Wordy,” said Jonas.

“I think it’s bright and amusing,” said Teresa.

Huntington liked it; Newport didn’t.

Andy stared at Chas.

“Tie goes to the runner,” said Jonas. “We’re done. Becker, stay here. I want to talk to you.”

When the others had filed out Jonas told Andy to close the door to the editorial conference room. Then he told him to sit down.

“You know what Nick did and his partner did to my forehead,” said Dessinger.

Andy nodded but said nothing.

“I won’t forgive or forget that,” said Jonas. “Ever.”

“I wouldn’t, either.”

“Bet you two had a laugh over it, though. Didn’t you?”

Andy nodded again. “But I’m not writing a Journal editorial humiliating my brother.”

Jonas’s smiling gaze went right through him. “I thought about Nick. I made some inquiries. Made some more. Got what I needed. It wasn’t hard.”

Andy saw it coming. Tried to look anticipatory and clueless.

“A lonely district attorney receptionist. A widow. Pretty eyes.”

“You lost me.”

“This will bring you back. Sharon Santos. You carried little friendly greetings back and forth between them in the beginning, remember? He’s giving her more than greetings now. I’ve got witnesses at her apartment complex. I’ve got a statement she signed for my promise to keep it out of my paper.”

“Which you’ll happily break.”

“I don’t have to break it. I’ve got a better audience than the public.”

Then the sudden awareness of disaster, the first stomach-dropping loss of altitude. “You’ll just dump it all on Katy Becker.”

“Now you understand why you have to write the op-ed piece.”

Andy stood and Dessinger flinched. Then stood, too. He pulled his cuffs right.

“What do you want?” asked Andy. “You want him off the case? Fired?”

Dessinger looked at Andy in what appeared to be genuine astonishment. “I want him ruined.”

“You’re not ruined. No one even knows. Nick did something stupid and felt bad. Forget about it.”

“I can’t.”

Dessinger backed away from Andy, toward the door. “You probably haven’t noticed this because you’re sleeping with my hot little cousin, but there hasn’t been a Dessinger born on earth who possesses one grain of forgiveness in his heart. Or hers.”

“Be the first,” said Andy. “Start a fad.”

“Have some fun with that editorial.”

“Look, Jonas, if you drop your bomb on Katy, Nick’s going to drop you back on the Times and the Register. They’d love to know you were sleeping with Janelle Vonn.”

Dessinger frowned and shook his head. “They’ve known it for months. I went out of my way to show her off. She was an absolute trophy, in every way. I can take that heat. I can use it to my advantage. I’m the single guy who dated the beauty queen that got her head sawed off. That makes me interesting. Nick has three children and a loyal wife and a widow girlfriend from work. That makes him rotten to the core.”

Andy considered his options. One came to mind. “Not many people can make the hair stand up on the back of my neck like you can.”

Jonas cocked his head. “That makes me proud. Let me know if you want some guidance on the article or the op-ed piece. And don’t even think of going easy on Detective Becker.”

“What if I write a resignation letter instead?”

“I’ll make someone else do them. And I’ll get in touch with fat Katy. Your name on the articles is the only thing that’s keeping me from doing that.”