Black and turquoise cubes, about four square feet each, the typesetters sit along one wall of the composing room. The typesetters are really gigantic film processors that turn out “film,” slick black-and-white prints which are a little larger than a newspaper page.

Murray was standing at a dump, one of the counter-height metal tables in the room. I saw him reach into a pocket and pull out a thick packet of folded proofs.

“Were you just downstairs?” I asked.

He turned around and smiled. “Hello, Irene. No, I was scheduling something with a photographer until a few minutes ago. Now I’m waiting to sign off my pages for the real estate section.”

As he spoke, he smoothed out the proofs, which had corrections and changes circled with red china marker here and there.

“Here you go, Plummer,” the compositor said, handing Murray the film that had just dropped into the typesetter’s tray. I stayed quiet while Murray double-checked the folio-the upper corner information which includes the date and page number-and then found the corresponding proof.

“So you’ve been looking for me?” he asked, uncapping a pen. It was the kind that marked in a special light blue ink known as “nonreproducing blue.”

“I’ll give you a chance to check your page over,” I said.

“Thanks.” I watched him check the headlines first. As they say, if you’re going to make a mistake, don’t do it in 42 point type. Next he went over the cut lines under photos, the jump lines and jumps, and then checked to see that all the corrections on his proofs had been carried out.

“Turin is spelled wrong,” I said, looking over his shoulder. “Your reporter has this Italian architect coming from a soup bowl.”

He sighed as he made the correction. “Do they teach geography in schools these days? Thanks for catching that-one of those words that makes it past the computer spelling-checker.” He noted the change from Tureen to Turin, sent the page back, then turned his attention to me.

“What’s up?”

“You’ve covered real estate since the early 1970s, right?”

“Right.”

“I saw a group of men having dinner together the other night-the night after Ben Watterson killed himself. Allan Moffett called the meeting.”

Murray lifted a brow over the rim of his glasses. “Who were they?”

I named them. “I know they were also meeting in the mid-to-late 1970s. Back in the seventies, Ben Watterson was meeting with them, too, and would have been invited for the dinner party, except-”

“Except now he is permanently unavailable for dinner parties. How do you know about all of this?”

“Another time, Murray.”

He grinned. “Okay, okay. But before you turn in your story, help me to be ready with a tie-in for my section, will you?”

“If it’s at all possible, I will. I’ll need your help on this anyway.”

“Hmm. Yes. Let’s take a look at this group. Name them again for me.”

I did. He noted the initials on a scrap of paper.

“You want to know what projects they were involved in from, say, 1970 to 1980?”

“Yes. Especially 1974 to 1978.” This time both brows went up, but then he studied the initials again. “Andre Selman has done many studies for the Redevelopment Agency, of course,” he said. “He’s one of their regular paid consultants.”

“Yes, I know,” I said. “It all goes hand in hand.”

He nodded.

“I need a quick way to figure out which projects they worked on together. I can’t just go through four years of microfilm-not and keep my sanity or my eyesight, let alone make John happy. As you say, the college and city have worked together many times. So, for the moment, if we just stick with the private sector, we’re left with Tyler, Hill, Dage, and Watterson. Can you tell me about any projects they were working on back then?”

“Off the top of my head? Lord. Dozens of them.”

“Oh.”

“Hill was putting deals together like crazy then. But you’re looking for redevelopment, right?”

“Yes.” On a hunch I said, “Maybe something in the area near the Angelus Hotel.”

Murray frowned. “The Angelus?”

The compositor came over with another page. Murray took it absently, still studying me.

“Look,” I said, “I’d just as soon we kept this between the two of us, okay?”

He chuckled. Hell’s bells. What could I offer Murray in exchange for keeping his yap shut?

“Did I ever tell you that Jack Fremont is a good friend of mine?” I asked.

He stopped chuckling. “Jack Fremont? The man who owns over half the beach property in Las Piernas?”

“The very one. The one who’s been so media shy.”

“You’re bribing me with an interview possibility?”

“Emphasis on possibility.”

“I would never betray you, Irene.”

My turn to laugh.

“Let me sign these pages off, then I’ll go back to my office and do a little research for you. I’ll have a list for you by tomorrow morning at the latest. Would that seal the deal?”

“I’m only promising totalk to Jack about letting you interview him, right? He makes the decision on his own.”

“Right.”

“Murray, you’ve got yourself a bargain.”

17

IGOT BACKto my desk, ignored the message light, and called Jack. He agreed to do the interview with Murray.

“I’m not going to tell him this right away,” I said. “I’ve got to make sure he comes through on his part of the bargain.”

“Okay,” Jack said. “If he calls, I’ll just say I’m thinking about it.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

“By the way, did Frank get in touch with you?” he asked.

“No, but I haven’t picked up all of my messages. Why?”

“Well, if you don’t have a message from him, give him a call, okay?”

“What’s this about?”

“Oh, no. I’m not getting in the middle of this one.”

ICHECKED MY MESSAGES. A few answering-machine Monroes saying they were sorry, but I had reached a wrong number when I had called. Nothing from J. Monroe. Two other calls, one from Frank and one from Rachel. I called Frank first.

“Harriman,” he answered.

“Me, too,” I said. “What’s up?”

“I’m glad you called back. I’ve been a little worried about you.”

“Stop the presses.”

“I’m serious. There have been a couple of developments in this Lucas Monroe situation-”

“Situation?It’s a little beyond a situation, isn’t it? The man is dead.”

“Okay, have it your way. Something has come up in connection with the death of-”

“Has Carlos finished the autopsy?”

I heard a sigh of utter exasperation.

“Okay, I’ll be quiet. Say what you have to say.”

There was no reply.

“Are you pinching the bridge of your nose?” I asked.

“How the hell could you know that?”

“You sometimes do that when you’re about to lose your temper.”

“Call Rachel. She’ll fill you in on what’s happening.”

“Whoa, whoa, wait!”

He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t hang up, either.

“Don’t be angry,” I said.

I heard a little snort. We were getting somewhere. “Please,” I added.

“This evening,” he said, in that quiet, measured tone he uses when most people would be shouting, “I would sincerely appreciate it if you went straight home.”

I started to say that I already planned to, then remembered that I wasn’t going to interrupt.

“Jack has promised to go with you when you walk the dogs, so just call him whenever you’re ready. Otherwise, please stay home. Humor me, if you will, and lock the doors. I’m working late, but Rachel will be coming over.”

“Frank, dearest,” I said, “there’s just one teensy-weensy problem with all of these plans you’ve laid out for my evening.”

“Namely?”

“I’ve got others.”

“Cancel them.”

“Do you want to tell me what the hell is going on, Frank?”