He parked in a visitors’ spot in front of the tall tower on Shirley Highway and walked in the front door. There was no such thing as a doorman, but there was a desk clerk in the lobby.
“Help you?” the young man asked impatiently, never lifting his head from the stack of papers he was sorting.
“I’m looking for Mr. Parkhall’s apartment,” Pace replied. “Mr. Elliott Parkhall.”
His lobbyship squinted, appearing to size up the man standing on the other side of his counter. “You from the police?”
“No. Why? Should I be?”
“Only police allowed up there,” the young man said, dismissing the stranger.
“What if I lived on the same floor?”
“Then I’d know you. And I don’t.”
“Then allow me to introduce myself. I’m Steven Pace, Washington Chronicle.”
The young man’s eyes widened momentarily, then became icy again. “Police didn’t say anything about letting any newspaper people up there. ’Sides, there’s a cop outside the door. Wouldn’t let you in.”
“Suppose I ask him.”
“It’s a she, and it wouldn’t make no difference.”
“I see. Are you the police, too?”
“Nope.”
“Then you can’t stop me from going up. What’s the apartment number?”
“Sorry.”
“I could get into the elevator and check every floor.”
“It’s your time. But it wouldn’t be worth the trouble.”
Pace relented. “Okay, suppose I ask you a question.”
“You already did.”
Good line, Pace thought. This guy had to be an Al Pacino fan.
“Another question.”
“No law against that.”
“Were you on duty here Monday, probably evening?”
“Yep.”
“Did you see Mr. Parkhall come in or go out?”
“You gonna quote me in the newspaper?”
“Depends on whether you have anything to say.”
“I don’t wanna be in the newspaper.”
“Okay, then I won’t quote you. Can you answer the question?”
“Yep.”
“Will you answer the question?”
The man shrugged.
Pace reached in his pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. He’d never paid for information before, but then, he’d never conducted an interview in a gangster movie before. He held up the bill.
“Would this make a difference?”
“Probly.”
“Good. Did you see Mr. Parkhall come or go Monday evening?”
“Yep. Both.” The young man reached across for the money. Pace pulled it away.
“That’s no answer. When did he come, and when did he go?”
The young man dropped his hand and pursed his lips. “That’s two more questions.”
“It’s my money.”
The desk man shrugged. “Can’t say exactly. He came, maybe about 6:30 or 7:00, usual time after work. Left again about 9:00.”
“P.M.?”
“I don’t work A.M.”
“After he left at nine, did you see him come back?”
“Nope. But I’m off at midnight. Mighta come in late.”
“Did you see if he left with anyone?”
“Couldn’t see who it was. But I noticed the car. Nice car.”
Pace’s eyebrows arched. “Really. What was it?”
“Thunderbird. New one. Silver-gray. Just like the one I want.”
“That’s a pretty expensive car.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Did you see who was driving?”
“Told you no already. It was dark. And I wasn’t paying attention to the driver. Just the car. Nice car.”
“So you said. You didn’t happen to notice the license plate, did you?”
“Nope. Just the car.”
“And Mr. Parkhall got into the car?”
“Yep.”
“And drove off?”
“Well, he didn’t drive. He got in the passenger side. Somebody else was driving. But I didn’t see who it was. I was looking at the car.”
“Ah, yes,” Pace said. “You liked the car.”
“Loved it.”
“And you didn’t see Mr. Parkhall return before you went off at midnight?”
“Nope. Told you that already.”
“Did you tell all this to the police?”
“Two, three times. You gonna give me the money?”
Pace handed over the bill. “You’ve been a big help. What did you say your name is?”
“Didn’t. Don’t wanna be quoted in the newspaper.”
44
Chapman Davis stood in the driveway of his townhouse and stared with loathing at the silver Thunderbird he had loved only hours before. The Washington Chronicle had made it the most conspicuous automobile in the greater metropolitan area.
He cursed his stupidity for not having rented a car for the job, but who could have imagined he would be spotted? Maybe he could have it repainted. Black would be a good color with the maroon interior. No one would doubt that black had been the car’s original color. Except too many people knew the car came off the assembly line a silver gray. God knows, he’d showed it to enough colleagues. He’d bragged about it, even brought a Polaroid snapshot to the office. Repainting it, if he were found out, would point the finger of guilt right at his nose.
No, he would have to tough it out and find an alibi for that night. So far as he knew, the license plate wasn’t made. And the person quoted in the paper hadn’t seen the driver. If that was the truth. Goddamn it, anyway. He’d been so careful about everything else, why hadn’t he thought about the car?
He got in and thumbed the ignition, then triggered his garage-door opener. He slid the car into hiding and vowed not to drive it again until this whole thing blew over.
If it blew over.
Pace had blown the lid off, and he reveled in the feeling a reporter gets when he’s so far out ahead on a story nobody has a prayer of catching up.
He’d had two exclusive stories this morning, one on the disappearance of the chief material witness in the ConPac crash investigation, and a second, smaller story about the financial ties of Harold Marshall to the Converse Corporation.
Although Marshall’s holdings in Converse weren’t news in and of themselves, they made interesting reading when paired with reports that the senator intervened for the company with the NTSB during the original ConPac investigation. The story told how Marshall had sent an aide, who was not named, to talk to Vernon Lund on Converse’s behalf. That original investigation, the story pointed out, exonerated the engine on the strength of evidence now discredited.
Yesterday had been, in Paul Wister’s words, a career performance.
Pace had just shaved when the phone rang. It was the call he least expected.
“I’m back,” Kathy said. “Am I still welcome?”
“Kath!” The excitement in Pace’s voice was clear. “When did you get in? I thought you said you’d be gone a week.”
“Late last night. There wasn’t any reason to stay in Boston any longer.”
“Why? Was something wrong?”
She laughed lightly. “Sort of. Dad was kind of pissed off at me.”
“About what?”
“You.”
Pace was stunned. “Me? Why?”
“Well, let me see if I can quote him. It went something like ‘You’ve found a wonderful man who cares a great deal about you. If he offended your feminist sensibilities by going a little bit overboard in looking out for your well-being, you should realize he was doing so out of the best of motivations and not on some selfish whim.’ That’s close, anyhow.”