Farrell rubbed his forehead; Malleck’s hatred was like the heat from a blast furnace. “Duke’s important,” he said. “He’s important too.”
“That little bastard isn’t worth saving.”
“Then none of us are,” Farrell said slowly.
“Oh, cut it out,” Ward said in a tense and irritable voice. “I’m not buying that cloudy crap. I’m with Malleck. You asked a question. There’s your answer.”
“I am too,” Grace Ward said. “Honest, John, I wish Barbara were here to hammer some sense into your head. She’d understand. But I doubt if it would help. You... well, you’re a failure, that’s your trouble. You’ve had the same opportunities as Sam, but he’s making twice the money you are. He has a brilliant future ahead of him, which he’s worked like the devil for, if the truth were known, while all you’ve got...” She shook her head, lips tightening with exasperation. “I don’t know what you’ve got, to be frank about it. It can’t be very important if you don’t value it above this miserable creature who killed Wayne.”
“Amen,” Malleck said. “Amen to every word of it.”
Detweiller said, “Now let’s all calm down. Everything was going all right for a while. Cool and easy. I think we’d better keep it that way. Look, would anyone like a drink?”
“I don’t mind,” Ward said.
“Coming right up.” Detweiller returned from the kitchen and gave Ward a glass. He sipped his own drink and began to pace the floor. “Now everybody’s been jumping on Farrell, and I don’t see the sense of it. Maybe I can clear things up a bit, John, at least as far as my own stand is concerned.” Detweiller seemed to be gaining confidence as he talked; he was gesturing with the glass, and there was more color in his normally ruddy face. “You want to play it by the book, John, but the point is, what do we gain and what do we lose by taking that position? Do you understand? The big thing is, Norton is dead and Duke killed him. That much is established. So why should we risk our reputations, and all the things we’ve worked for, to establish a lot of unimportant details?”
It was a fitting bit of irony, Farrell thought, that their collective lie would force him to tell the truth. If they hadn’t tampered with the facts — if they had allowed Duke a self-defense plea — he might have kept his mouth shut. For Janey’s sake — for all of them — he would have kept Norton’s secret. As long as it was irrelevant to Duke’s defense.
The phone began to ring and Ward picked up the receiver. He listened for a moment, and then said, “My name is Sam Ward, I’m a friend of the Norton family. But I’m sure you realize Mrs. Norton is in no condition...” He paused and raised a hand for attention; it was an unnecessary gesture because everyone was watching him closely. “Well, I don’t have any comment for the newspapers,” Ward said. “There’s always a hundred dollars’ worth of gossip for every dollar’s worth of fact in a case like this. You can tell me what you’ve heard, but don’t expect me to confirm or deny it.”
Farrell stared over the heads of the group. In the windows that faced the quiet street he saw a reflection of Chicky’s small blonde head and a stretch of the smooth gray carpeting that covered the living room floor. Outside the darkness was defined in precise rectangles by the yellow beams of street lights.
Ward said explosively, “Goddammit, this is the filthiest thing I’ve heard in all my life. What do you mean calling here? You ought to be ashamed to repeat that kind of thing.”
Farrell turned wearily toward the phone. Ward’s face was flushed and his free hand had tightened into a lumpy fist. “No, I’m not going to calm down and listen,” he said. “I don’t want the filthy details. But I’ll tell you this much: Wayne Norton was one of the finest men in this neighborhood, and we won’t stand by and see his name dragged through the dirt. You print that story, and you’ll wake up in a blizzard of law suits.”
“Let me talk to him,” Farrell said.
Ward pushed the phone at Farrell. “Gladly. You’ve got a stronger stomach than I have. See what your little pets are up to now.”
Farrell put the phone to his lips. “This is John Farrell,” he said.
“Well, we meet again, so to speak. Lynn Wiley, Mr. Farrell. I talked to you earlier at the bar in Hayrack. Remember?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I understand Mr. Ward’s feelings,” Wiley said. “Reporters work in sensitive areas at times, but we don’t pick and choose the jobs. We just follow the news. You might explain that to him.”
“All right.” Ward had taken Malleck and Detweiller into the dining room, and Grace was moving swiftly to join them, a tall black cylinder of tension and curiosity. Chicky Detweiller remained seated on the couch.
“Here it is,” Wiley said. “A teen-ager named Cleo Soltis walked into the station a while ago. She had a bomb to drop. Her story is that some men from the Faircrest development broke into a clubhouse on Matt Street a couple of nights ago. She claims that her boy friend, whose name is Jerry Leuth, was knocked unconscious, and that...” Wiley hesitated, then said: “This is her unsupported story, Mr. Farrell, and I’m merely quoting her. She claims Wayne Norton raped her, which — according to her, again — is why this boy Duke gave Norton a hiding.” Wiley paused again, and Farrell heard his soft, slow breathing. “Well?” Wiley said.
“Well what?”
“What do you think of her story?”
Farrell said: “What do you think of it?”
“Ping-pong, eh?” Wiley said, and laughed. “Well, if the story’s true, it’s got everything. Violence, drama, sex, the works. But seriously, I’m sticking my neck out calling you. The girl’s inside with Lieutenant Jameson, and they’ve sent a car out for her father and mother. We’re not supposed to know anything about this yet, but the House Sergeant gave me the tip.”
“Do you believe her?”
“Frankly, no. Girls who yell rape a few days after the fact aren’t very convincing. It’s not the kind of tiling that would slip your mind. My guess is, she’s trying to create sympathy for Duke, you know, provide him with a noble motivation for banging Norton around. But with Norton dead I can’t imagine anyone taking the story seriously. In all the years I’ve covered police I never heard of a dead man convicted for rape.”
“Then why did you call here?”
“I thought I might be able to break the news a bit more gently than the cops.”
“That’s bull,” Farrell said. “Why did you call?”
“Well, there might have been something to it.”
“There’s always hope, eh?”
“You know nothing about this, then? How about a quote? Was he one of the finest men you ever knew? Credit to the community? Et cetera, et cetera?” Wiley’s voice had gone up to an insistent pitch, the patina of polite gravity cracking with excitement. Farrell replaced the phone without answering and sat on the arm of the sofa.