Where, Ludwig asked himself, was he going to turn for the rest of the story? He’d had a taste of being a real reporter—just a little taste, true, but he found himself liking it nevertheless. He’d recounted the curse of the Forty-Fives, he’d written up the Ghost Massacre, he’d covered all the gossip in town along those lines. The scalping of Gasparilla with some kind of primitive knife, on top of the arrows left with the Swegg corpse, had really gotten the rumor mill in high pitch. He had written up the killings and the church riot and he had the story on Chauncy’s disappearance in the can. But he wanted to take it one step further. He needed something new and he needed it for tomorrow.
A real reporter wouldn’t be sitting in a diner nursing his coffee. A real reporter would be out in the field talking to the cops, getting the lowdown. That bully, Hazen: there must be some kind of complaint he could make. What did you do if the police didn’t cooperate, if they threatened to arrest you just for doing your job?
For the first time in his life, Ludwig had gotten a story between his teeth. It was real, and it was big. He had broken it and he was in the best position to finish it. My God, he’d earnedthat, at least. At sixty-two years old, it would be nice to go out with a bang. His grandkids could look over the yellowing issues of the Courier,turning the pages like precious parchment, and say, “Remember those murders back in ’03? Our granddad covered them. Boy, he was some reporter.”
This pleasant little daydream faded as a man climbed onto the stool next to his. Ludwig turned to find the man sticking out his hand in greeting. A young, fresh, eager face filled his field of view. There was the stubble, the butt hanging off the lip, the mussed-up hair, the skewed tie, but despite all the affectation he still looked like a kid trying to be a reporter.
Smit took the hand.
“Joe Rickey, Boston Globe.”
“Howdy-do.” Smit shook the hand, a little surprised. Boston Globe? He was a long way from home.
“Smit Ludwig, right? Cry County Courier?”
Ludwig nodded.
“Hot enough for you?”
“I’ve seen it hotter.”
“Yeah? Well, I haven’t.” The man plucked a paper napkin from the dispenser, dabbed it across his temples. “I’ve been here for two days and I can’t get dick on this story. I promised my editor something different, you know; a little piece of Americana. That’s my column: ‘Americana.’ People in Boston like to read about stuff that goes on in the rest of the country. Like these killings here, a man boiled, buttered, and sugared.” He shuddered with pleasure.
Ludwig looked at the kid. In an odd way he reminded him of himself, forty years ago. The Boston Globe? The kid must have talent. He looked J-school, smart and eager but without real-life reporting skills.
“Anyway, that redneck sheriff of yours and those state police storm troopers won’t give me the time of day. But you, you’re local, you know where the bodies are buried. So to speak. Am I right?”
“Sure.” Ludwig wasn’t about to tell the kid he was in the same boat.
“I’m going to be in deep shit, after all the Globepaid to send me out here, if I come back empty-handed.”
“It was your idea?” Ludwig asked.
“Yeah. It took a lot of persuading, too.”
Ludwig felt for the kid. It could have been himself, if he’d taken that scholarship to Columbia instead of the copy-boy job at the Courier,back when it was more than a one-man paper. A fateful decision, but one that curiously enough he’d never regretted making. Especially as he read the desperation, the ambition, the fear and hope in the young man’s eyes.
The man leaned closer, dropping his voice. “I was just wondering. Is there anything you might like to share with me? I swear, I’d hold it back until you publish first.”
“Well now,” Ludwig paused. “To tell you the truth, Mr. Rickey—”
“Joe.”
“Well, Joe, I don’t really have anything new at this point myself.”
“But surely you could get something?”
Ludwig looked at the kid. In a way he even looked like himself, forty years before. “I could always try,” he said.
“I’ve got to file by eleven tonight.”
Ludwig glanced at his watch. Three-thirty.
At that moment the door burst open and Corrie Swanson came barging into the diner, tossing back her purple hair, all the little chains and doohickeys pinned to her tank top astir.
“Two large iced coffees to go,” she said, “one black, one with double cream and sugar.”
Ludwig watched her, palm resting on her hip, elbow jutting out, tapping her change impatiently on the counter, ignoring everybody in the place. She was working for Pendergast, his girl Friday. And here she was, getting two coffees to go.
To go where?
But even as he asked the question, Ludwig guessed the answer. Once again, Pendergast would come to his rescue.
Maisie delivered the coffees. Corrie paid and turned away.
Ludwig gave Rickey a quick smile and stood up. “I’ll see what I can do.” He started to take out some money but Rickey stopped him. “Coffee’s on me.”
Ludwig nodded and was up and out the door after her. As he left, he heard Rickey’s voice: “I’ll be here, Mr. Ludwig. And thanks. Thanks a lot.”
Thirty-Five
All FBI buildings look the same,Hazen thought as he squinted up at the white, slablike facade with the smoked windows, burning in the afternoon sun: brick-shithouse ugly. He tucked in his shirt, straightened his tie, ground out his cigarette on the asphalt, and adjusted his hat. Then he passed through the double doors into a blast of cold air that, had it been wintertime, would have caused an uproar of complaint.
He paused at the desk, signed in, got directions, clipped a temporary ID to his lapel, and headed down the polished linoleum hall for the elevator. Second floor, second right, third door on the left . . .He repeated the directions in his head.
The elevator opened onto a long hall, decorated with government bulletins and typed lists of esoteric directives. As he walked along it, Hazen noticed that every door was open, and inside each office sat men and women in white shirts. Jesus Christ, there weren’t enough crimes in the entire state of Kansas to keep this bunch busy. What the hell did they do all day?
Hazen threaded the hallways, finally locating an open door labeledPAULSON, J., SPECIAL AGENT IN CHARGE . Within, a woman in cat’s-eye glasses was pecking away at her computer with robotic precision. She glanced up, then nodded him past into an inner office.
This office seemed as sterile as the rest of the building, but there was at least a framed photo on the wall of its occupant riding a horse, and another picture on the desk of the guy with his wife and kids. The man himself pushed his chair back from his desk, rose, and held out his hand.
“Jim Paulson.”
Hazen grasped it and was just about crushed. Paulson indicated a seat, then settled back into his chair, threw one leg over the other, and leaned back.
“Well, Sheriff Hazen, what can I do for you?” Paulson said. “A friend of Harry McCullen is a friend of mine.”
No bullshit, no small talk. Here was Mr. Straight-Shooter, crew-cut, fit, dressed in a decent suit, blue eyes, even dimples when he smiled. Probably had a dick as big as a bargepole. A wife’s dream.
Hazen knew just how to play it. He was the small-town sheriff, just trying to do his job.