The “please” got him. He leaned forward and told the taxi driver to take them to Sixth Avenue and 8th Street instead, and she squeezed his hand. At the scene, he got past the police line and she didn’t, but he saw her talking to people beyond the line, knowing she held the tiny recorder in her hand shielded by a small notebook. Hands bare. Scribbling notes. As he was soon doing. Fonseca thought: She is a reporter, for Chrissakes. Why didn’t someone hire her? Why’d they hire me?
The details came fast. From a uniformed cop. From a lieutenant. The air grainy from the fire, which was out. He called in notes as he got them, unloading to Helen Loomis. He went over to the edge of the gathering crowd, found Victoria Collins, took her notes, thanked her, pecked her cheek like a colleague. A Times guy showed up. Somebody from AP. Then Fonseca was back at the gates. Not feeling the cold. Full of the rush. A big one.
Then he saw Mr. Briscoe. Wondered why he was here. The boss. Fonseca saw pain in his face. Gave him a fill. Heard his directions. Saw him walk off. Thinking: Who the fuck am I to feel sorry for Briscoe? But I do. And I don’t know why.
Victoria. Hey, there she is.
2:36 a.m. Sam Briscoe. A taxi.
His head throbs. Two dead. Stabbed and sliced. Fresh blood on the floor. Eyes wide in shock, for sure. Oh: my Cynthia.
And turns the switch in his head. Thinking. What’s the wood? Think about wood. VILLAGE HORROR. No. Maybe. VILLAGE SLAUGHTER. Too many letters in “slaughter.” Think about wood. Page 1, page 1… BLOODBATH, with a subhead, Socialite, Cop’s Wife Killed in Village. And the press run. Gotta tell Billygoat at the plant. A hundred thou more. Maybe two, if we replate completely for another edition. A head shot of Cynthia Harding. And Mary Lou Watson. Side by side. Back page, the kid’s photo of Ray Kelly and Ali Watson. Maybe the kid shot them from the rear. Ray with his arm across Ali’s back. The wet street. Cynthia smiling.
Then thinks: Stop, you asshole.
Stop.
You loved this woman for three decades…
The cab pulls up at the newspaper. West Street now busy with groaning early-morning trucks. He pays, rushes through the one unlocked door, is waved to the elevator by the black security guard. Into the city room. Almost running. Right to Logan.
— How much time we got?
Logan glances at the old clock.
— Maybe forty-five minutes.
Briscoe pulls off his hat, coat, and jacket, throws them on a desk. He waves at Helen Loomis. She is smoking. Flourishing the cigarette, nodding thanks.
— The kid got the guest list, Logan says.
— Great.
— Guess who’s on it?
— Tell me.
— Our brave publisher.
Briscoe makes a percussive sound with his mouth. Pah!
— You’re kidding me.
— I’m afraid not.
— Give me some time. I’ll call him and get details. What’s the wood?
— Maybe THE LAST DINNER PARTY. No gore, except in the subhead.
— You’re a fucking genius, Matt.
Briscoe walks away and stops at the desk of Helen Loomis. She looks up, a smile on her face. She’s using a coffee container for an ashtray.
— Matt tell you about the party list? he says.
— Yeah, I’m calling them now.
— I’ll call the publisher, Briscoe says.
— That’s what I figured.
— I’ll read the obit at my desk.
— Sure. By the way, Sam. You’re in it. Among the various boyfriends.
— Not in this edition, Helen.
— Sam, it’ll be in the News, the Post, and the Times. You can’t leave it out.
Briscoe sighs.
— But I buried it with the names of other boyfriends, Helen says. The ones that made the gossip columns. And by the way, the Fonseca kid just dictated a scene sidebar. Very good — tight, great details. It ends with the cops carrying off two computers. I figure one for each vic.
He thinks: One of them contains the last e-mail I ever sent her.
— Thanks, Helen. For everything, but especially for showing up.
He hurries to his office, dumps his clothes in a chair, turns on the lights, opens the computer. Still standing, he checks the Times website. Nothing yet. Same with the Post. He doesn’t bother with the News website because he can never figure it out. Then he sits down, looks for the phone number. Richard Elwood. He dials. Busy signal. Christ, the news is spreading.
He looks at the paper. The wrap will take a while. Fonseca’s story about the murdered kid from Stuyvesant. The Doom Page. All old news now. He dials Elwood again. This time the young man answers.
— Yes? he says, his voice distracted.
— Briscoe here. I’m at the paper, Richard. You might have heard about what happened on Patchin Place.
— Yes, he says, his voice lowering. I was just on with some cop. It’s a horror, Sam. She seemed like a nice woman.
Briscoe thinks: You mean Cynthia, of course, not Mary Lou.
— Do you want to give some sense of the dinner party to a reporter? Just atmosphere. What they talked about. No direct quotes, or I.D.
— I don’t know. Let me think about it.
— We’re on deadline, Richard.
— Deadline? I thought the deadline had passed.
— We’re doing a wraparound. Four pages.
— A wraparound? How much will that cost?
— You can sell a hundred thousand more. We have stuff nobody else has. They’ll blow it out on the morning news shows. If we can get it to them around nine.
— A hundred thousand more copies? That’s a lot of paper.
— It’s a lot of news.
Elwood exhales, pauses.
— All right, give me a few minutes to gather my thoughts. And Sam? We’re still on for eight-thirty. It’s very important.
Elwood hangs up. Briscoe writes his name and number on an index card, walks out to the city room, and hands it to Helen Loomis. She is lighting a fresh Marlboro Light.
— Call him in about five minutes, Briscoe says. As much detail as possible. Who was there, what was said, what was served for dinner, what they talked about. Everything.
She nods, focused by nicotine and urgency. Briscoe walks over to Logan.
— Tell Billygoat to print a hundred thousand more, with the wrap, he says. And be ready for a replate, if they make an arrest.
— Yes, Logan says, smiling and making a fist.
Neither mentions the tabloid joy of murder at a good address. But Briscoe feels the rush, the adrenaline pumping. And then walks to his office consumed by shame.
2:37 a.m. Malik Shahid. The Lots, Sunset Park, Brooklyn.
There was no time to wash the body. No washing table there in the mud. No time to braid her hair either. No need to squash out the shit or piss or other filth; there was nothing inside her at the end, not even the baby. Malik knows he should have washed her three times, or five, or seven, always an odd number. But he is sure that the rain has washed her pure. He is sure of that. She was pure enough for Allah. Cleansed by rain sent by Allah.
Standing above the grave, he spoke scraps from the takbars too. O Allah: let the one thou causeth to die from among us die as a believer…
Malik wants to believe that Glorious died as a believer. When he covered her with the wet dirt, he whispered, Minha khalaqnakum. And added, And into it we deposit you… He wants Allah, in all of his mercy, to forgive Glorious Burress. For her puppy’s doubt, for her scorn. She was a child herself.