My heart beat faster. “You mean that Lloyd Martindale was a child molester? Is that what you’re saying?” Catherine, still at the door, drew in air sharply, but I kept myself fixated on the old man.
“Sumbitch... bastard.”
I leaned forward, elbows on knees. “And was he charged, Steel Trap? Did Lloyd Martindale get charged for what he did?”
He tried to laugh, but it came out a rasp. “Oh, nossir, no siree. Father’s money, lotsa money... no stories... no stories. No siree.”
“Do you know who any of these were—” now I was the one stumbling for words “any of these children were that he hurt?”
“Next door. Right...”
Steel Trap’s angular chin dipped and nudged his chest. He had run down like a music box at the end of its tune, and I didn’t have the key to wind him up again.
Neither, apparently, did Catherine. When I turned to her, she gave a shake of the head and beckoned me with an index finger.
I followed her into the living room, where we sat side by side on a davenport. “Mr. Malek, you won’t get any more from Daddy tonight, I’m afraid. As it is, you did very well — and I’ll say again what I said before: This was good for him, too.”
“You really believe that?”
“Absolutely. I know it probably didn’t seem that way to you, but I’m here with Daddy almost all the time, when I’m not at work, and he seemed very animated tonight, compared to the usual. Some days, he doesn’t speak ten words from morning till he goes to bed, just reads the papers — at least I guess he’s reading them — and stares at the walls or listens to the radio. Also, he loved being called ‘Steel Trap’ again — I could tell. You brought back some of his favorite times, back in the days when he felt he was somebody.”
“Well, he was somebody, maybe the best beat reporter this town’s ever seen, even though he wasn’t with one of the dailies. And to think that I almost didn’t use his old nickname because I felt I might be getting too familiar with him.”
She smiled. “Well, I’m awfully glad you did. And — oh! — that sounds terrible about Lloyd Martindale and what he did. I hope you don’t mind that I was eavesdropping.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Reed. Do you think your father might remember any more, later on?”
“You’re one step ahead of me,” Mr. Malek. “I was about to say that, if you have no objections, I’ll bring the subject up with Daddy again when I think the moment is right. His memory fades in and out, like that radio next to his chair.”
“I have no objection to anything except you calling me Mr. Malek. I answer to Steve.”
“And I am Catherine,” she responded, folding her hands in her lap in a gesture of finality.
“But not Cathy?”
She shook her head. “For some reason, I never liked Cathy, maybe because a fifth-grade teacher I couldn’t stand used to call me that. Mr. — Steve, if I can get Daddy talking about Lloyd Martindale again, what specifically do you want to know?”
“Names, of course — any names he can recall, either victims or police who might have been part of the investigations. And dates, or at least years, although I don’t expect your father to dredge those up from the recesses of his memory. Remember, all this probably happened well before we got into the World War.”
Catherine appeared thoughtful, her wide brown eyes casting around the room as if she were seeking inspiration. “When I read about the murder, I suppose I automatically assumed that Lloyd Martindale was killed by the crime syndicate. And the papers, your Tribune among them, certainly led us to think so, judging by what they wrote. But you truly believe it might have had something to do with some perversions, don’t you?”
“The thought has occurred to me. I probably shouldn’t object to the syndicate taking the rap here — God knows they’ve pulled off enough in the last twenty years that they didn’t get tagged with. But...”
“But your newspaperman’s curiosity gets in the way of that kind of thinking, doesn’t it?”
“Hey, spoken like the daughter of a reporter,” I told her.
That drew an almost gleeful laugh as Catherine clapped her hands. “Oh, when Mama was alive and I was in school, how both of us used to tease Daddy about how seriously he always took his work.” She became suddenly serious. “But it was a respectful sort of teasing... we really admired the way he dug into stories and ferreted out information.”
“With good reason... he was a bulldog,” I replied. “Is it true, as I’ve heard other reporters say, that he would come home after work, have a quick dinner, and then start calling police and other sources?”
She nodded. “Yes, it’s true; right here in this house. It used to drive my mother crazy that he’d stay on our telephone some nights until midnight or even later. Once he called the police commissioner at home and wouldn’t get off the line until he — the commissioner — gave Daddy some piece of information, I have no idea what it even was. Are you like that, Steve? Do you drive your family crazy, too? By always being on the job?” she asked good-naturedly.
“No, and no. First, I live alone — I’m divorced. So there’s nobody to drive crazy except myself. Second, I’m afraid I don’t have that same late-night zeal for the job that your father did.”
“Oh, I am sorry,” Catherine said, putting fingers to her lips. “I didn’t mean to be nosy — about your private life, I mean. First I eavesdrop, then I pry.”
“No offense of any kind taken,” I laughed. “Honestly.”
“Thank you.” She laughed, too, self-consciously. “I guess I just don’t get enough practice with conversation these days. I’m divorced, too, by the way. I work four mornings a week at the Oak Park Public Library, where nobody — including the staff — says much. And when they do, it’s of course in whispers, or close to it. The rest of the time, I’m mostly here with Daddy, and you can see how hard it is to carry on an extended dialogue with him, poor dear.”
“True enough. Say, you can answer a question for me, Catherine. I’ve often wondered why your father always stayed with City News. He must have gotten offers from the dailies.”
“Oh, he did, yes he did!” she said, eyes now sparkling. “Several times. I remember Mama saying that the Examiner tried to hire him at least once, and so did the Evening Post, long gone now. And your Tribune did, too. He had actually worked on a paper, the Inter-Ocean, for a short time way back in the ’90s, I think, but he disliked one of the editors so much that he vowed he’d never work on another paper again. Said there was just too much office politics and favoritism, plus pressure from the advertising department to keep stories out of the paper that might reflect poorly on certain companies that advertised.”
“He may have a point there,” I said. “I didn’t really know your father all that well — as I alluded to earlier, we only worked out of the same pressroom at the Criminal Courts Building for a few months once, fairly near the end of his career — but I can tell you that he was respected, almost revered, really, by guys on every paper in this town, to say nothing of police and judges and lawyers. Nobody ever even referred to him by name — he was just Steel Trap. I doubt if most of them even knew his first name.”
“That means a lot coming from another newspaperman; thank you,” she said softly. I thought I saw a tear forming in a corner of her eye, so I looked away, concentrating on brushing nonexistent lint from a trouser leg.
After a pause, she went on. “I promise I’ll keep asking Daddy about Martindale. And Steve?”
“Yes?”
“Will you come to dinner soon? We can make it a little later to suit your schedule. I know that Daddy would really enjoy it.”