The only thing I could bring myself to thank God for this holiday was the distraction all this murder talk brought to the bar. That and the blazing fireplace that was our signature at the Riverside.
Every evening, whether it was Sheriff Paul and his usual three-beer roundtable holding court on the subject, or John, sulking at the bar, pissed that the reporter woman from New York was skulking about.
“That’s my story,” he’d whined to me.
“Then go get it,” I told him as I poured him another beer. “On the house, but that’s it. Sitting here isn’t going to get you anywhere. I won’t stand a pity party, especially a self-pity party.”
John shifted in his seat and sipped. “I feel like … I feel like she has more to work with than I do. I mean, they’re even paying to have her stay here indefinitely. Bernie would never do that for me, for any assignment.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Look, the national folks have been here before, and you know what? You know that guy, Cal, at the Dispatch that’s been covering crime for, like, what? 25 years? He scooped ‘em … just by picking up the phone, dialing and talking to people. … Some of them get all those creature comforts and they just forget how to do their jobs. You can beat her. You can get this thing locked up.”
I was desperate for a subject change, but didn’t know what else to say except “what do you hear about that video everyone’s talking about? Anything there?”
John shook his head. “Inconclusive. Can’t even tell if it’s a man or a woman.”
And then I said the unthinkable.
“You know, I might be able to help a little … maybe … I don’t know, maybe just a little.”
John’s face was so innocent and semi-desperate. I kept waiting for a zit to pop out in real-time.
“How?”
His name, I told him, was Mick, and yes, I knew him very well.