Eye Contact (13 page)

Neil tells the others that Victor Uttley was appointed by the mayor a few months ago as the city’s new cultural liaison to the world. Uttley interjects, “Whatever
that
means!” The group laughs with him. Neil explains that Uttley has been involved in coordinating many of the committees that are planning Celebration Two Thousand. Then Neil asks him to meet Manning, David, Hector Bosch, and Claire Gray.

Uttley’s languid manner becomes suddenly animated, “My
God,
Miss
Gray.
I had no i
-dea
you’d be
here
tonight!” He crosses from Neil to her, eager to shake her hand, but his progress is impeded by a severe limp.

Noticing this, Neil says, “Victor! What happened?”

“Silly
me
,” he tells Neil. “Rollerblading at
my
age. Lucky not to break a
knee
.” Then he returns his attention to Claire, whom he obviously holds in great esteem.

Watching, Manning decides that Uttley is perhaps thirty years old. His fop-wristed gushing over the Broadway director, coupled with the lilting cadence of his speech, fits an over-the-edge stereotype that Manning can’t help finding laughable. Completing the picture, Uttley sports a lean dark suit of fashion-forward Italian design, worn over a gauzy crew-neck sweater. He babbles at Claire, who politely responds to his questions and flattery.

At last he tells her, “I don’t want to intrude any further, Miss Gray. Perhaps later this evening, we could chat again. Meanwhile, I need to step outside for a ciggy break. Ta, all. It’s been a hoot.”

As they watch Uttley limp away through the crowd, Justin, the Happy Happenings waiter, swaggers by with an empty tray. “
There
you are,” says Neil, realizing that the waiter hasn’t been seen since disappearing with Daryl, the copy kid. “What happened to Daryl?”

Justin looks about vacantly. “Oh, he’s … making the rounds.”

Claire says, “Since you mention ‘rounds,’ darling—could you, please?”

David offers, “Let me give you a hand with that, Justin.”

Hector is about to suggest that David should stay put, but he’s already on his feet, sauntering away with Justin, his beefy arm draped across the waiter’s shoulders.

As they pass near the front door, another waiter opens it to admit a new arrival. Seeing who it is, Manning crosses the room to greet her. “Welcome, Roxanne. Glad you could come.” He kisses her cheek, just at the corner of her lips. “Where’s Carl?”

“He’s late at a meeting—I doubt if he’ll make it at all. God, Mark, this is gorgeous.”

“Thanks to you-know-who.” Manning begins guiding her through the crowd, saying, “He’s over here with some people I’d like you to meet.”

When they arrive where the others are seated, Neil bounces up to give Roxanne a hug. “Hi there, Rox. You look great!” She does look great—mid-thirties, mature bearing, fit body, strictly professional but highly stylish linen suit, streaked blond hair in a perfect new bob. “Love the do,” he tells her. “Very handsome. I daresay, mannish.” He growls his approval.

“Thank you,” she says dryly.

“It seems I saw more of you before I moved to Chicago—it’s not fair.”

“The practice is thriving, so my life’s not my own.”

“Lawyers,” says Neil—that sums it up. “Claire and Hector, I’d like you to meet Roxanne Exner, a dear friend, token female partner at Kendall Creighton Yoshihara, an esteemed Chicago law firm. Rox, it’s my pleasure to introduce you to none other than Claire Gray and Hector Bosch.”

They all shake hands. Roxanne compliments Claire on her latest production, Hector on his column, while welcoming them to the city. Referring to the loft, she tells them, “I saw the plans, but the guys wouldn’t let me near the place while things were torn up. I’m amazed—isn’t it wonderful?”

“Indeed,” agrees Claire. “Tell me, Miss Exner, how do you happen to know these gentlemen? Do you cross paths professionally?”

“With Mark, yes,” she answers. “I did some work for the estate of a woman who was missing a while back. We compared notes from time to time, as we did on an earlier story. We became friends.” Standing next to Manning, she hugs his waist.

“Hell,” says Manning, “we had a fling.”

Neil volunteers, “That was before
I
came along.”

Hector smiles uncomfortably.

“Actually,” says Roxanne, “I knew Neil much earlier, in college. We were both involved in a local political campaign. I was a senior; he was a freshman. We hit it off right away—you can still see what drew me to him.”

Neil smirks, then tells the others, “We kept in touch, and I used to stay with Roxanne from time to time when I came here on business from Phoenix. I met Mark at a party she threw for me.”

Roxanne asks rhetorically, “How’s that for a twist of fate? The two men I was most interested in, I brought together.”

“It was meant to be,” Manning tells her. Then he adds, “By the way—thanks.” He kisses her cheek again.

“Besides,” Neil tells her, “you did fine in the man department. Carl’s hot.”

“For a father figure,” she concedes.

Neil tells her, “He’s not
that
old.”

Roxanne reminds him, “He’s a senior partner.”

Neil persists, “Carl Creighton is what—ten years older than you?”

“Twelve.”

“Close enough,” says Neil. “Point is, you’re obviously satisfied, or you wouldn’t be dropping hints about the
m
-word.”

“
Marriage
is not a dirty word,” she says. “The time may be right. Or maybe not. We’ll see.” She pauses, then says, “The next few days could be revealing. Carl and I are driving up to Door County tomorrow. He bought a new convertible for the trip, some high-end roadster—that’s why I cut my hair.”

“Door County?” asks Neil, still not totally at home in the Midwest.

Manning tells him, “Up in Wisconsin, a resort area on a peninsula.”

“Oh?” Neil’s brows arch. “Sharing a cabin in the north woods?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, we are.”

Justin and David arrive with a trayload of drinks. Justin holds the tray while David distributes the glasses.

Manning asks Roxanne, “What would you like?” He leans close. “Mineral water?”

“Yup,” she says, not thrilled with the choice. “Still on the wagon.”

“Good girl,” says Neil.

“Don’t be patronizing,” she tells him. “It’s been over two years, and I still think about it every day.”

Manning hugs her shoulder. “I know how you feel. I quit smoking about the same time you swore off liquor. It’s a bitch, but it beats the alternative.”

“I know,” she says, resigned to a new life, a better life, one that she still doesn’t find appealing.

Softly, Manning tells her, “Come on, let’s get you fixed up.” He excuses himself from the group and leads Roxanne off toward the bar. Once lost in the crowd, he asks her, “Everything okay?”

“Yes.” There’s an uncertainty in her voice that elicits a probing gaze from Manning. She tells him, “Really, Mark, everything’s fine. Carl and I are on the right track, you and Neil have built your dream home, and I’m coping with sobriety.” She concludes, “Nothing could be finer.” She shifts gears. “How’s
your
life these days?”

He sighs. “Hectic. We’ve been under the gun getting ready for tonight. Neil’s up to his neck with Celebration Two Thousand. And now I’m embroiled in
two
stories that have raised more questions than answers. I’m not only losing sleep over them—I’m
dreaming
about one of them. Planet Zarnik.”

She halts their progress toward the kitchen. “I meant to talk to you about that piece of yours in the early edition. Hardly up to snuff, Mark.”

He hesitates. “Can I take you into my confidence? This may sound nutty, but it’s top secret, at least for now.”

“You know you can trust me.”

He knows he can. Strolling her to a quieter corner, he tells the story.

When he has finished, she says, “I’d ask if there’s any way I can help, but it seems you’re on your own.”

“I know, Roxanne, but thanks for lending an attentive ear. I’ve always admired your logical thinking, to say nothing of your more …
corporeal
assets. So please, keep my predicament in mind. Maybe something will click.”

“I’ll let you know,” she says. “Now, do you suppose we might find a Pellegrino?”

“Will club soda suffice?”

“In a pinch.”

Wending his way with her toward the kitchen, Manning again notices the entry of new arrivals. It’s editor Gordon Smith and his wife. Manning asks Roxanne, “Could you possibly fend for yourself at the bar? It’s the boss—I’d better say hi.”

“Good luck.” Her mouth curls into an ominous smile, then she turns, in search of bottled water.

Manning nudges through the crowd and arrives at the door just as the Smiths have ordered their drinks. “Gordon,” he says—big smile—“and Polly! Glad you could come.” They all shake hands.

“It’s
Molly
,” the woman tells Manning, tittering at his gaffe.

“Of course, Molly. Sorry,” he says, “it’s been a while.”

“
Whew
.” Smith is wide-eyed. “Quite a pad you’ve got here, Marko.”

“Thanks, Gordon. It’s Neil’s brainchild—I just sign the checks.”

Smith reminds him, “Never underestimate the power of the pen.” They chuckle. Then Smith frowns. “Uh, Mark”—he doesn’t use the nickname this time—“speaking of ‘the power of the pen,’ your bulldog story wasn’t quite what I expected.”

Manning gulps. “Gordon, I—”

Molly interrupts, “Time for me to bow out. If you boys are talking business already, I’ll just do a little mingling.” She kisses her husband, waggles her fingers at Manning, and disappears into the crowd.

Smith says, “We’ve been promoting that story for three days as an in-depth page-one Sunday blockbuster. What happened, Mark? Other than the hoo-ha about Zarnik’s computers, the story was little more than a rehash of old news.”

“Listen, Gordon.” Manning pulls him aside from the clump of people near the door and leans close to be heard over the noise. “Something’s up. Something big. There is no tenth planet, the guy at the observatory isn’t Zarnik, and this may all be related to Cliff Nolan’s murder.”

“What are you
talking
about?”

Manning details his suspicions, then tells his editor, “The timing isn’t right to print any of this, but because of the
Journal’s
broadcast blitz, I had to deliver something, however feeble.”

Smith asks, “Why
not
blow the whistle on him? Even though the story’s not complete, it would make a sensational Sunday headline.”

“Because I can’t
prove
anything yet.” Manning rivets him with a stare. “And there’s more, Gordon. Nathan Cain may be in danger. This is only a hunch, but his Pentagon pals may have set him up for something.”

“Christ,” mutters Smith, trying to sort through Manning’s news. “Should we tell Nathan? We could phone right now—I can have him paged.”

“Not yet,” says Manning. “Frankly, I don’t think he’d buy my theory, and I have nothing to back it up. I suggest we tread water a little longer. Give me a few days to try to piece this together.”

Smith’s lower lip is pinched between his teeth. He opens his mouth to speak, hesitates, then says, “Okay, Marko, you can call the shots for a while.” He breaks into his customary grin, makes a fist, and cuffs Manning below the shoulder. “Be careful, huh? We wouldn’t want to lose our jobs over this.”

They both laugh, but without much gusto, realizing that the joked-about consequences are indeed a possibility, however remote.

Smith asks, “When do you plan to get going on this?”

“Is tonight soon enough? I invited Zarnik to the party. He said he’d come.”

“Good move,” says Smith. Pondering the mystery, he says, “Nathan’s one of the smartest guys I know. If they’re planning to make a stooge out of him, they don’t know him very well. Even though you never see Nathan in the newsroom, I assure you: he’s a hands-on micromanager. Nothing gets past him. If they think they can get around him to use the
Journal
for clandestine purposes, they’re in for a surprise.”

“What if they planted someone to help make it happen?”

“Come on,” says Smith, “This is starting to sound way too cloak-and-dagger. There’s no way they could …” Gordon stops, nearly choking on the thought. “
Lucy
?” He breaks into laughter. “That redhead?”

Without expression, Manning waits for Smith’s mirth to subside. He tells his editor, “Consider this: Not only does she have Pentagon connections, but she also has access to electronic drafts of reporters’ stories. I never knew that. Did you? There’s good reason to assume that Cliff was filing a story exposing Zarnik at the time he was shot. Lucille Haring could have been watching from her own monitor as he typed every word of it. And I’m willing to bet she’s been trained in the use of guns.”

Smith ponders all this. “Maybe. Hey—she’s supposed to be here tonight. Nathan all but
ordered
her to put in an appearance.”

“Exactly,” says Manning. “Let’s see what develops.”

“Any other suspects?”

“Zarnik himself, of course, whose obvious motivation would be to avoid exposure. I’ve also got something of a wild card, Cliff’s nosy neighbor—she struck me as someone who might be nutty enough to kill for some peace and quiet. I thought I’d go talk to her again tomorrow.”

“Good idea,” says Smith, nodding. Then he thinks of something. “Say, Marko, as long as you plan on doing some work tomorrow, maybe you could drop by the newsroom and clean out Nolan’s desk. Sundays are quiet there, and you won’t be interrupted. You might pick up a clue.”

Manning is surprised by Smith’s suggestion. “You mean the police haven’t gone through his stuff yet? They sure tore apart his apartment.”

The editor shrugs. “I guess they’re stretched thin by all this festival stuff. There’s talk that the president is coming.” He snorts. “Nathan was right—the police do need some help on this case.”

The music that has been playing now ends, and after a short pause, the space begins to pulse with a remix of last winter’s chart-topper. The stretch of open floor where some younger guests have been dancing now fills to capacity with partygoers of all ages.