Chapters (42)
- Cover Page
- EARLY BIRD BOOKS
- Praise for the Writing of Richard North Patterson
- Title Page
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- About the Author
“All right, Ms. Culhane. For openers, don’t kid me. You’re not that wounded and you already know what my problem is: you’re scavenging a tragedy so the local voyeurs can get those goose bumps in the night, have their talk a little spicier, their sex a little sweeter. I don’t like it.”
A long-necked woman in sequins moved closer, head cocked. Culhane’s speech was staccato. “Murder’s news, Mr. Shaw. Henry Cantwell’s money doesn’t change that.”
“No, it just makes them love it more, doesn’t it, like with Patty Hearst—vicarious thrills for the mentally unemployed. We both know that if Lydia Cantwell had been a poor black woman no one would give a shit. But here you are, wearing the First Amendment like a Communion dress.”
She flushed. “I suppose I should be covering the Pillsbury bake-off.”
“Oh God,” I said. “Not that, too. Look, you’re not Bacall and I’m certainly not Bogart—I’m not having enough fun. So let’s drop it.”
“I’ve got something to ask you first. Tell me, when Rayfield asked Cantwell how long that last telephone call to Lydia was, what did he say?”
“You tell me.”
“One or two minutes. But it wasn’t. It was twelve. Rayfield’s got the toll slip.”
“Good for him. It’s not hard for a man in shock to make that kind of mistake.”
“Come on, Mr. Shaw. What were they talking about? It wouldn’t take Henry Cantwell twelve minutes to tell Lydia where he was. He lied about the time, and he lied about what they said to each other. And if he lied about that, chances are he lied about other things.”
I looked quickly around, speaking in a lower voice. “I’d be damned careful with your choice of words. If Henry wanted to lie, he wouldn’t do it about the length of the call—it’s too easy to check. He’d admit the length of the call and lie about its substance. Who would know? That he didn’t makes my point.”
She shrugged. “I’m using this on the eleven o’clock. I just thought you could tell me what they really talked about.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
From a distance Rayfield watched us intently. He seemed out of place, as if staring through a window. “And you’ve got no comment?” she was asking.
“Not a word. Just remember the law of libel. And say hello to Rayfield. It’s nice of him to use this to tuck it to Henry Cantwell, and nice of you to help.” I left her there.