CHAPTER TWENTY

Thursday, November 8

Felicia Delmonico is recuperating at the big-ass teaching hospital. She is expected to make a full recovery, according to Baer, who’s handling press releases. She’s not available for interviews yet, he’s informed the media. We have to take him at his word that she is cheerful and making jokes. Thinking back, I don’t believe I have ever seen Felicia laugh.

My own status is considerably less grave.

“Jesus, Willie,” Cindy says when she gets her first look at my mangled ear when she’s changing the bandage, “you look like somebody tried to eat your ear. You look like Packy O’Donnell.”

She’s not far from wrong. I remember Packy. He was a guy who lived two blocks away in Oregon Hill. He probably was in his mid-thirties when I was a kid. Like a lot of Hill tough guys who managed to stay out of the state prison on Spring Street, he had sought his fortune as a boxer.

In what was an otherwise forgettable bout near the end of a lackluster career, he was matched against another middleweight who was losing in points when he got Packy in a headlock and proceeded to bite off part of his ear. It didn’t help Packy’s looks any, and it sure as hell isn’t going to help mine.

Cindy assures me that she still loves me and finds me incredibly handsome, “other than the ear.” Could have been worse, I guess. He could have aimed better, or lower.

NO ONE thinks it’s a good idea for me to go to work today. The doctor said stay out a week at least. Cindy says I’m a lunatic.

So, here I am, validating her assessment by walking in the front door of the paper, with my bandaged ear making it look like I have a small beehive attached to the side of my head. The guard doesn’t seem to recognize me at first, and then he asked me what the hell happened.

“Cannibals,” I explain.

It would be much more comfortable to lie in bed today, but I’m damned if I’m going to read the story of the year instead of writing it. Leighton Byrd can kiss my butt if she thinks I’m going to let her poach this one just because of a mangled ear.

People are sympathetic, or as sympathetic as a bunch of cynical and beleaguered journalists are inclined to be.

“Can you hear OK wearing that bandage?” Sally Velez asks.

“What?”

“Wiseass.”

Sarah Goodnight and some of the other folks gather around, and I’m obliged to give them my version of Tuesday’s debacle.

“So you just jumped on him?” one of the photographers asks.

When I nod, Enos Jackson shakes his head.

“You must be nuts.”

“Probably,” I concede. “I’m still working in print journalism.”

Leighton waits until the crowd has dispersed. She waits until I’ve gingerly seated myself, then walks over and leans close to my good ear, her warm hand on my neck.

“I’ll never forget this,” she whispers.

I see Sally shake her head as Leighton walks away.

“Another one bites the dust,” she mutters.

When I take offense at her assumption that I would prey on the young and clueless, she says, “Oh, sorry. I thought you were hard of hearing.”

Leighton is less grateful when I walk over and inform her that I will be writing whatever needs to be written about the Delmonicos for tomorrow’s paper.

When she claims that she should stay with it “until you’re feeling better,” I tell her I’m feeling perfectly fine.

She goes to Sarah seeking relief. Sarah tells her what I knew she would, and I can lip-read the b-word on little Leighton’s lips as she stomps back to her desk.

My plan today was to write a piece that would tie everything together, what has been written and what has been known but not yet written. We still can’t say for damn sure that Brady Delmonico killed his father on Belle Isle, but a jury would have convicted the shit out of him on what I’m planning to write.

But then it gets interesting.

There’s an e-mail from L.D. in my basket, probably sent while I was fending off curious co-workers.

“Call me,” it implores.

The chief never calls me, unless he’s calling me something unprintable. This obviously is a craven attempt to keep me from telling all I know about the departmental foot-dragging that helped Brady run loose and attempt to assassinate a wannabe public servant.

Still I take tips wherever I can get them.

When I make the call, his assistant does something really rare and patches me directly through to his majesty.

“Willie,” he says, “how are you feeling? Your wife said you were coming in to work today. Atta boy. Get right back on that horse.”

I tell him that I’m a little saddle-sore right now.

He laughs.

“Well,” he says, “about what we were talking about the other day: I think I might have something for you.”

What he has is a lulu. He will release it to the news media at large at two this afternoon, but by then our dwindling competition will have read it on our website, maybe even giving the paper attribution.

I’d prefer that he hold that press conference tomorrow morning, so that we could get it in print first, but a scoop is a scoop, electronic or not. Since the feds are also in on this one, L.D.’s doing the best he can.

What will be trotted out at the two P.M. presser is this:

Mills Farrington died rich. Well, he would have been rich if he’d figured a way to get all that money he’d parked in the Caymans into his greedy hands.

The feds were able to dig deep enough into Farrington’s computer to come up with some interesting connections to banks in the islands, the kind that don’t advertise on TV.

“They think he might have as much as twenty million bucks stashed down there,” the chief says. “They’ll probably play hell getting to it, but Farrington was a little careless. They think they can get a lot of it back.”

That’s good news for all those people the son of a bitch skinned.

I’m about to thank L.D. for giving me at least a three-hour head start on this one.

But wait, he says. There’s more.

The “more” takes the story from “great story” to “holy shit.”

When the feds were mining all that data, they found an unexpected nugget.

It turns out that Farrington didn’t keep knowledge of his little offshore IRA to himself.

“The found a couple of texts,” the chief says. “He’s telling this person that they’re not going to have to worry about anything. In one of the two texts, he says his brother is soon going to come into a lot of money, and that his brother is going to look out for him, be his brother’s keeper so to speak. He puts one of those damn emoticon things at the end, the one that’s winking. And the other party sends a text emoticon back of a big grin.

“And who do you think that other party is?”

I say it, just to get affirmation, but I don’t even have to guess.

The feds already have been delving into Farrington’s brother’s accounts, and the man, a broker, has apparently had a very good year with money that’s been laundered so much it’s a wonder the ink hasn’t worn off.

And, they’ve found that among Felicia Delmonico’s campaign contributors, to the tune of about half a million bucks in $25,000 increments, is a brokerage firm in Northern Virginia. By strange coincidence, Farrington’s brother is a partner in that firm.

“Has anyone broken the news to the candidate yet?”

Not yet, L.D. says. They don’t want to disturb her while she’s recovering.

Yeah, I feel kind of sorry for Felicia. It’s like bad news-good news-good news-really bad news. You almost got killed, but you’re going to pull through, and you won the election, but you might be facing some major federal charges and you might not get that seat in Congress.

Before we conclude our conversation, I thank L.D. again.

“Don’t forget,” he says, and I tell him I won’t. After this, I’ll have to find some graceful way to not make the chief look like an asshole in print.

Quid pro quo is the extent of my Latin.

I HAVE about two and a half hours to get this posted before everybody else gets fed.

“Hey,” Leighton says, all friendly again. “The chief’s calling some kind of bullshit press conference at two. I know it might be about either Farrington or Delmonico, but do you think I could go and let you get a little rest? You do look kinda tired.”

I smile, trying to look as feeble as possible, and tell her to have at it, that I need a nap anyhow.

She puts on her best smile.

“You’re a prince.”

Probably not the p-word she’ll be throwing my way when she gets there and finds out the horse is already out of the barn.

I have what I need, but a quote from Felicia wouldn’t hurt. I want my editors and me to be the sole proprietors of this information, so I write it fast and hit the “send” button, but as soon as I do, I call Baer. I can always update the online story.

He doesn’t take it well.

“You can’t write that,” he sputters. “Where did you get that? We’ll sue your pants off.”

I tell him my source is reliable, and that if he will be so kind as to get his ass in gear and relay what I’ve just posted to the newly elected representative, and then get back to me with the answer, I’d appreciate it.

When he finds out that the story’s already been posted and no doubt will go as viral as Ebola in minutes, he seems to be near tears.

“Don’t you have any conscience?” asks the man who used to steal other people’s stories on a regular basis.

I tell him I have at least as much conscience as people who ruin people’s lives and stash their money in the Cayman Islands.

“But you don’t know she was in on it. She couldn’t have been!”

“Just ask her,” I tell him. “I’m sure she’s going to want a chance to deny it.”

Baer hangs up and calls me back half an hour later. By this time, I’m already getting calls from other journalists foolishly wanting me to tell them things I haven’t even told our online readers.

He reads me the quote, full of denials and threats of retribution.

I’m just off the phone with Baer when I get the call from the hospital.

“You son of a bitch,” Felicia says by way of greeting. She sounds weak but still somehow invigorated. “You’ll pay for this.”

Maybe, I tell her, but only if I’m wrong.

“Maybe even if you’re right,” she says, then adds quickly, “but of course you’re not. If I’m so damn guilty, why haven’t I heard anything from the FBI?”

I look at my watch and tell her the press conference starts in about forty-five minutes.

She lets loose with an impressive string of curse words, managing to turn “fuck” into at least four parts of speech. Then I hear soothing but commanding voices tell her she was to put down the phone and not get overly excited.

Then the phone goes dead.

Wheelie comes by. Sarah didn’t tell him about the story I posted. He seems a little perturbed that he’s hearing about it first from our publisher, who does apparently look at our website once in a while.

“If it’s wrong,” I tell him, “you can fire my ass.”

“Oh,” he says, “you can rest easy on that one. If you’re wrong, that’s a done deal. Of course, it’ll be moot at that point, since we would get sued so bad that Felicia Delmonico would own the paper. Then maybe she’d hire you back just so she could fire you again.”

LITTLE LEIGHTON comes back about two forty-five. On top of everything else, it’s been raining, and she forgot her umbrella.

She stands at my desk, dripping.

I look up, waiting for it.

“Prick,” she says.