Pacing the office carpet, Dorsey checked his wristwatch for the third time in five minutes. C’mon, Corso, he thought, jiggling his car keys in his pocket. You’re late. You’re slow and you’re late. It suddenly struck Dorsey that it was silly to worry about being late to a job he was sure to detest.
Sixteen minutes later, at half past noon, Dorsey watched from the window as a bicycle messenger pedaled his way down Wharton, braking to a stop at the front steps. Dorsey met the boy at the door and recognized him as the messenger who had delivered the dictaphone.
“Do I gotta wait again?” the boy asked. “Last time you held me up a long while. Beat hell outa my schedule. Work on volume, ya know? Only make money when the wheels are rolling.”
The boy was thin with a deeply pocked face. Dorsey watched him adjust some greasy blond hair under a railroad bandanna and was reminded of a junkie he had run across while with the sheriff’s office. He had met the guy twice, the first time in a Braddock housing project when the junkie denied any part in a string of East End burglaries. The second encounter was in the morgue, all blue lips and frozen limbs. He had died in a sitting position, and the coroner’s crew had had to break his legs to straighten him onto the stretcher.
“Hey, kid. You got any relatives in Braddock who were—” Dorsey held his tongue. “Skip it and hand over the package.”
The delivery consisted of a fourteen-by-eleven-inch padded envelope. Dorsey slit the edge and allowed the contents to spill out on his desk. Stapled to the front of a manila folder was a two-line memo from Corso reminding Dorsey that clipping services were expensive. Flipping through the pages, Dorsey found articles on Father Jancek from the two Pittsburgh dailies, a local Catholic weekly, newspapers in Beaver and Westmoreland counties, and a feature article from The New York Times. He was tempted to sit down and review the material at length, a temptation born from both his curiosity and his wish to avoid the work he had cut out for the afternoon. He overcame the urge. After checking Wharton Street by peeking through the curtains, Dorsey left the house. On the way to the Buick to pick up Gretchen, he formulated an excuse for being forty minutes late.
As he had promised Gretchen, Dorsey took the scenic route to Johnstown, along U.S. 30 and through the Laurel Mountains and the Ligonier Valley. He drove in an anxious silence, oblivious to the panoramic views. At the far end of the front seat, huddled under a quilted comforter, Gretchen paged her way through the fourth edition of Cawle on Fractures, Strains, and Sprains.
Intimidation—frightening people—had never been Dorsey’s bag, and he knew it. During his days as a county detective he had left the role of heavy to his partner, choosing to be the understanding cop, willing to listen to the suspect’s story. Now he had no partner to play the villain, making threats that were based only loosely on truth. You’ve got to scare the shit out of this girl, he reminded himself. She’s got what you want, and you have to get it.
“There may be a new procedure in here,” Gretchen said, mercifully invading his thoughts. “For your hand, I mean. You know, to give you more flexibility. A second coming for the running hook shot.”
“Thought you wanted to see the foliage. That’s why we came this way.”
“Sorry.” Gretchen pulled the comforter tight at her chin against the mountain cold. “Can you get a little more out of the heater? I’m freezing.” She reached from beneath the comforter and poked Dorsey in the ribs. “And another thing. You owe me some explanation as to where we’re going and how I’m to help.”
Dorsey slowed the Buick to thirty-five as he passed through Jennerstown, then gunned it to sixty once past the village limits. At the junction of U.S. 219 he headed north. “Here it is,” Dorsey said. “Remember me mentioning a girl named Claudia Maynard? Well, I want to talk to her. I want her to confess to a few things. Not to everything she may have done in her life, but certainly to a few things. And she won’t do that just by me asking her to. I’ve got to make her think she’s in hip-deep shit, maybe even looking at some jail time. Which isn’t likely, but what the hell? It’s the only way I know to do it.”
“How am I supposed to help with that?” Gretchen asked. “Forget it, don’t answer. I won’t be part of it.”
“You could help the girl through it, provide a little comfort at the right time. Soften the blow. It could be rough on her.”
“That’s crap.”
No shit, Dorsey thought, passing the exit to Scalp Level and watching for the one to Mundys Corners. It’s crap, but it’s going to happen. Give the girl your compassion, Gretchen; be the good guy to my bad one. She may tell you what she won’t tell me. Protect her from me. Jesus Christ, help me.
In the high country around Johnstown it had begun to snow, and by the time Dorsey parked in front of the Maynard house a quarter inch had accumulated. The walkway was snow-covered, and Gretchen and Dorsey held on to each other for balance as they made their way to the front door.
“Go ’way,” Mrs. Maynard said. Only her right eye and cheek were visible through the space allowed by the door’s safety chain. “We see you on the TV. The news. Go ’way or I call the police.”
Dorsey moved away from the door and introduced Gretchen, hoping the sight of her would calm the old woman. “We’re just following up,” Dorsey said, “on the job I was on before. I’d like to speak to Claudia about this Radovic fellow.”
“Bullshit, Radovic.” The eye at the door turned mean. “Trouble for Claudia because of that damned priest. She should stay away from that priest. I said that before, the last time you showed up. I tell her that too. But she don’t listen.”
“Maybe we could talk to her about that,” Gretchen said. “For her own good.”
“Hell you would. She’s not home anyway.”
“She go somewhere special?” Dorsey asked.
“That damned priest.” Mrs. Maynard shut the door.
Back in the car, after turning over the engine and adjusting the heater, Dorsey suggested to Gretchen that he just might know where Claudia could be found. “Like the old lady said,” Dorsey chuckled. “That damned priest.”
He drove south to the lip of the crater that held Johnstown at its basin and began the descent, playing at the brakes for both his and Gretchen’s peace of mind. At the bottom, by a now-quiet foundry, they crossed a WPA-vintage bridge of gray steel that spanned an offshoot of the Conemaugh River and went left, pulling onto Otterman Avenue. Once he found Radovic’s house, Dorsey retraced the route he followed on the day of the surveillance until he found himself in front of the Movement Together office. He pulled to the opposite curb, halfway down the block.
“Now you can earn your first private-eye solo hours,” Dorsey said, turning to Gretchen. “You’re going inside because I can’t; Radovic may be in there minding the store. And the girl may just be there too, based on what her mother said. If she is, we wait for her to leave and then we follow.”
“How am I supposed to pull this off?” Gretchen shook off the thought and laughed. “I don’t even know what she looks like.”
“Neither do I,” Dorsey said. “So you have to snoop around a little. Play up to them and find out who’s who. These guys love attention, so give it to them. Ask some questions. Play a role, like a small-town reporter; better yet, be a social worker. I like that. Somebody who could refer others to the Movement. Yeah, try that.”
Reluctantly, Gretchen left the car and crossed the street, using the comforter like a shawl to cover her head against the falling snow. Dorsey watched her in the rearview mirror as she entered the storefront, praying she would relax, coaching her. Take your time, check out the wall posters, look at the pamphlets. Cool and casual.
If this craps out, Dorsey reminded himself, you’re in trouble. You may hate what you’re about to do, but screw it up and you’re in for a long haul. It will mean backtracking over old ground, looking for an opening in any of the claims you’ve handled since spring. The investigation goes flat and you’ll be out on your ass. The only people willing to hire you will be lawyers and claims managers who have spent the last few weeks out of the country.
Again in the rearview, Dorsey saw Gretchen emerge from the storefront and make her way across the street. A part of him hoped she had failed, hoped she had come up empty. No, she learned something in there; she’s too bright to have missed anything. She’ll get us to the girl. And then you’ll do your part. No choice.
“Had the pleasure of meeting Carl.” Gretchen slipped into the passenger seat and adjusted the comforter around her. “He’s a tough one. I asked a few questions, but all he did was point at a stack of leaflets.” She held a handbill out to Dorsey. “But I think I found something. They’re calling it an Outreach Meeting. It’s this afternoon in Ebensburg. Where’s that?”
“Just a little north, not far.” He looked at the handbill. “The address is familiar, too. It’s the mineworkers’ local. Used to go there a lot. There’s three attorneys with an office on the second floor. It’s a large old house that’s been renovated. The attorneys have a corner on the comp cases.”
“So what do you think?” Gretchen asked. “Are we going?”
“We’re going.”
The snow was falling heavier now, and Dorsey slipped the Buick into second gear to climb out of the crater. Gretchen went back to her textbook, and Dorsey’s stomach churned acid as the confrontation grew closer. To distract himself, he told Gretchen about his first visit to Ebensburg.
Dorsey was with the Allegheny County detectives at the time and had received a call from the Cambria County sheriff’s office about a prisoner in the Ebensburg jail. The prisoner was named Sturgis and was serving a sentence of two years minus a day, the longest sentence allowed in a Pennsylvania county jail, for murder by vehicle. The Cambria sheriff had told Dorsey over the phone that Sturgis wanted to sell information on an auto theft ring in Pittsburgh. In return, Sturgis wanted someone to whisper in the sentencing judge’s ear that he should get work-release privileges. “So he can work half a day,” the deputy said, “and screw his girlfriend the other half. You’re welcome to him, but you’ll have to come up here. Too expensive to deliver.”
Dorsey and his partner had made the trip to Ebensburg and interviewed Sturgis at the jail. The plan had been to grill Sturgis with Dorsey’s partner as the heavy, but one look at the man told them he was forty pounds overweight and fifty points below the average intelligence quotient. Sturgis told them not about an auto theft ring but, instead, how a single car had been stolen by his brother-in-law three years earlier: a ’71 Impala taken from the Civic Arena parking lot during a hockey game.
In Ebensburg, which unlike Johnstown was set on a hilltop, Dorsey turned onto a side street lined with once-elegant homes, large wooden structures with wraparound porches. Halfway along the block, he pulled to the curb and directed Gretchen’s attention to the house at the end. At the edge of the porch, just out of the snow, two men dressed in heavy coats and woolen caps held handbills and searched the street for any interested party.
“Snow’s put a damper on things,” Dorsey said.
“Well,” Gretchen said, “tell me what you have in mind.”
“We find the girl.” Dorsey shifted in his seat to face Gretchen. “You’re at bat again. Go inside and snoop. Like I said, I’ve been there before. Through the door you’ll be in a big central hall with a receptionist’s desk and a waiting room off to the left. Looks like it might have been the living room once. Play your role and see what you come up with. Ask around for the girl if you have to.”
“Can’t say I like this a lot, but it is interesting.” Gretchen smiled and slipped smoothly from the car, again covering her head with the comforter. The men on the porch, stomping their feet to keep warm, forced handbills on Gretchen and ushered her to the front door.
Moments after Gretchen had stepped inside, a late-model Omni came down the street from behind Dorsey, moving much too fast for the snow, fishtailing as it passed the Buick. Dorsey watched the driver, an attractive dark-haired young woman who looked to be in her mid-twenties, emerge from the car after accomplishing an awkward parking maneuver in front of the corner house. Dressed in close-fitting jeans and a belted suede jacket, she waved off the greeters and trotted across the porch into the building. Moments later, Gretchen stepped out onto the porch and hurried back to the Buick.
“Got her,” Gretchen said. To Dorsey she sounded as if she liked the hunt, now that she had a whiff of the prey.
“She’s in there?”
“Just arrived.” Gretchen wiped snow from her lashes and eyebrows. “The dark-haired one who just walked in.” She grinned slyly. “The good-looking one.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive,” Gretchen said. “There were three guys at a card table looking pretty bored, complaining how the weather had kept people away. But when the girl walked in they all snapped to, all smiles and optimism. Hi, Claudia, good to see you. How was the shore? She just smiles and drinks it all in and then mentions she can only stay a second, so many things to do. That’s why I left. We follow her, right?”
Jesus, Dorsey thought, she is enjoying this! Early success, clean and easy, with the dirty work still to come. How will she like it then? Much less than you will, Dorsey.
“That’s her.” Gretchen tapped at his forearm and gestured toward the union building. “Here she comes.”
Dorsey turned over the engine and watched Claudia Maynard give the man on the porch a quick good-bye and climb into the Omni. Recklessly, she fishtailed again as she pulled from the curb. Dorsey moved out behind her, slowly. The Omni made two left turns, then was forced to halt at a red light. With no cars between them, Dorsey had no choice but to pull up directly behind. It’s okay, he assured himself. You can drop the precautions because the girl takes none. She’s a fool, or chooses to act as one. Drives like a fool, and like a fool doesn’t hide her association with the priest. Lording it over the men at the union local and spending the Movement’s money on trips and clothes. She’s ready to be taken with one sharp blow. Which you will deliver.
The light turned green. The Omni and the Buick both turned onto a street lined with shops and offices. Following the girl, Dorsey watched Gretchen from the edge of his vision. She leaned forward into the dashboard and studied Claudia through the Omni’s rearview mirror.
“Something you want to share?” Dorsey asked.
“Look at her,” Gretchen said. “She’s a live wire, primping in the mirror. I’ll bet she’s blasting the radio, from the way she’s jumping around. Looks shallow, like she’s in over her head and doesn’t realize it. You won’t have trouble talking to her.”
Really into it, Dorsey thought, aren’t you? More than one young woman might be in over her head.
Dorsey followed the girl out of the business district, heading for an on-ramp leading to U.S. 219 southbound. Lagging behind but keeping the Omni’s taillights just visible through the falling snow, Dorsey saw the turn signal flicker and the Omni climbed the on-ramp, accelerating. Dorsey did the opposite.
“Why are you slowing down?” Gretchen asked. “You’ll lose her.”
“It’s okay.” Dorsey moved up the ramp in low gear, letting the right tires dig into the berm for traction. You smell blood, Gretchen, and you’re getting overanxious. Wait until you taste it. You may have other thoughts. “Once we’re on the four-lane we’ll catch her. Even in the snow, we can keep her in sight. We can sit in the lane right next to her and she’ll never guess.”
The two southbound lanes were snow-covered but empty of traffic, so Dorsey moved to their center, where the dotted line would be. Now he hit the accelerator, taking comfort in the extra space on either side of him in case of a spin-out. At her end of the front seat, Gretchen slapped at the dashboard and urged him on. A mile farther the Buick fish-tailed, but Dorsey went with the slide and corrected his course. “It’s okay, we’re all right,” he said and realized only he needed reassurance.
Just north of the Sidman exit, one exit before Johnstown, Dorsey spotted the Omni’s taillights, bright red against a white backdrop. It was a downhill grade, and Dorsey slipped the Buick’s transmission down a notch, wanting control instead of speed. Both cars ground out the last two miles to Johnstown.
“I was afraid that with the weather she might be heading home,” Dorsey said. He drove down the exit ramp and watched as Claudia Maynard took a local road into the outskirts of Johnstown. “But this could work out. Better stay close.”
“So, close up the gap.” Gretchen had a so-why-are-you-telling-me tone to her voice.
Dorsey got the Buick close, slowing only at curves the Omni slid through. There were two rights and then a left-hand turn before the Omni slowed and slipped over to the curb. Dorsey took the first parking spot on the street, half a block behind. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “We’re back where we started from.”
Coming from the opposite direction and knowing only the route he had taken while shadowing Radovic, Dorsey was startled to find himself a block up from Movement Together’s Johnstown office. Radovic’s place, he reminded himself. Dorsey let the motor run and the wipers cleared the windshield. They watched Claudia Maynard leave the Omni and carefully make her way to the store-front door and work the key into the lock.
“Now,” Gretchen said, “I suppose we wait some more, right?”
“Really into it, aren’t you?”
“Can’t help it,” Gretchen said. “And you knew I wouldn’t be able to.”
“Well, pay attention, because the waiting is over.” Dorsey shut down the engine. “You’re an apprentice in the field, so allowances can be made. But did you see what the girl just did? She unlocked the door, which means the door was locked. And that door is never locked when someone is inside because the office is full of posters and handbills and a glass jar for donations. They want the public coming in. Catch the foot trade.”
“The point, please,” Gretchen said irritably.
“Unless the toilet’s broken and Radovic locked up shop to go take a leak, Claudia Maynard is in there all alone. Now is our chance to have a talk.”
Gretchen entered the office first, followed by Dorsey, who backed his way in, hunched over and brushing snow from his hair. “Excuse me,” Gretchen said, removing the comforter and folding it over her forearm. “Are you Claudia Maynard?” Dorsey kept his back to the woman, waiting on the reply.
“Yes, I am, and I’m very busy. I have to leave.”
Turning, Dorsey realized that Dr. Tang’s receptionist must have envied Claudia Maynard for more than her easy life. The girl was striking, and much younger than Dorsey had thought. No longer bundled against the cold, she was exquisitely thin, almost fragile. And her hair, Dorsey thought: it’s so dark, nearly coal black. He found it hard to believe he had come this far to take her apart. She’s too young, he thought again. Yeah, just like the bicycle messenger’s look-alike who was a housebreaker at fifteen, in Camp Hill State Correctional Institution at seventeen, and in the morgue at nineteen.
“I’m ready to close up, just stopped to drop off a few things.” Claudia Maynard stepped around the church basement folding table and attempted to shoo them out. “Tomorrow we’re open early. Come back then, and there’ll be somebody here to answer all your questions.”
“We asked for you by name, Claudia.” Dorsey leaned back into the closed door. “Movement Together? We know all we need to know about that. And we know about you.”
Dorsey ignored his cramping stomach and concentrated on the flash of recognition in Claudia Maynard’s eyes. That’s right, the guy from the TV and newspaper, Dorsey thought. The same guy Eddie Damjani probably warned you about.
“Jesus, have you got balls.” The girl turned about and went for the telephone. Gretchen pleaded with her not to be angry, they only wanted to ask a few questions.
“She should be pissed,” Dorsey said, disregarding the flush of excitement that drained from Gretchen’s face. “And she should be scared.” He faced Claudia Maynard. “Didn’t you think we’d figure you out? You’re up to your ass in this one, and your friends have you stuck way out in front, all alone.”
“Bullshit.” Claudia lifted the receiver.
“Don’t think so?” Dorsey moved to the table and leaned in, bracing himself with his arms, taking the pressure off his aching stomach muscles. “There’s Carl Radovic and all the others you’ve helped. Insurance fraud, plain and simple. You tip off a guy to a layoff and he does a fall-down, fakes an injury.”
The girl began to dial.
“You’ll be indicted with the rest. And they’ll all say they did it for a good cause, and so will you. They did it for the working-man. And they’ll get off. But not you.”
The girl stopped dialing but held on to the receiver, as if for comfort.
“Naw, for you it won’t work,” Dorsey said, his voice gathering heat. “Because some of the money stuck to your fingers. A nice trip to the seashore and who knows what else? That was your end of the deal. No high-minded motivation, so no judge will let you walk. I know, trust me. Ever been to the Women’s Correctional at Muncy? A little cleaner than where they keep the men, but stocked with bull dykes. You’ll be most welcome. Keep up the hard-ass shit with me, and you’ve got a future of broomsticks and Coke bottles.”
“Fuck you.”
But it was a weak fuck-you, Dorsey thought. So show her the ace, the hole card. The last lie.
“You’re right, what’s prison to a hard rock like you? But don’t forget about all the rest. Father Jancek is a media personality, and this mess will get a lot of coverage. And so will you, as his girlfriend.”
“What?”
“That’s how it will look.” Dorsey worked a fiendish grin across his face. “That’s how it can be made to look. Your friends and family, they’re going to love it the first time a TV reporter sticks a microphone in your face and asks when it was you first slept with the priest.”
Claudia Maynard dropped the receiver into its cradle and fell back into the folding chair near the table. Dorsey shoved his trembling hands into his hip pockets and turned to check on Gretchen’s reaction to his performance. He found her backed to the far wall, a look of shock across her face. No time for consolation, Dorsey knew; he had to keep hitting at the girl’s crumbled defenses. He found a chair, one of several beneath the front window, and pulled it to the table.
“This is it,” Dorsey said. He sat and took a pen and a pad from his coat “If you want to avoid total fucking humiliation, give me a list of names, all the guys you helped out at Carlisle. Radovic wasn’t the only one. Saving him doesn’t rate a month on the beach. Take the pen and write out the names.”
The girl was crying now and spoke with difficulty. “I’ll try, but please, I don’t think I can remember them all.”
“How many are we talking about?”
“Seventeen,” the girl said. “I remember maybe thirteen or fourteen names.”
“Do what you can. Don’t bullshit me.”
Claudia Maynard took the pen, shaky at first, and began to write. Gretchen came to her side and gave her a tissue to wipe her face and then gently squeezed the girl’s shoulder for strength. Dorsey rose and paced the room, studying the posters of immigrant workers that covered the walls, as he had done on his first visit to the office. He concluded that the photos had all been taken at the shift change. Men with metal lunch buckets, their faces smeared with coal dust, walking away from the pit mouth. Other workers, again with lunch buckets, exiting the steel mill gate. And still other men, turn-of-the-century men, carrying lunch buckets across rail-road ties. And that plaster crack that ran from one poster to the next. My God, he thought, you’re Carroll Dorsey, son of Martin Dorsey, champion of the workingman in so many elections, here to sink the workingman’s boat. Look at the side you’re on. As if anything as simple as taking a side made sense. As if either side had a clean case to make for itself.
When he returned to his chair, the girl had completed her list. “Let’s see what we’ve got.” Dorsey took the steno pad and studied a list of unfamiliar names. By some she had written the hometowns. Holy Christ, he thought, fighting a headache. Seventeen men at maybe three hundred and fifty dollars per week. Just at Carlisle. Add that to workers at other plants and the bogus auto accidents. It had to be big to be worthwhile? Well, it’s enormous.
“All these guys,” Dorsey asked, “some old and some young, but all single, right? No married men on the list?”
“Because of the money.” Claudia Maynard wiped at the corners of her eyes and Gretchen stood behind, gently stroking the girl’s hair. “Family men need their whole check to make ends meet. The single fellas, they can get along on much less. They kick in half their checks, sometimes more. To make up for it, they draw free groceries from the food banks.”
From behind the girl, Gretchen signaled to Dorsey. “She’s had enough shock for the day. You’ve got the list, let’s leave.”
Dorsey shook his head. “Just a few more things to cover.” He turned his attention to the girl. “When did it all start?”
“Not this summer, the one before. The first man was a guy who worked in the furnace, second helper.”
“Who asked you to do it,” Dorsey asked, “the priest? Your father says you’re in tight with him.”
“No, no!” Claudia Maynard shook her head violently, causing Gretchen to back away. “Not Father Jancek. We can talk about anything else, but not him. I never even met him till later on. It was two guys; one was a lawyer, I think. The other guy was named Gretz.”
Dorsey chose to allow the exclusion of the priest and concentrated on the lawyer. “The lawyer, you get his name?” he asked. “Stockman, was that it? Older guy, mid-fifties?”
“The age is right,” the girl said, “but I only met him one time, and it was a real short meeting. Never gave his name. He just assured me there was nothing illegal in what I was doin’.”
A technicality, Dorsey thought. Splitting hairs. Leave it to P.I. to discuss the act but leave out the intent, the intent to defraud. Oh, Jack boy, if I could only connect you to this! One meeting and no names given. A short meeting to impress upon the small-town girl how very important she was. Long ago and so quick she could never identify you. So slick you are, Jack.
“This Gretz, the other guy at the meeting?”
“Darrell Gretz.” Claudia Maynard held her face in her hands, staring down at the tabletop. “Used to date him. He’s a couple of years older than me. Lives here in Johnstown.”
“He worked at Carlisle Steel?” Dorsey asked. He looked past the girl at Gretchen and estimated her anxiety level. Nothing to be done about it now, he told himself. Concentrate on the girl.
“He did, but he was low on the seniority list. He was on layoff long before I met him. He eventually introduced me to Father Jancek.”
Dorsey again placed the pen and pad before the girl. “So far you’re doing fine. Now you’re going to supply me with a full statement, written and signed, covering all your activities with Movement Together. It’s your story, but I can help you find the words. When we’re done you’ll have a chance to read it over a few times, to be sure it’s complete and true. No rush, take all the time you need. And when you’re satisfied with its accuracy, sign and date it. And Miss Keller will sign as witness.”
Her eyes dull and red-rimmed, the girl slowly twisted in her seat, facing Gretchen. “No. I can’t do any more.”
“What I said before will come true.” Dorsey forced the girl’s attention back to him. “Prison and those hungry inmates. But that’s only after you get famous for sleeping with Father Jancek.”
The girl cried out and again turned to Gretchen, burying her face in Gretchen’s midsection. “Is this necessary?” Gretchen asked, stroking the girl’s hair. “She’s all done in. We have to let her rest.”
Dorsey rose from his seat, shaking his head. “No. This is what we came for.” He wished it wasn’t so. He wished it were over and done with.
“You have the list.” Gretchen’s eyes held his. Dorsey was sure it was the cold and clinical look she had when warning an asthmatic to give up smoking. Or a juicer to lay off the booze. All business, blocking out anything that might obscure her meaning. “Fourteen names. That’s fourteen leads for you to chase down. One of them is sure to tell you all you need. Besides, you can always come back to her.”
Dorsey moved around the table and gestured for the girl to stay in her seat. He took Gretchen by the elbow, gently, and led her to the far end of the room. She followed him stiffly, hesitantly.
“Listen, just for a second; listen to me.” Dorsey spoke quietly, taking care the girl did not overhear. “The list could be useless. It could be a list of men dedicated to the priest, like Radovic. Imagine it, fourteen Radovics. You’re right, I could get their claim files and maybe cause them some trouble, but that’s not good enough. Claudia, she knows the priest. And even though she can’t connect him to a conspiracy, she proves a conspiracy exists.”
“Not now. No.” Gretchen’s voice was clear and loud, disregarding the girl. “Look at her, for God’s sake; she’s a wreck. She might collapse on us. The statement can be gotten another time.”
“She’ll run,” Dorsey said. “She’ll run for a long time, and she’ll get help. And when she gets back, P.I. Stockman will erect an eight-foot legal wall around her. He won’t let anyone talk to her alone, and she’ll be in a position to deny everything she’s said so far. It’s now or never.”
With a shake of her head, Gretchen dismissed his words and turned away. Her hand came to her mouth and she gently rested a knuckle against her lips, pensively staring out at the snow.
“This has to end. I’m sorry, Carroll.” She faced Dorsey, her expression telling him that for her the matter was closed. “So far today I’ve seen you tell lies and half-truths and tear away this girl’s dignity. What comes next? She’s likely to hold out. And you’ll know if she does; you’re too good to be fooled by her. What do you have left up your sleeve? I don’t want to find out. I don’t know you when you’re like this. And I don’t want to know you.”
Dorsey had no answer. The stakes were too high to blurt out some tough talk of the trade. You play it right, he warned himself, do the job right and get what you need from Claudia Maynard, and you’ll lose what you’re playing the game for: a chance to put some bread in the bank and to keep yourself in Gretchen’s income bracket. To keep Gretchen.
Dorsey stepped past Gretchen, his head hanging in frustration, and moved around the table to face the girl. He took the pen and pad and settled into the chair.
“We’re through for now,” he told the girl. “You’re not doing so well, so there’s no sense to push it. But believe me, you’ll have to make a statement sometime. You’re going to have to tell all you know. I’ll try to call and set a time, but don’t be surprised if you hear from some other people instead. There’s a guy named Meara I’ll be checking in with. He’s a prosecutor in Pittsburgh. Most likely, he’ll talk to the Cambria County DA, who will send out his detectives to see you. And trust me, you will write out a few things for them, bet on it. So if you hear from me first, you can consider yourself lucky. It’ll be easier to talk to me.”
Sick of himself, Dorsey pushed away from the table and went out into the street, walking the half block to the Buick. Looking back through the storefront window, he saw Gretchen comforting the girl, guessing that she was suggesting that Claudia calm herself before trying to drive home through the snow. Once at the Buick, he started the engine, turned up the heater, then stepped back out to scrape ice from the bottom of the windshield.
Say good-bye to the Maynard girl, he told himself, tearing the wiper blades from the frozen glass. She’ll call Gretz and Gretz will call the priest. The damage will be assessed and the girl goes back on vacation. Fourteen men will be warned and told to watch their step. And Ed Damjani, the priest’s personal lunatic: he’ll know you were up here. Watch your back, Dorsey, Damjani is on his way.