Mrs. Goodfellowe had filed another complaint. Sam was embarrassed about the scene on the stairwell, but he was way more upset about Mrs. Goodfellowe’s call.
“Lanie, she could shut us down. Actually, she wouldn’t have to. Canfield and his crowd would do it for her. What were you thinking?”
“Sam, please—”
“I thought you understood. You could lose this column. Hell, you could lose your career. One call from Canfield and you wouldn’t be able to get a job at any paper of standing.”
“I do understand—”
“Do you? Goodfellowe talked to Canfield; Canfield talked to Ramsey. If you don’t change tracks, I’ll have to give your column to Selena. I won’t have a choice. She’s already done a draft copy—and it’s a damn fine one. It’s bright, cheerful, Christmassy.”
Give my column to—? I flashed on the scene in the stairwell. “I should’ve seen it coming.”
“I’m sorry, Lanie. I’ll have to do it.”
“Oh, yeah. Tell me how they’re forcing you.”
His expression hardened. “They’re not forcing me. You are. You’re leaving me little choice. You insist upon doing things your way, and you don’t tell me what’s going on—not till it’s too damn late.”
“This should not be about covering your ass. It should be about the Todd case.”
“No, it should be about the paper—and the fact that I’m responsible, not just for you, but for every soul who works for me. You’re worried about one family; I’m worried about fifty.”
He was right. But so was I. I had to make him see things differently or we’d both lose. For once I decided to be diplomatic and concede a point or two.
“All right. You’re angry and you have a right to be. I should’ve told you about my being attacked. I should’ve dug deeper before going with Whitfield. But please, believe me. This time I’m dead on.”
He shook his head in bewilderment. “You don’t know when to stop, do you? We’ve taken a huge blow to our credibility. This paper is practically on its knees, and you’re still pushing.”
That temper of mine surged back. I stood up, trembling. “I’ll stop when Esther Todd is found—dead or alive. I’ll stop when I know who took her from her family, who robbed her of all she had. I’ll stop,” I said, “when I’ve kept my promise to her son.”
He gave me a long look of frustration. “Do you think you’re the only one who cares about Esther? I could’ve blocked you from writing that column to begin with. I almost wish I had, ‘cause you don’t appreciate what anybody does for you. You keep demanding more and more. Nobody’s sacrifice counts but your own.”
I was speechless. Did he really see me that way? As self-righteous and obsessed? “Sam, listen—”
“No, you listen. Esther Todd is probably dead. You know it and I know it. Hell, the whole world knows it. Every one of those people out in that newsroom wishes it wasn’t so. Every one of them would love to see her found, and her killer caught. But none of them is willing to lose their job to bring up the bones of a dead woman—and I won’t ask them to.”
“That’s not what I want—”
“Isn’t it?”
“No, it isn’t.” I sank back down in the chair, all anger gone. “You’re right, Sam, right about so many things. About me being so pigheaded. And how I’ve gone about this whole thing. But please don’t let outsiders force you to make a choice you don’t have to make. Don’t let them pit us against one another.”
I spoke from my heart, reaching for the compassion in his, the compassion that was being used against him. “It’s not the Todd family versus the families in the newsroom. It’s the truth versus lies and darkness and the ugliness it hides. Please, let me file this last column.”
His expression told me nothing, so I played my last card.
“If it turns out I’m wrong, you won’t have to fire me. I’ll quit.”
That got him. Sadness flitted across his face. He cleared his throat in the way of a man choosing his words carefully.
“Lanie,” he began, “you know that to me, you’re irreplaceable, but to the world, and that includes this paper, you’re not.” He paused. “So if you make that kind of offer, I’ll to have to take you up on it.”
Though spoken softly and expected, his words were a blow. Heart in my throat, I nodded. “I know.”
There was a long silence.
“All right,” he said. “Tell me what you plan to write.”
Terrified of saying the wrong thing, I took a few seconds to collect my thoughts. Then I began, watching his face for reaction.
The structure of the column would be simple, I said. I would review Esther’s kidnapping and bracket it with descriptions of Eric Alan Powell’s murder and the Goodfellowe heist, stringing them together like pearls in a necklace of crime. I explained my theory that whoever killed Powell might’ve kidnapped Esther, most likely because she knew something she shouldn’t have.
“The only official suspect in the Powell killing was Kelly, but he makes a weak one. He had no apparent reason to shoot Powell. But Powell would’ve had an excellent reason to shoot him, if he wanted to fake his own death as a prelude to robbing his rich wife.”
“Humph,” Sam said.
He was clearly intrigued. Leaning back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest, he reflected. Fifteen long seconds went by. Finally, in agitation, he ran his hands over his face, sighed and sat up.
“It sounds good, Lanie. Real good. Crazy as it is, it could even be right. But you know I can’t print it. We’d be endangering the paper.”
“We’d damage it more by not printing it.”
“Tell you what: I’ll give you twenty-four hours to give me something that would justify every word. This time tomorrow, be here to show me what you’ve got. It has to be airtight, or else.”
He didn’t have to say more. I took a deep breath. Twenty-four hours. It was better than nothing, but was it enough?
“Thanks.” I started to leave.
“Lanie?”
“Yes?” I paused in the doorway.
“Be careful. Watch your back.”
I nodded and went out.
Selena sauntered over and whispered in my ear. “So much for your chances of screwing your way to the top.”
The next sound was of my hand meeting her flesh. She stumbled back into George’s desk. There were snickers and giggles. Sam had come out to lay an edited piece on George’s desk. Stunned and holding her cheek, Selena turned to him, pointed at me and pouted.
“Did you see what she—”
“Shut up,” he snapped.
Back at my desk, I put in a call to the Chicago police department, the criminal records division. It took a bit of doing, but I finally got someone on the line who knew about the Powell case, one Lieutenant Daniel Ramsey. His voice was gruff, but he seemed all right.
“What d’you need?”
“Do you have Powell’s fingerprints on file?”
Ramsey thought about it for a second. “Yeah, we should.”
“Could you check, please?”
“Lady, that’s gonna take time.”
“I’d appreciate it. It’s important.”
“Why?”
“I’m working on a story angle, an old case. And I’m wondering if Powell had something to do with it.”
Ramsey took a moment. “Okay. I tell you what. You call me back in a couple of hours and I’ll see what I can do for you.”
“Thanks.”
After hanging up, I took out my notepad and found the telephone number for Denver Sutton.
“I’d like to have a talk, about Eric Alan Powell.”
He paused. “Powell, huh? Well, that’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. And you want to talk about him? May I ask why?”
“It has to do with a story I’m working on.”
“The same story you were doing when you came by today? Mrs. Goodfellowe was mighty upset after that. I don’t think she’d appreciate my talking to you.”
I paused. “Put it like this: Given what I’m preparing to write, Mrs. Goodfellowe would be upset if you didn’t talk to me.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means meet with me.”
“Okay,” he said, still cautious. “But when?”
“In an hour.”
He paused and I held my breath.
“Where?” he asked.
I thought fast. I didn’t want to meet in a fancy club, just a nice anonymous dive. I gave him an address. He hesitated.
“Is that one of them Harlem speakeasies?”
“It sure is. You scared to come up here?”
He gave a chuckle. “Hell, no.”