available. But you’re talking a lot of hours. I bill at two twenty per. And the state ain’t picking up
this
tab.”
“But I really think he’s innocent.”
“So you say. Come up with fifteen, twenty thousand for a retainer, I’ll talk to you.”
“I was hoping you’d do it for free.”
Megler laughed again. Since he had no belly, it seemed to be his bones that were jiggling under the slick polyester skin of his shirt. “Free? I don’t believe I’m familiar with that word.”
FOR THE FIRST TIME IN HER LIFE RUNE HAD AN ASSIS tant.
Bradford Simpson volunteered to help her. She suspected he was motivated partly by his desire to go out with her—though she couldn’t for the life of her guess why he’d want her and not some beautiful Connecticut debutante who was tall and blonde (two of her least-favorite adjectives when applied to other women). On the other hand, he hadn’t exactly asked her out again after she’d turned him down and she supposed that his reappearance had more to do with journalistic crusading than romance.
“What can I do to help?” he’d asked.
And she’d gotten a little flustered, since she didn’t have a clue—never having had anyone work for her.
“Hmm, let me think.”
He’d offered, “How about if I dig through the archives for information about Hopper?”
“That sounds good,” she’d said.
He was now at her cubicle with another armful of files. He laid them out on her desk as neatly as his Robert Redford hair was combed and his penny loafers were polished.
“Did you know Lance Hopper?” she asked him.
“Not real well. He was killed a month after I started my first summer internship here. But I worked for him once or twice.”
“You
worked for the head of Network News?”
“Well, I wasn’t exactly an anchorman. But he gave assignments to all the interns. Scut work usually. But he also spent a lot of time with us, telling us about journalism, getting stories, editing. He’s the one who started the intern program. I think he would’ve made a good professor.” Bradford fell quiet for a moment. “He did a lot for me, for all of us interns.”
Rune broke the somber spell by saying, “Don’t worry. We’ll pay him back.”
Bradford turned his blue eyes toward her questioningly.
She said, “We’re going to find who really killed him.”
chapter 8
WHAT’S THAT ?
Rune opened her eyes, stared up at the ceiling of her houseboat’s bedroom, watching the ripples of the morning sun reflecting onto the off-white paint.
She turned her head, squinting.
What’s wrong?
She felt the boat gently rocking in the Hudson, water lapping against the hull. Heard the baritone grind of a boat engine that seemed near but was probably two hundred yards away—she’d learned how noise carries on the water. The sound of rush-hour traffic too.
So what was it? What was missing? What wasn’t here that ought to be?
The tie-dye sheet had tangled around her feet, a percale Gordian knot. Her white Joy of Movement T-shirt had ridden up to her neck and her hair was in her face. Rune was a restless sleeper. She untangled her feet and pulled the shirt down. She brushed a crescent of pizza crust out of the bed and sat upright.
Well, part of it was the silence—a special kind of silence, the sort that comes from the
absence
of a human being.
Rune realized that Claire was gone.
The young woman always had her Walkman plugged in by nine A.M. Even upstairs, in the houseboat’s bedroom, Rune usually could hear the raspy chunk of decibels murdering Claire’s eardrums.
But today, nothing.
Rune went into the white-enameled head, thinking: Maybe she got up early to go shopping. But no, none of her stores—clothing and cosmetics—opened before ten or eleven.
Which meant that maybe she’d left for Boston!
Which is exactly what happened. Rune, downstairs, stood in the middle of the living room and read the note Claire had left. As she scanned the words she
this
tab.”
“But I really think he’s innocent.”
“So you say. Come up with fifteen, twenty thousand for a retainer, I’ll talk to you.”
“I was hoping you’d do it for free.”
Megler laughed again. Since he had no belly, it seemed to be his bones that were jiggling under the slick polyester skin of his shirt. “Free? I don’t believe I’m familiar with that word.”
FOR THE FIRST TIME IN HER LIFE RUNE HAD AN ASSIS tant.
Bradford Simpson volunteered to help her. She suspected he was motivated partly by his desire to go out with her—though she couldn’t for the life of her guess why he’d want her and not some beautiful Connecticut debutante who was tall and blonde (two of her least-favorite adjectives when applied to other women). On the other hand, he hadn’t exactly asked her out again after she’d turned him down and she supposed that his reappearance had more to do with journalistic crusading than romance.
“What can I do to help?” he’d asked.
And she’d gotten a little flustered, since she didn’t have a clue—never having had anyone work for her.
“Hmm, let me think.”
He’d offered, “How about if I dig through the archives for information about Hopper?”
“That sounds good,” she’d said.
He was now at her cubicle with another armful of files. He laid them out on her desk as neatly as his Robert Redford hair was combed and his penny loafers were polished.
“Did you know Lance Hopper?” she asked him.
“Not real well. He was killed a month after I started my first summer internship here. But I worked for him once or twice.”
“You
worked for the head of Network News?”
“Well, I wasn’t exactly an anchorman. But he gave assignments to all the interns. Scut work usually. But he also spent a lot of time with us, telling us about journalism, getting stories, editing. He’s the one who started the intern program. I think he would’ve made a good professor.” Bradford fell quiet for a moment. “He did a lot for me, for all of us interns.”
Rune broke the somber spell by saying, “Don’t worry. We’ll pay him back.”
Bradford turned his blue eyes toward her questioningly.
She said, “We’re going to find who really killed him.”
chapter 8
WHAT’S THAT ?
Rune opened her eyes, stared up at the ceiling of her houseboat’s bedroom, watching the ripples of the morning sun reflecting onto the off-white paint.
She turned her head, squinting.
What’s wrong?
She felt the boat gently rocking in the Hudson, water lapping against the hull. Heard the baritone grind of a boat engine that seemed near but was probably two hundred yards away—she’d learned how noise carries on the water. The sound of rush-hour traffic too.
So what was it? What was missing? What wasn’t here that ought to be?
The tie-dye sheet had tangled around her feet, a percale Gordian knot. Her white Joy of Movement T-shirt had ridden up to her neck and her hair was in her face. Rune was a restless sleeper. She untangled her feet and pulled the shirt down. She brushed a crescent of pizza crust out of the bed and sat upright.
Well, part of it was the silence—a special kind of silence, the sort that comes from the
absence
of a human being.
Rune realized that Claire was gone.
The young woman always had her Walkman plugged in by nine A.M. Even upstairs, in the houseboat’s bedroom, Rune usually could hear the raspy chunk of decibels murdering Claire’s eardrums.
But today, nothing.
Rune went into the white-enameled head, thinking: Maybe she got up early to go shopping. But no, none of her stores—clothing and cosmetics—opened before ten or eleven.
Which meant that maybe she’d left for Boston!
Which is exactly what happened. Rune, downstairs, stood in the middle of the living room and read the note Claire had left. As she scanned the words she
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