the cop says and warns Ronnie not to plan any big trips anytime soon.
According to Ronnie Sax, he had dinner with his sister and her kids on Wednesday night and didn’t leave until after eleven. He also says he had a photo shoot on Thursday morning, across town.
“I’ve got witnesses,” he says.
He asks me if I know a good lawyer. In exchange for a few more minutes gleaning some more background and quotes from Sax, I tell him he ought to contact Marcus Green. Marcus, with the aid of Kate Ellis, my third ex-wife, will be indebted to me, although he’d probably be looking up Ronnie Sax anyhow as soon as this breaks on the six o’clock news tonight. Marcus loves publicity more than a beagle loves bacon.
The background stuff is important: I want to be able to call the cops and tell them that I’ve had a long interview with Mr. Sax myself, and that he claims he had nothing to do with any of this and is going to sue them. Maybe then, after they get tired of threatening me for interfering with a police investigation, they’ll tell me what they’ve got, or at least give me some bullshit quote, just so the story in tomorrow morning’s paper doesn’t look so one-sided.
I leave Ronnie Sax and head back to catch the second half of the four o’clock NFL game.
“Skins lost,” Custalow informs me. Stop the presses.
I open a beer and get out the laptop. Until they start letting me drink openly in the office, I prefer to send stories I write on my off days from the comfort of my own rented abode.
I step into the other room and call Peachy, who tells me who the lead detective is on this case. Fella named Lombardo who I don’t know that well. She gives me his number.
Lombardo knows who I am, which doesn’t help us get off to a good start. Things go downhill when he learns that I’ve already interviewed Ronnie Sax.
“How the fuck did you know about that?” Obviously the cops who took Sax’s computer didn’t tell Lombardo I was there.
“Can I quote you? It’d make my boss happy to know I’m doing such a good job. He might even give me a raise.”
Lombardo sputters a little. When he knows I’m serious about writing what Sax has told me, he finally calms down and gives me a passable quote about “ongoing investigation” and all that crap. He does confirm, though, that they’re going over Sax’s electronic records with the proverbial fine-tooth comb.
“You know, Black,” he says before we part ways, “you’re going to stick that big nose of yours where it doesn’t belong one time too many and get it shot off one of these days.”
I wish him a good evening.
I file the story, then put it onto our website. Someone else will put it into yet a third place, our tablet site, for which we are getting a few of our former readers to pay a very small amount. Print journalism, from where I sit, is trading dollars for dimes.
I go to bed early enough that Custalow asks me if I’m feeling well.
It’s a fitful sleep. I keep thinking about Ronnie Sax, and about those girls. I haven’t had a lot of interaction with psychopaths and sadists, but Mr. Sax had me fooled. I always thought of him, if I thought of him at all, as feckless and weak.
I didn’t have Ronnie Sax pegged as pure evil, until now.
CHAPTER SIX
X
Monday
P eachy Love’s call comes while I’m shaving.
“He’s gone,” she says.
Doesn’t take a genius to figure out who “he” is.
The police, who had planned to call a press conference this morning announcing the arrest of a “person of interest” in the Tweety Bird murders, should have kept Ronnie Sax when they had the chance. When they popped around before six, planning to haul Sax away in his pajamas, he was, as Peachy Love said, long gone. Flown the coop. Tweety Bird takes wing.
It’s eight thirty already, and I wonder what kind of damage control is going on. The chief must be needing adult diapers by now.
When I call headquarters, I’m told Chief Jones isn’t in, won’t be in
According to Ronnie Sax, he had dinner with his sister and her kids on Wednesday night and didn’t leave until after eleven. He also says he had a photo shoot on Thursday morning, across town.
“I’ve got witnesses,” he says.
He asks me if I know a good lawyer. In exchange for a few more minutes gleaning some more background and quotes from Sax, I tell him he ought to contact Marcus Green. Marcus, with the aid of Kate Ellis, my third ex-wife, will be indebted to me, although he’d probably be looking up Ronnie Sax anyhow as soon as this breaks on the six o’clock news tonight. Marcus loves publicity more than a beagle loves bacon.
The background stuff is important: I want to be able to call the cops and tell them that I’ve had a long interview with Mr. Sax myself, and that he claims he had nothing to do with any of this and is going to sue them. Maybe then, after they get tired of threatening me for interfering with a police investigation, they’ll tell me what they’ve got, or at least give me some bullshit quote, just so the story in tomorrow morning’s paper doesn’t look so one-sided.
I leave Ronnie Sax and head back to catch the second half of the four o’clock NFL game.
“Skins lost,” Custalow informs me. Stop the presses.
I open a beer and get out the laptop. Until they start letting me drink openly in the office, I prefer to send stories I write on my off days from the comfort of my own rented abode.
I step into the other room and call Peachy, who tells me who the lead detective is on this case. Fella named Lombardo who I don’t know that well. She gives me his number.
Lombardo knows who I am, which doesn’t help us get off to a good start. Things go downhill when he learns that I’ve already interviewed Ronnie Sax.
“How the fuck did you know about that?” Obviously the cops who took Sax’s computer didn’t tell Lombardo I was there.
“Can I quote you? It’d make my boss happy to know I’m doing such a good job. He might even give me a raise.”
Lombardo sputters a little. When he knows I’m serious about writing what Sax has told me, he finally calms down and gives me a passable quote about “ongoing investigation” and all that crap. He does confirm, though, that they’re going over Sax’s electronic records with the proverbial fine-tooth comb.
“You know, Black,” he says before we part ways, “you’re going to stick that big nose of yours where it doesn’t belong one time too many and get it shot off one of these days.”
I wish him a good evening.
I file the story, then put it onto our website. Someone else will put it into yet a third place, our tablet site, for which we are getting a few of our former readers to pay a very small amount. Print journalism, from where I sit, is trading dollars for dimes.
I go to bed early enough that Custalow asks me if I’m feeling well.
It’s a fitful sleep. I keep thinking about Ronnie Sax, and about those girls. I haven’t had a lot of interaction with psychopaths and sadists, but Mr. Sax had me fooled. I always thought of him, if I thought of him at all, as feckless and weak.
I didn’t have Ronnie Sax pegged as pure evil, until now.
CHAPTER SIX
X
Monday
P eachy Love’s call comes while I’m shaving.
“He’s gone,” she says.
Doesn’t take a genius to figure out who “he” is.
The police, who had planned to call a press conference this morning announcing the arrest of a “person of interest” in the Tweety Bird murders, should have kept Ronnie Sax when they had the chance. When they popped around before six, planning to haul Sax away in his pajamas, he was, as Peachy Love said, long gone. Flown the coop. Tweety Bird takes wing.
It’s eight thirty already, and I wonder what kind of damage control is going on. The chief must be needing adult diapers by now.
When I call headquarters, I’m told Chief Jones isn’t in, won’t be in
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