Free Justice at Risk by John Morgan Wilson Page B

either.”
    “I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you. Sit down.”
    I sat.
    “I said I don’t have anything on it besides what ran on the wire.” He looked at me sideways. “You think it’s worth looking into?”
    “Callahan was a videotape editor with a drinking problem. He was writing and co-producing a segment for the PBS series that I inherited. His first writing-producing job. Disappeared mysteriously from a hot pillow joint in Hollywood. I think he was gay, maybe with a taste for sadomasochism. That’s about all I know.”
    “I’ll have Templeton keep an eye on it.”
    “She’s got her hands full.”
    “With the cuts I’m about to make, her hands’ll be dragging down around her ankles. One more murder shouldn’t make all that much difference.” Harry tried to smile, didn’t quite get there. “She’s come along real well, Ben. Two or three more years, and I could have rounded her into shape. The way I did you, before you went and fucked everything up.”
    His eyes twinkled a little through their puffiness, and the grin finally showed up on his sagging face. We’d both come a long way to get to this point, where we could smile about what I’d done to both our careers. Harry, in particular, had gone the extra distance. I was damned grateful for it. Someday, I’d have to tell him that.
    “I’d offer to buy you dinner at the Mandarin Deli, Harry, but I have a feeling you’re going to be working late.”
    He stood. I did the same.
    “Yeah, I got more meetings.” He came around his desk, and surprised me by putting an arm around my shoulders as he walked me to the door. “This wasn’t the way I saw it all ending, Ben. Petering out with a whimper, instead of going out with a bang.”
    “Is it that definite—the Sun folding?”
    “The guys upstairs are trying to round up investors, find a buyer. Pull in another loan if they can, but that’s a real long shot.”
    “Maybe something good’ll happen.”
    “Yeah, maybe.”
    “Get some rest, Harry.”
    “I’ll do that.” The smile was long gone. “Right after I call in twelve reporters and tell them they don’t have jobs anymore.”

Chapter Seven
     
    At sundown, I walked Fred’s golden retriever, Maggie, around the Norma Triangle, turning down her favorite streets where the smells were strongest. She shuffled along slowly, with a slight limp, and it took us a while. As I meandered along patiently beside her, I tried not to see Harry in her tired gait.
    Back at the house, I brought in the day’s mail, fed the cats, then logged a three-mile hike up into the hills above Sunset Boulevard, which I finished off with a hundred sit-ups, fifty pushups, and a chicken-and-bean burrito from Taco Taco down on the corner. After a nap and a shower, I called Oree Joffrien, hoping to score a dinner date sometime in the next week. He was out, and I left a message on his voice mail, thanking him again for giving me such a valuable interview earlier in the day, and asking him to call, no matter how late.
    Then I settled into the living room couch with the television on and the volume low, to make another pass through the research material for my show, making notes about the gaps I felt needed filling. It was sometime after ten when the chimes rang. I opened the door to find Peter Graff standing on the welcome mat, dressed in deck shoes, faded jeans, and a Minnesota Twins T-shirt, his hands pushed into his pants pockets.
    “Peter. What a nice surprise. Come in.”
    “It’s not too late?”
    “Not at all.”
    He stepped past me, and faced me in the middle of the living room.
    “What’s on your mind?”
    He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets so that his arms were fully extended, and the knobs of his shoulders raised a little. Then his eyes came up, slowly, until they found mine. His voice was quiet, sad.
    “I just wondered if you’d learned anything more about Tommy.”
    “I talked to a couple of friends at the Sun . They said they’d call if