Free Rough Justice by Andrew Klavan

belly.
    â€œThe way they’re what?”
    Lansing’s lips twisted, her eyes flashed. “Rafferty …”
    â€œJohn.”
    This time the call came from across the room, the other side of the maze. I looked up and saw Emma Walsh standing at the entrance of the hallway to manager’s row. Now, all around me, the city room’s rhythm dipped again, like the power from an overloaded line. The managing editor’s soft, slightly southern voice reached me easily.
    â€œCould I see you in my office for a moment, please.”
    I didn’t look left or right as I went to her. I passed by the cubicles without turning. I felt the eyes follow me, though. I heard the tapping at the terminals cease. And I heard that whisper in the back of my mind: Someone has to pay .
    Emma Walsh stayed where she was as I came toward her. In her pleated green skirt, her snug green sweater, her brown hair spilling long down her back, she looked like a former prom queen waiting for her husband at the kitchen door. But when I reached her, I saw the gray eyes were grim, the red lips pressed tight.
    â€œCome on in,” she said. She said it gently, sympathetically.
    I wiped my dry mouth and went past her into her office. I stood in the center of it, and looked out through the window at the edge of the Pan Am Building. I heard the door close as she came in. I turned to find her leaning against it, her hands behind her, her eyes on me.
    â€œHow are you feeling?”
    â€œPerky,” I said. I stuck a fresh cigarette in my mouth.
    â€œJohn …”
    â€œThey killed the Watts piece, didn’t they?”
    â€œThey didn’t kill it … Christ!” she said suddenly. “You’ve been practically strangled, how can you smoke those …” I looked at her. She stopped. “They want to hold off on it. Until all this is over.”
    â€œYou mean in twenty-five years to life?”
    â€œWhen the investigation’s over, they’ll—”
    But the anger flashed out of me. I shouted at her: “Watts is on the investigation, Walsh.”
    She came off the door at once, pumping her finger at me. “I’m your goddamned managing editor, Wells, don’t you talk to me like that.”
    She halted midway toward me. I looked at her through a drag of smoke.
    â€œYou learn quick,” I said.
    The breath shuddered out of her. She ran her hand up through her hair.
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    â€œYou said you’d fight for me.”
    â€œI did. I will. Ach!” She threw her hands up, moved away from me. Moved behind her desk. But she didn’t sit down. She stood there, her fist resting on the blotter.
    â€œMr. Bush feels,” she said to the floor, “that the situation is tricky. Because of his … association with the commissioner, our relations with the cops have been very good. And he feels that would be jeopardized if we … seemed to be waging war with them. As in: You bust our reporter, we bust your lieutenant. That kind of thing.”
    She did not look up. She did not see me lift my cigarette to my lips. She did not see my hand trembling.
    â€œWatts is on the fucking case.” I said it softly this time.
    â€œThe cops won’t admit that. They say Derringer’s got it.”
    â€œDerringer? He’s on short time. He hasn’t got anything. Emma …” I reached a hand out toward her. I didn’t care if she saw it shake or not. “I don’t know what that guy was doing in my apartment. I don’t know why he attacked me, what he wanted, but I …” I had to force the words out. “I killed him … in self-defense.”
    She lifted her head finally. She looked at me. “I know that. We all know that.”
    â€œAnd Watts is gonna try to nail me for it. He has to. He knows what I’ve got. It’s him or me.”
    There was a pencil holder on her desk. An elegant gold cup. She reached out and