Free Dead Heat by Linda Barnes

stubble on the man’s chin, which ruled out the first possibility, and there was the immediate sense of familiarity, which supported the second. Not that he recalled seeing Heineman on the midget screen; he had seen Heineman clones, boy-men for whom the words clean-cut and fresh-faced had been invented.
    The planes in the man’s face were stronger than his handshake. He had brownish blond hair, razor cut, gleaming with studied casualness—and possibly hairspray. Spraggue returned the handshake, gripping a little harder than necessary.
    Heineman removed a small notebook from his pocket, a leatherbound notebook so slim it hadn’t disrupted the line of his suit. He flipped it open to a clean page, slipped a stub of pencil from a band of leather near the binding, and said with a faintly Southern drawl, “What have you come up with on the Donagher business?”
    Spraggue had learned the poker face early in life, at a time when the comings and goings of the Spraggue family had been fodder for gossip columnists and intrusive insensitive photographers, mastering it in all its icy perfection at his parents’ funeral. It settled over his features as he peered around him. The Square was crowded with pedestrian traffic. A lot of passersby wore running shoes. The out-of-towners in for the marathon liked to catch a glimpse of Harvard. He couldn’t see anyone holding a TV camera. They didn’t make them small enough to be imperceptible. Not yet.
    He said, “Why don’t we go somewhere and talk about it?”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œThe Harvest Bar is noisy, but it’s close.”
    â€œFine.”
    The red-haired waitress knew Heineman by name. She fussed over him, wiping the already spotless butcherblock table with a damp rag until it sparkled, turning on a full-voltage smile, so powerful it drew the glances of other patrons, who, with extreme casualness, indicated to their companions that a presence, a celebrity, was in the very same room!
    Heineman made conversation while Spraggue ordered a glass of wine. How much he’d enjoyed the production of As You Like It , mostly.
    â€œDo you have any identification?” Spraggue asked.
    â€œEd Heineman,” the man said, stunned. “The waitress knows me. Everyone—I guess you haven’t seen the weekend news lately.”
    â€œYou must have a card or something.”
    The man went fishing in his hip pocket, eager to dispel the idea of possible fraud. He opened an impeccable card case, displayed Edward Heineman’s driver’s license embellished with Edward Heineman’s photo. Even the Registry of Motor Vehicles hadn’t been able to take a bad picture of the man. Spraggue feigned nearsightedness to get the card case into his own hands, clumsily dropped it, and spent a moment shuffling through the plastic sleeves to get back to the license before handing it back.
    â€œSo what is this about?” Spraggue said, sipping his glass of Burgundy. Heineman drank Scotch on the rocks.
    â€œThe Donagher death threats,”
    â€œWhy talk to me about that?”
    Heineman stared at his drink. “A tip.”
    â€œYou checked this tip out with the senator?”
    â€œMight have.”
    â€œI can’t very well comment on something I know nothing about. Not for the record.” Spraggue signaled for the waitress, asked her to bring the check.
    â€œOff the record,” Heineman said.
    â€œOff the reccord, what did you expect to get?”
    â€œThe story from your angle.”
    â€œWhich is?”
    â€œYou were in on that disturbance at the reservoir. Did Donagher hire you after that? Or,” he said, when Spraggue didn’t respond, didn’t even raise an eyebrow, “are you investigating something else for the senator, something of a more personal nature?”
    â€œYou’ve got some inaccurate information, Mr. Heineman.”
    â€œEd,” the man said ingratiatingly.
    Spraggue