Free Dead Heat by Linda Barnes Page A

ignored him, waiting for the check.
    â€œLook,” Heineman said, “I know you’ve been to Donagher’s house. The police—”
    â€œAre they your source?”
    â€œI’m not divulging any sources.”
    â€œFine with me. I’m not divulging any answers.”
    The waitress edged her way through the crowd to their table while Heineman got flustered. “Let me pay for your drink at least,” he said angrily. “I’m not doing this well. I just want a story. I don’t know what you’ve heard about me. This is a tough town to break into. I got this tip and it seems hot; it involves a lot of well-known names. This is a slow news day. I’m just following up on a possible lead the way any reporter would. I know I’ve got a lot to prove in this town, partly because of, well, what I look like, and partly because of where I work. TV newspeople aren’t exactly respected around here. I’d give my eyeteeth to break a major story within six weeks of arriving, spit in the face of those damn holy print people—”
    The man was starting to look positively human. His face was getting red, as if his tie had suddenly tightened up and turned into a noose.
    â€œIs this an indication of your usual reportorial finesse?” Spraggue asked, watching the Scotch waver in its glass as Heineman banged his hand on the tabletop.
    â€œDammit, no,” the reporter said. “I’m usually … I mean, I’m damn good at my job.”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œI should never have done this,” Heineman muttered. He snatched the check off the table, knocking the bar glass to the floor in a shower of golden liquid and broken glass. It missed the elegant tie, the blue shirt, the gray suit, and soaked a paunchy gentleman at the next table. Heineman marched off to the bar, paid the check, and left without a backward glance. He didn’t even smile at the waitress, who looked crushed by his indifference. A murmur from the crowd followed him out the door.
    There were two telephones in an alcove near the entrance, one in working order. Spraggue waited for a woman in tight jeans to finish relating a tale of automotive repair woes. He fed a dime into the machine, dialed, and got an answer after five rings.
    â€œLet me talk to her, Pierce,” he said.
    â€œCould you possibly call back after seven?”
    â€œDon’t give me that. She’s playing some game and doesn’t want to be disturbed. Disturb her.”
    â€œWell …” Pierce sounded hesitant.
    â€œYell at her.”
    The sound that came over the receiver managed to be shocked and refined at the same time. A man behind Spraggue coughed, just a gentle reminder that there was only one usable public phone and it was highly sought after.
    â€œI am not playing games.” Mary’s voice came over so strongly that he held the receiver away from his ear. “I was meditating; and you have interrupted me. I will never reach a higher plane of existence if you—”
    â€œDo you remember a little conversation we had about threats on some politician’s life?”
    â€œI am far from senile.”
    â€œYou didn’t happen to give out the information that I was interested in the case? To a newsman?”
    â€œHow could I, not being privy to that information?”
    â€œSomeone did.”
    â€œWill you be on the six o’clock news, dear? Which station?”
    â€œAunt Mary—”
    â€œI admit that I have selfishly enjoyed occasional snooping at your behest.”
    â€œAnd that you would like to see the formation of a firm of private investigators with Spraggue and Hillman on the front door in gold leaf.”
    â€œMy dear, it is late in life for me to consider taking up a new profession and I would insist that the door say Hillman and Spraggue.”
    â€œI thought so.”
    â€œBut I did not abet the media.”
    â€œAn Edward Heineman from