Free Deadline by Gerry Boyle Page A

about the kids, the fire truck, the boat.
    â€œI can’t believe it. He seemed nice that day. Remember how sort of shy he was? He had been at a football game and he was having hot chocolate to warm up, and it was like he didn’t want to look me right in the eye but he kept almost peeking at me.”
    â€œHe was afraid of women. Especially young, attractive ones.”
    â€œWell, what happened?”
    â€œI don’t know. They say—the medical examiner, I mean—says it was an accidental drowning. But I don’t buy it. Where he was is in the middle of nowhere, and he didn’t even have a car. So what did hedo? Walk down there in the middle of the night to look at the view and get too close to the edge?”
    â€œWhat do the police think?” she said.
    â€œAccidental death until they find something that says otherwise.”
    â€œThey must have their reasons, don’t you think?”
    â€œYeah, like they don’t feel like worrying about it, like it might involve some work. It’s a big rubber stamp. Bang, bang. Case closed.”
    â€œDid he kill himself?” Roxanne asked.
    â€œI don’t know. Maybe. He seemed fine to me, though. Strange, the way he was, but happy enough. Basketball is about to start up and he really liked shooting basketball photos. It was warm, which is why he hated football. He said he had bad circulation, and he’d freeze standing around outside like that.
    â€œBut it’s not just that. He wasn’t the type to do something dramatic like that. I don’t know. Something so final. He hemmed and hawed over everything. Which shot was better, which one to print, did I like this one, did I like that one better. Drive you crazy.”
    I finished my beer and ate a spoonful of chili.
    â€œThis is really good. You don’t cook bad for a sexpot.”
    Roxanne sat with her legs crossed. I was glad she didn’t paint her toenails.
    â€œSo what are you going to write?” she asked, fiddling in the chili with her spoon.
    â€œI don’t know. A news story. Write it straight. That’s all I can do right now. I’ll do some kind of profile, too. ‘Stobit,’ they call it. Part story, part obituary. But I’ll keep pushing. Do an editorial. Maybe if I write enough nasty things about the cops and the medical examiner, they’ll reopen the case. Bow to media pressure. Appoint a special commission to investigate allegations of neglect of duty and corruption.”
    â€œHave you ever had that happen?”
    â€œWritten stories that resulted in commissions being formed?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œActually, I was involved in one. The Journal , in Providence. They had this hotshot investigative reporter who did some stories on a Mafia judge. Guy ended up being booted off the bench. I was just a gofer. But that was the Journal . This is the Androscoggin Review . There’s something called the clout factor, and I don’t know how much we have.”
    I finished my beer and put it down on the floor by Roxanne’s shoes.
    â€œI guess I’ll find out,” I said.
    â€œYou’ve got clout with me,” Roxanne said.
    â€œJust so you don’t want me to tie you up.”
    â€œDo people really do that?” she giggled.
    â€œDon’t ask me. I just know what I see in Times Square.”
    â€œAnd what’s that?”
    â€œNothing as nice as what I see right now.”
    â€œYou didn’t really go there, did you? To those movies, I mean.”
    â€œHell no. I just went there to buy heroin.”
    â€œWhat am I getting myself into here?” she said, putting her arms around me.
    â€œI’ve been asking myself that question,” I said, kissing her deeply, and then deeper than that.

6

    I really had worked on a story like that. It was back when I was a young would-be hotshot working eighty hours a week at the Journal . The story had to do with bid-rigging and the