Crime Beat Read Free Page B

mixed in with weather forecasts and the occasional pop tune.
    What none of those sources were able to deliver was Moretz’s in-depth insider information. Even the regional network news stations had come up short on the drug murder story because the sheriff had refused to go on record with them.
    At the drugstore, I sat with the mayor and a guy who’d made a fortune in real estate. The mayor, Patterson Wilbanks—a mayoral name if there ever was one—and the local developer, Andy Long, were fans of the paper, mostly because they each had a vested interest.
    The mayor counted on those ribbon-cutting photos steadily appearing on page 16 and Long was an advertiser, though most of his action these days came via Craig’s List. I suspected the Picayune ranked on the order of a mercy case with Long, but we would take all the mercy we could get.
    “I like that new reporter,” Mayor Wilbanks said. He was eating eggs and onions with toast and black coffee. Long, slightly more refined, had a blueberry bagel, a bowl of grits, and a glass of tomato juice.
    “He’s been a pleasant surprise.” Of course, I thought my discerning review of the job applicants had as much to do with the success as anything. The waitress came over, eyes purple from cigarettes and last night’s booze, and flipped a menu into the greasy swirl on the table before me.
    Long tipped his tomato juice at me. “I’ve been a subscriber for 35 years, and I used to read my parents’ subscription before that. The last couple of issues have been really strong.”
    “Thank you,” I said, fighting the urge to ingratiate myself to him. After all, that’s what the sales staff was for. Let them get a backache bending their spines to lick shoe leather. They worked on commission.
    Mayor Wilbanks spoke while chewing his eggs. “I guess your reporter heard about the collision last night.”
    “Collision?”
    “An ambulance was running back to the hospital from a heart-attack call and smacked head first into a Jeep.”
    I fidgeted with my napkin and the spotted silverware that lay on top of it. “Did anybody die?”
    “The radio said two people were critical.”
    Radio. What did the radio know?
    I squeezed the menu, wishing I could get an edition out before Monday. When you were in the information business, nothing hurt worse than waiting. I had one hand inside my jacket, reaching for my cell phone, when it purred against my chest.
    “Excuse me, gentlemen.” I left them to their meals while I flipped open my phone and spoke into it. “Hello, this is Howard.”
    “Yo, Chief.”
    “Moretz?”
    “Hope I didn’t interrupt anything. I wouldn’t call on a weekend unless it was important.”
    The other reporters never called on weekends. For that matter, I could never find them when I needed them. Our Monday edition was usually soft because we tried to round up everything that morning.
    Not only was it the start of the week, and therefore sources were likely to be late getting to the office, but Monday was a favorite for holidays, sick days, and vacations. The chances of getting a return phone call were almost as bad then as on Friday afternoon.
    “I appreciate your calling, John. What’s up?”
    “You may have heard about the head-on collision last night.”
    “Yeah.” I said it as if I slept with a scanner by my bed, but in truth, I enjoyed my down time as much as anybody. I just didn’t have as much of it as my reporters did, so I cherished it more. Or so I told myself. Farmville, e-mail, and that novel I’d been tinkering with for a decade were such pressing responsibilities.
    “One of them died and the other is probably getting sized for a toe tag this very minute.”
    “Damn. Where are you?”
    “The hospital. I drove in to check on their conditions.”
    The waitress came over and refilled the mayor’s coffee cup. She frowned at me and tapped her order pad. She had a faint, middle-aged mustache that grew more prominent when her face creased. I