Bad Break: A Novel

Chapter Forty-Four

There's no way my cell phone ringing at five-thirty a.m. can be a good thing. It never is, and I never have to look at the caller ID.

"Morning chief," I say groggily.

To my surprise, Watson doesn't swear at me. Instead, he takes a deep breath, as if to compose himself, and asks, "Are you sure?"

I assume he's talking about my Metro section cover story, headlined, Sources Say Possible Witness to Teen Shootings Had Run-In With Police.

It definitely packs a punch. But the article itself is relatively short and intentionally vague, thanks to Fleisch ordering Limpett to give me some leeway.

"What part?"

But he's not in the mood. Neither am I.

"I don't report falsehoods," chief. "Reliable sources tell me that the potential witness to the triple hasn't surfaced because she's scared of cops - specific cops. We can speculate about why. But she's unwilling or unable."

"You know where she is?"

"Nope!"

"You know who she is?"

"Maybe. But I'm not a hundred percent certain."

Watson lets me go with an admonition to let the police do their jobs, ignoring my dig as to whether the fate of the city still rests on my shoulders.

I can't go back to sleep, so I do a hundred pushups and two hundred crunches, before jumping in the shower and podding a cup of coffee.

My television is on a timer that turns it on at six-thirty a.m. So when I come out of the shower, two anchors are beginning the top-of-the-hour newscast for CBS-2.

"New this morning, the Daily Midway reports that not only was there probably a witness to the fatal shootings of three boys, but that witness may be in danger..."

It isn't exactly what I said, but it explains some of Watson's angst.

What isn't explained is how he knew the witness was female. I hadn't reported that. Allah hasn't included it in any reports because he doesn't want to take any chances.

Somebody's got some 'splainin' to do.

And I hope as I head to the newsroom that I'll be allowed to gather that explanation.

###

"This is what I'm talking about, Blake! Good stuff!

I snap out of my daydream too late to dodge Limpett's clammy hand slapping my upper back hard enough to dislodge a choking hazard.

His awkward praise is for my latest story, the witness revelation. It creates a stir on talk radio and in City Hall.

Philosophers, clergy and pest control technicians aren't the only people who believe that if you want to find a rat or a roach, shine a light and watch 'em scramble.

No time to revel in it, though, as Calibretti and Limpett conspire to send me out to follow up on today's story. The streets are talking. The blocks are hot! And clueless as the two can be sometimes, even they've heard the buzz. Everyone wants to know who the witness is and whether that person can ID the killers and, theoretically, bring an end to the war before it gets under way.

Before either editor can change his mind and direct me back to the bowels of police headquarters, I dart out of the newsroom, past the ornate elevators adorned with copper engravings of T. Jefferson Simmons and Frederick Hapsburg Wilkerson, the former Ku Klux Klan leaders and founders of the Midway, and run down the stairs. I don't even pause to retort when Porter, the self-loathing parking lot attendant, yells out to me, "Watch yo' step on my asphalt, darkie!" Our relationship has returned to normal after he turned a blind eye to my "borrowing" of a delivery truck in order to stake out a burn house where Aretha Carr may have been spotted.