Part 6 (1/2)
Vince nodded as if such childishness was exactly what he'd come to expect of his managing editor, then took up the thread of his story once more. ”George the Artist, be he Rankin or Franklin, told Arla that Jim had pretty much reached the top end of that which his talent was capable, and he was one of the fortunate people who not only knew his limitations but was content with them. He said Jim's remaining ambition was to someday head Mountain Outlook's art department. And, given that ambition, cutting and running for the New England coast on the spur of the moment is just about the last thing he would have done.”
”But she thought that's what he did do,” Stephanie said. ”Isn't it?”
Vince put his coffee cup down and ran his hands through his fluff of white hair, which was already fairly crazy. ”Arla Cogan's like all of us,” he said, ”a prisoner of the evidence.
”James Cogan left his home at 6:45 AM on that Wednesday to make the drive to Denver by way of the Boulder Turnpike. The only luggage he had was that portfolio I mentioned. He was wearing a gray suit, a white s.h.i.+rt, a red tie, and a gray overcoat. Oh, and black loafers on his feet.”
”No green jacket?” Stephanie asked.
”No green jacket,” Dave agreed, ”but the gray slacks, white s.h.i.+rt, and black loafers was almost certainly what he was wearing when Johnny and Nancy found him sittin dead on the beach with his back against that litter basket.”
”His suit-coat?”
”Never found,” Dave said. ”The tie, neither-but accourse if a man takes off his tie, nine times out of ten he'll stuff it into the pocket of his suit-coat, and I'd be willin to bet that if that gray suit-coat ever did turn up, the tie'd be in the pocket.”
”He was at his office drawing board by 8:45 AM,” Vince said, ”working on a newspaper ad for King Sooper's.”
”What-?”
”Supermarket chain, dear,” Dave said.
”Around ten-fifteen,” Vince went on, ”George the Artist, be he Rankin or Franklin, saw our boy the Kid heading for the elevators. Cogan said he was goin around the corner to grab what he called 'a real coffee' at Starbucks and an egg salad sandwich for lunch, because he planned to eat at his desk. He asked George if George wanted anything.”
”This is all what Arla told you when you were driving her out to Tinnock?”
”Yes, ma'am. Taking her to speak with Cathcart, make a formal identification of the photo-'This is my husband, this is James Cogan'-and then sign an exhumation order. He was waiting for us.”
”All right. Sorry to interrupt. Go on.”
”Don't be sorry for asking questions, Stephanie, asking questions is what reporters do. In any case, George the Artist-”
”Be he Rankin or Franklin,” Dave put in helpfully.
”Ayuh, him-he told Cogan that he'd pa.s.s on the coffee, but he walked out to the elevator lobby with Cogan so they could talk a little bit about an upcoming retirement party for a fellow named Haverty, one of the agency's founders. The party was scheduled for mid-May, and George the Artist told Arla that her mister seemed excited and looking forward to it. They batted around ideas for a retirement gift until the elevator came, and then Cogan got on and told George the Artist they ought to talk about it some more at lunch and ask someone else-some woman they worked with-what she thought. George the Artist agreed that was a pretty good idea, Cogan gave him a little wave, the elevator doors slid closed, and that's the last person who can remember seeing the Colorado Kid when he was still in Colorado.”
”George the Artist,” she almost marveled. ”Do you suppose any of this would have happened if George had said, 'Oh, wait a minute, I'll just pull on my coat and go around the corner with you?' ”
”No way of telling,” Vince said.
”Was he wearing his coat?” she asked. ”Cogan? Was he wearing his gray overcoat when he went out?”
”Arla asked, but George the Artist didn't remember,” Vince said. ”The best he could do was say he didn't think so. And that's probably right. The Starbucks and the sandwich shop were side by side, and they really were right around the corner.”
”She also said there was a receptionist,” Dave put in, ”but the receptionist didn't see the men go out to the elevators. Said she 'must have been away from her desk for a minute.'” He shook his head disapprovingly. ”It's never that way in the mystery novels.”
But Stephanie's mind had seized on something else, and it occurred to her that she had been picking at crumbs while there was a roast sitting on the table. She held up the forefinger of her left hand beside her left cheek. ”George the Artist waves goodbye to Cogan-to the Colorado Kid-around ten-fifteen in the morning. Or maybe it's more like ten-twenty by the time the elevator actually comes and he gets on.”
”Ayuh,” Vince said. He was looking at her, bright-eyed. They both were.
Now Stephanie held up the forefinger of her right hand beside her right cheek. ”And the counter-girl at Jan's Wharfside across the reach in Tinnock said he ate his fish-and-chips basket at a table looking out over the water at around five-thirty in the afternoon.”
”Ayuh,” Vince said again.
”What's the time difference between Maine and Colorado? An hour?”
”Two,” Dave said.
”Two,” she said, and paused, and said it again. ”Two. So when George the Artist saw him for the last time, when those elevator doors slid shut, it was already past noon in Maine.”
”a.s.suming the times are right,” Dave agreed, ”and a.s.sume's all we can do, isn't it?”
”Would it work?” she asked them. ”Could he possibly have gotten here in that length of time?”
”Yes,” Vince said.
”No,” Dave said.
”Maybe,” they said together, and Stephanie sat looking from one to the other, bewildered, her coffee cup forgotten in her hand.
16.
”That's what makes this wrong for a newspaper like the Globe,” Vince said, after a little pause to sip his milky coffee and collect his thoughts. ”Even if we wanted to give it up.”
”Which we don't,” Dave put in (and rather testily).
”Which we don't,” Vince agreed. ”But if we did...Steffi, when a big-city newspaper like the Globe or the New York Times does a feature story or a feature series, they want to be able to provide answers, or at least suggest them, and do I have a problem with that? The h.e.l.l I do! Pick up any big-city paper, and what do you find on the front page? Questions disguised as news stories. Where is Osama Bin Laden? We don't know. What's the President doing in the Middle East? We don't know because he don't. Is the economy going to get stronger or go in the tank? Experts differ. Are eggs good for you or bad for you? Depends on which study you read. You can't even get the weather forecasters to tell you if a nor'easter is going to come in from the nor'east, because they got burned on the last one. So if they do a feature story on better housing for minorities, they want to be able to say if you do A, B, C, and D, things'll be better by the year 2030.”
”And if they do a feature story on Unexplained Mysteries,” Dave said, ”they want to be able to tell you the Coast Lights were reflections on the clouds, and the Church Picnic Poisonings were probably the work of a jilted Methodist secretary. But trying to deal with this business of the time...”
”Which you happen to have put your finger on,” Vince added with a smile.
”And of course it's outrageous no matter how you think of it,” Dave said.
”But I'm willing to be outrageous,” Vince said. ”h.e.l.l, I looked into the matter, just about dialed the phone off the d.a.m.n wall, and I guess I have a right to be outrageous.”
”My father used to say you can cut chalk all day, yet it won't never be cheese,” Dave said, but he was also smiling a little.
”That's true, but let me whittle a little bit just the same,” Vince said. ”Let's say the elevator doors close at ten-twenty, Mountain Time, okay? Let's also say, just for the sake of argument, that this was all planned out in advance and he had a car standin by with the motor running.”
”All right,” Stephanie said, watching him closely.
”Pure fantasy,” Dave snorted, but he also looked interested.
”It's farfetched, anyway,” Vince agreed, ”but he was there at quarter past ten and at Jan's Wharfside a little more than five hours later. That's also farfetched, but we know it's a fact. Now may I continue?”
”Have on, McDuff,” Dave said.