Part 22 (1/2)

”I can't imagine George actually killing someone.” I drowned the thought with a sip of caipirinha because actually, yeah, I could imagine George as a killer. It was because he never looked me in the eye for long, and because he was always so darned surly. It was because I knew he hated Jack Lancer. He admitted it.

But he wasn't the only one who had a motive to off the newscaster.

”And then there's Maxine, of course.” I filled Declan in on what Jack Lancer's exes had told me about his current girlfriend. ”If they're right, she could have been angry enough to want to do Jack in.”

”See, you are getting somewhere.” Our appetizers arrived and he bowed his head for a second, then dug in. ”Mussels?”

”We were only supposed to be coming for drinks.”

”You might be serving Irish food over at the Terminal, but you have yet to learn nearly what you need to know about the Irish character. You don't just go for drinks. You drink. You eat. You talk. A lot. It's all part of an evening out, and when I'm with a date-”

In spite of the fact that I'd just taken a drink, my mouth went dry. ”Is that what this is? A date?”

”If you're afraid your Hollywood friends will find out you've gone out with a lowly attorney from Hubbard, Ohio, I can be sworn to secrecy.”

He was kidding. Maybe. I wasn't when I told him, ”That's not it at all. For one thing, I don't have any Hollywood friends. Not anymore. And even if I did, who I choose to date-”

”See? It is a date!” The argument settled-at least in his mind-he piled mussels on my plate and with the tip of his fork, urged me to start eating.

Since the mussels were fabulous and the wonton wrappers had just the right amount of crunch and the filling was delicious, I was glad I did. I finished the mussels and spooned a few more from the serving platter onto my plate. ”I may have found my new favorite restaurant.”

”Not the Terminal?” His eyes sparked with mischief.

”I have you to thank for giving me the idea for the Irish food,” I admitted.

His smile was as genuine as it was enticing. ”I'm glad. If there's ever anything else you'd like my help with, you'll let me know, right?”

There was something about the purr of his voice combined with his s.h.i.+mmering smile that made my knees weak. I guess that means it's a good thing that I didn't have much of a chance to think about it. There was a bar at the far end of the restaurant, a little jut-out to one side of the wine cellar, and from in there, we heard a whoop.

”You hear that?” a man's voice called out. He stuck his head out of the bar so everyone in the restaurant could hear him. ”We've got the TV on in here. Just saw a report. Kim Kline, she's going to announce it on the news tonight. She says she knows who killed Jack Lancer!”

A buzz of excitement ran through the restaurant, and I guess I could see why. Upscale or not, the patrons of the Rockworth Tavern were as caught up in the drama of the Lance of Justice's murder as the rest of us.

Declan and I exchanged looks. ”What do you think?” he asked. ”Is there any way she could be that far ahead of us?”

I thought about Kim of the too-s.h.i.+ny hair and the too-big nose. She was young, sure, but she must have had some qualifications to land the job she had. If she had the reporter's instincts to go along with them . . .

Suddenly, the mussels and the wontons didn't taste so good anymore. I pushed my plate away. ”She said Jack might have been looking into the story of the Food Pantry Robin Hood,” I told Declan. ”She knew that Jack Lancer sat at the same table every day and that he had his eyes on your place. What if she decided to run with the story? If she breaks the news that-”

”Impossible.” His voice rang with conviction, but he pushed his chair back from the table and offered me his hand. ”Come on,” he said.

”We're going? Where?”

We couldn't see into the bar from there, but he glanced that way, anyway. ”We've got to talk Kim Kline out of airing some story she shouldn't. If she blows the cover of the Food Pantry Robin Hood, she's not only going to accuse somebody who shouldn't be accused, but a lot of hungry people are going to suffer, and Uncle Pat . . .” He whistled low under his breath. ”If Uncle Pat catches wind that his ill-gotten gains are going toward spaghetti sauce and Cheerios, he's going to be one p.i.s.sed-off Irishman!”

If Kim Kline was planning on breaking a big story about Jack Lancer's murder on the eleven o'clock news that night, I figured she'd be at the station.

I was right. Sort of. The receptionist at the desk in the lobby of the offices of station WKFJ told us that Kim would be back, but that she'd left there a couple hours earlier after she'd recorded that snippet about breaking news we'd heard at the Rockworth. She'd gone home to freshen up and get changed.

”You heard her spot earlier, right?” The phone on the receptionist's desk rang off the hook. No doubt, there were plenty of people as excited about what they'd heard from Kim as we were. All for different reasons. ”We're going to scoop all the other stations tonight. Kim, she's going to be a star because of this. You watch. You'll see.”

I told her I had no doubt of it and shot Declan a look. ”We need to talk to her,” I told him on our way back to the car.

”Already working on it.” He tipped his phone so I could see the text message he'd just received. ”Kim Kline's address,” he informed me.

I glanced up at him. ”How did you-”

We got into his car. ”Let's just say that there are a couple cops around here who owe me favors.”

”Let's just say that makes me a little nervous.”

”What?” Declan laughed. ”You don't think an attorney can be on the right side of the law?”

There was no use arguing the point with him so I didn't bother to answer. Instead, I watched the scenery zip by. The offices of the TV station were in Youngstown, the region's biggest city and, like so many northern industrial cities, Youngstown's glory days were long gone. We pa.s.sed closed factory after closed factory, shuttered buildings, and neighborhoods of homes that looked as worn-out as the area's economy. Farther from the center of town, the lot sizes got bigger, the homes were better kept. Still, the whole area seemed as if it were holding its breath, waiting for the world to change back to the way it was when American steel was king and the men who worked to manufacture it lived the good life, thanks to overtime pay, fat benefit packages, and pension plans they thought would take them through their golden years.

In the meantime, cities struggled and made do with what they could to cobble together some kind of economic viability for their residents. In Austintown, near where Kim lived, there was a new racino, and the parking lot was packed. Driving by, I could just about feel the vibes coming off the place like smoke from a three-alarm fire.

Hopes and dreams.

The chance to hit it big.

The opportunity to turn lives around.

I guess there's no better place for dreaming than a town where so many dreams had already been dashed.

Seems like Hollywood and Youngstown have a whole lot in common.

”This is her street,” Declan said, drawing me out of my thoughts at the same time he made a left turn. I admit I was a tad disappointed when he'd picked me up at Sophie's in a late-model Infiniti instead of his Harley. Then again, the leather seats were cushy. I sunk back and, through the growing darkness, helped him read the addresses on the mailboxes out near the street.

Kim's house was a single-story brick ranch with geraniums planted out front around a lamppost and a red Cooper Mini in the drive.

The front door was wide open and light spilled from inside and onto the front step. One look and relief washed through me.

”She must still be home. She's probably just leaving. Now all we have to do is think of what to say, what to tell her so that she doesn't run that spot about Robin Hood.”

When I got out of the car, Declan did, too. ”You could present your theories. You know, about other suspects. Once she realizes Robin Hood couldn't possibly have killed Jack Lancer, maybe she'll decide not to say too much too soon. If you get her excited about those other suspects . . .”

His words dissolved and, as if we'd ch.o.r.eographed the move, we both stopped cold five feet from Kim's front door.

It was wide open, all right, and there was a pool of something fresh and wet and very red on the beige carpeting, and Kim Kline lay right in the middle of it.

Her arms were thrown out to her sides and those glossy ringlets of hers were a mess. Her eyes were wide open. They stared up at the ceiling, cold, unseeing, and very dead.

One murder is more than enough for one lifetime.