telling him about Hershey. And me. And my suspicions about what had happened at the bar.
I walked up the street, retrieved my van—the promise not to tow apparently hadn’t included a promise not to ticket—and arrived downtown a few minutes later. I circled the Statehouse in vain; all the underground garage entrances were closed. I saw trucks for Channels 4, 7, and 10 parked in front of the Third Street entrance. A knot of reporters clustered around a trooper on the steps. I kept driving, found a space in a surface lot off Main, tucked a five-dollar bill into the parking slot, and walked back. It wasn’t even nine.
The press briefing had broken up by the time I got there. It was a hot day and the flags in front of the Capitol—U.S., Ohio pennant, and POW—hung limply from their poles. I pulled my Columbus Clippers cap down tight over my head and strode with as much purpose as I could muster toward the entrance. I’d made it to the first step leading to the Third Street doors when Suzanne Gregory from Channel 7 intercepted me.
“What are you doing here?” she said.
I stopped and looked at her. I realized I was having troubling focusing. It occurred to me I probably shouldn’t have driven. I said, slowly, “I can never remember whether Warren G. Harding was the twenty-eighth or twenty-ninth president. Figured someone inside might know.”
“Twenty-eighth, as you know, given how many goddamn times you quizzed me on Ohio presidents. Why were you working for Lee?”
“You look fetching today,” I said, stalling. And she did: a sleeveless peach summer dress with a necklace of paste stones and bracelet to match.
“As much as I hate to say this, don’t change the subject.” She softened her voice a bit. “You look like shit, by the way. Are you OK?”
“Not really.”
“What about my outfit?” Kevin Harding said, walking up.
“Very Front Page, without the suit, shined shoes, and fedora,” I told the Columbus Dispatch reporter, trying not to slur my words. Harding was with a thin, brown-haired woman I didn’t know. The look on her face, which included red, swollen eyes, warned me off any sartorial observations. A couple other reporters headed our way.
“Why were you working for Lee?” Suzanne repeated.
“No comment.”
“That’s a bullshit response.”
She was right. Right as a reporter, and right as my ex-fiancée, who more than any other journalist in town deserved a better answer.
Instead, I said, “It’s all I’ve got.” I was starting to feel worse again, and not just from whatever I suspected had been slipped into my beer. It was starting to dawn on me what I’d done last night—or more to the point, hadn’t done. The consequences of going to a bar before a job.
“C’mon, Andy,” Harding said. “Lee was our friend. You gotta give us something.”
“I wish I could—”
“Andy Hayes,” a voice barked from behind us.
I turned and saw a trooper standing at the top of the stairs. He gestured at me to approach.
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