requires you give us a name, Jack. Even if we don’t use it,” Sikes said.
“I know, but this is deep inside. Come on. I gave my word and this is exactly how we broke the jetliner story. We were tipped by an unnamed source.”
“You also got the document that nailed it,” Sikes said. “Got any paper on this tip? A warrant? A police report? A memo?”
“No, not quite.”
“What do you mean, ‘not quite'?”
“My information is solid.”
“Jack, is your source on this information a cop?” Wallace asked.
“Yes.”
“With the New York State Police?”
“My source is a cop inside the investigation. That’s as far as I want to go. I gave my word.”
“This story’s huge,” Derrick said. “Who else did you call?”
Gannon told them.
“Christ.” Wallace ran his hand through his hair. “We need a story like this. He’s got the investigator on the record, and the suspect.”
“Alleged suspect,” Sikes said. His eyes were like black ball bearings as they bored into Gannon. “You trust your source with everything, Jack? Because with this kind of story, if you’re wrong, we could all pay dearly.”
Gannon took stock of the faces staring at him. Beyond the office, a few reporters raised their heads to look at the sombre group, curious about what was happening.
“I stand by my story.”
Sikes kept Gannon in his gaze for a long time.
“We’re taking a risk here.”
“I trust my source completely.”
“Write it up,” Sikes said. “I’ll take it for front. Better find a picture of Karl Styebeck.” Then he pointed his finger at Gannon. “You’d better be right about this.”
8
That night in a quiet neighbourhood of Ascension Park, Karl Styebeck sat alone before his television.
It was the only light in his darkened living room. Flickering images lit up the creases of his taut face. As he surfed from channel to channel, he chewed on his thumb while his wife descended the stairs after checking on their son, who’d gone to bed.
“Goodness, why are you keeping it so dark in here?” She swept into the room and switched on a light.
“Keep it off, Alice.”
“Why?”
“Just keep it off.”
“Fine, you vampire.” She smiled and switched the light off. “Don’t you think you’re taking this a little too seriously, Karl?”
“Taking what too seriously?”
“You lost the game and some of the parents got upset. Taylor told me what happened at the diamond.”
“No. It was a good game, could’ve gone either way. Nobody got upset.”
Alice retrieved her needlepoint from the sofa and tapped his shoulder.
“I’m going to need some light, here.” She switched on a low-wattage table lamp and he didn’t object. “Would you find something to watch. I hate it when you channel hop. Men. Sheesh.”
Styebeck landed on a local channel just as it offered a brief news update between commercials, reporting, “No new developments on the murder of Bernice Hogan, the former nursing student from Buffalo State.”
“That’s such a sad case,” Alice said. “Well, Taylor told me some guy you were talking to at the game made you mad.”
“No, it’s nothing.”
“Is it work? You’re awfully pensive these days.”
“Something like that. I’m getting a drink, you want anything?”
“Some water would be nice, thanks.”
In the kitchen Styebeck poured himself a glass of orange juice, stood at the window over the sink, looked out at his yard and continued ruminating.
Immediately after that reporter, Gannon, had confronted him, Styebeck made a round of calls on his cell phone to detective friends. It was odd. Few of them had time to talk, and those that did seemed cagey.
“Yeah,” a cop from Erie County told him. “There was a joint-forces case-status meeting today out at Clarence Barracks. Hush-hush. Mike Brent was running it. You didn’t miss much, just a bunch of wild-ass theories about suspects.”
“Any names come up?”
“Names? No, Karl, they had no names on the board. As far as I’m concerned, Brent’s a prick. They’ve got no evidence and the way he’s headed, he’ll never clear this. Sorry, Karl, I have to go.”
Why hadn’t he been called to that meeting?
Now, as he finished his glass, Styebeck asked himself again.
Why wasn’t he invited to that meeting?
He didn’t know Brent, but he’d talked to him and his partner earlier about his theories on the Hogan homicide. They’d come to him because he had a lot of confidential informants downtown.
That’s what they said.
Then this reporter, Gannon, bushwhacks him with this crazy allegation.
Where the hell was that coming from? What did he know?
“Oh, Karl, I forgot to tell you.” Alice entered the kitchen, startling him. “Some guy called for you when you were out.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say. He didn’t leave a message and the number didn’t come up. I figured it had something to do with the game and told him you were at the park.”
He said nothing.
It was likely Gannon, he thought. Well, he wasn’t worried. There’s no way the Sentinel would run a story based on that B.S. he was peddling. No one could possibly know what he knew about Bernice Hogan’s murder.
“Karl, is something going on? We’ve had quite a number of strange calls over the last few weeks. And you’ve been so edgy. Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Styebeck turned away from his wife and went back to searching the night through the kitchen window.
