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15.
Jack Simon was in his large window office at the San Diego Times making a pot of cofee when the department secretary, Jovia, walked in with an armload of supplies. "Oh, Jack!" she said as she dropped a paper bag of paper clips and other goodies in his In Box. She appeared to be surprised to see him.
"What's up, Jovia?" he asked. She was a tall, attractive young black woman who wore power suits and dreamed of a corporate exec job after evening classes at National University. With three kids and a husband in medical school, that was proving a tall order, and Jack always offered sympathies. She appreciated the understanding and liked him.
"There was something..." She bit her lip, frowning. "I can't quite remember—oh, yes, a Mr. Robertson. He called."
Jack had two different stories going in his mind, one about City Hall and the other about a brewing City Council crisis, and he was just glad to be able to move around a bit as he went through the motions around his coffee pot. "Don't know him."
"He left his name and number." She dug a scrap of note paper from a vest pocket and put it on his ink blotter. "He said he wanted to talk to you about that big flap going on with the airplanes spraying in Mission Valley."
Jack was interested. "Did he say he knows what's behind it?"
"He was very secretive, and noticeably nervous."
Jack stopped. "Nervous? Hmm. If he knows anything you'd think he would go to the police."
"Unless he's in some real trouble."
Jack poured a cup of steaming black coffee and sat down at the desk. He forgot the coffee as he looked out over Mission Valley. "Most people who come to me, when they are in trouble, try to smear someone else to cover their own tracks."
"And the other few?"
He shrugged. "Nuts of one kind or another."
"I'll let you deal with it," she said as she started to walk from the room. He watched her shapely figure—something a man couldn't resist, no matter how much he loved his wife—and she turned. "Jack, I almost forgot, Dylan Matthews' wife called. She said he wants you to call him. It's kind of urgent."
"Thanks. I'll give him a buzz."
After she had left, Jack finished fixing his coffee—light cream, one sugar—and then called Dylan Matthews' number from his rolling card catalog. Dylan had been a fellow journalist, down the hall, until his alcoholism had gotten him "unhired," as he liked to put it in his perpetual blend of bitterness and humor. He'd been asked to resign in lieu of being fired after a lot of absences, missed assignment, and a few faux-pas like misquoting the mayor on a critical budget issue and almost creating a political firestorm. Dylan's wife Maggie answered. "He's out for a walk, Jack. How are you? How is lovely Linsey?"
"We're doing fine, Maggie. You?"
"Oh well, you know—" She left a lot unsaid. The grief and worry in her voice suggested Dylan was still slipping downhill.
"Do you know what he wanted to tell me?'
"I'm not sure, Jack. He's, you know, incoherent half the time."
"I'm so sorry, Maggie."
She started to sniffle a bit. He waited until she composed herself. "I'll have him call you when he gets back from his walk."
"Thanks. Take care of yourself."
Jack sipped half his coffee and tried dialing the other number, that of Mr. Robertson. The phone on the other end rang and rang, but nobody answered. Soon, Jack was on his second cup of coffee and typing away at his computer. His head was full of City Hall information, and he forgot all else.
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