“If you had some idea of who called you —”
“I wouldn’t have asked you for the number would I?” shouted Grant, losing it.
“Listen, buddy,” said Crystal. “I deal with at least a dozen threatening phone calls a day. Get over it.”
“Oh yeah?” said Grant. “We’ll see who gets over what around here!”
Grant stormed back to the business section, looking for Kendal, but the business editor was in a meeting. Jesus. If only he’d had his tape recorder on when the call had come through! At least the cops would be able to do a voice analysis. The cops. Grant wondered what he should do: call them himself or ask for permission from Kendal or, heaven forfend, Junior. He didn’t have the faintest clue how these things worked. He was just about to ask Stone for advice when his phone rang again. Grant froze, staring hard at the call display. But the number was familiar: the four-digit extension for the front entrance security desk.
“About time!” Grant barked into the receiver. “Do you have any idea at all —”
“Is this Gerald Dixon Grant?” asked a startled voice.
“Of course it is! Who the hell did you think it was?’
“I wasn’t sure,” said the voice. “This is security.”
“I know that! About the call —”
“What call, sir?”
Grant’s mouth tightened. They didn’t know? He’d simply assumed they had somehow heard he’d been threatened and were calling to see what they could do about it. Upon reflection, he couldn’t see how they would know. Crystal sure hadn’t told them.
“What do you want? I’m busy!” he snapped.
“Pardon me sir, but there is a gentleman down here who wants to see you,” said the security supervisor. “A Mister Cosmo Lavirtue.”
Cosmo Lavirtue. Sam Schuster’s business associate. Grant knew exactly what he wanted: a piece of his hide. Well, Cosmo Lavirtue had picked the wrong time to try and lecture Gerald Dixon Grant about responsible journalism.
“Send him up!” said Grant.
“Yes sir. He has —”
“Just send him up, damn it!” shouted Grant and slammed the phone down.
He was looking forward to tearing Mister Lavirtue into tiny strips and in the few minutes it took for the man to get the elevator from the main floor to the third, Grant furiously tore through his notebooks, looking for the most awkward unanswered questions he could ask this former Louisiana-born stock promoter. He didn’t bother to look up when a shadow crossed his desk.
“Mister Grant?”
The voice behind Grant was a soft, drawling tongue spiced with a Cajun flavour. He recognized it immediately as Lavirtue’s. He turned around, face a hard mask.
“Cosmo Lavirtue,” he said as he turned. “How do you explain —”
The accusatory question died on Grant’s lips as an unexpected sight greeted his eyes. Cosmo Lavirtue was there all right, all six-foot, six-inches of him, complete with power-suit, cape, fedora, and gold-tipped cane. But behind him were a dozen other people, some of them with placards and many, curiously enough, dressed in spandex.
“Mister Grant, we’d like to talk to ya’ll about that so-called story of yours in this morning’s newspaper,” drawled Lavirtue
There were angry murmurs from behind him and one or two of Lavirtue’s entourage held up signs. Grant managed to read one of them while nervously taking in the size of the mob, which seemed to be growing. It read: “Tribune Lies Ruins Lives.”
“Mister Lavirtue, what the hell do you think you’re doing in here with all these people?” demanded Grant, standing up and eyeing the crowd for avenues of escape.
“These good people are shareholders, sir, and they will not stand to have their life-savings jeopardized by rumour and half-truths dressed up as journalism.”
The muttering of the crowd went up a few decibels.
“Half-truths?” cried Grant.
“Lies!” someone shouted.
“The Tribune lies!” someone else yelled.
The cry was taken up by Lavirtue’s mob and before Grant knew it, everyone was chanting: “The Tribune lies! The Tribune lies!” marching back and forth waving their placards. His desk had become the site of a protest rally. Grant stood there, paralyzed, as Lavirtue went on lecturing him.
“Sam Schuster was an honest, upright citizen!” he was shouting above the din. “These so-called investigations of yours will vindicate him!”
From Grant’s perspective, the entire newsroom appeared to be full of angry, chanting investors. Where was security? Hell, why was he asking? They were the idiots who had sent Lavirtue and his crowd up here in the first place. He fumbled behind him for his phone, but before he could get hold of it, Kendal and Stone pushed their way through the crowd and grabbed Lavirtue by the arms.
“You get your ass out of here or we’ll call the police,” said the red-faced Kendal, trying to drag Lavirtue away.
“Unhand me, sir!” cried Lavirtue, wrenching himself free of both Kendal and Stone’s grasp. “We are here as guests of Mister Grant.”
“That’s a lie!” shouted Grant.
Two of Lavirtue’s fellow investors came to his aid. One of them shoved Stone, who shoved back. Instantly, Lavirtue was in the middle of a melee of arms and oaths.
“Somebody call the police!” Grant shouted above the din.
It was at this point that the lights went out.
Hakeem Jinnah missed the demonstration and subsequent riot in the Tribune newsroom. He had an important appointment with Doctor Death. Jinnah parked the satellite-guided Love Machine on Ontario Street and plugged the meter. It was just a block from here to the new police building and the lair of Rex Aikens, the forensic pathologist. Aikens had earned his nickname long before Jack Kervorkian came on the scene and was rather proud of it. He was a renowned expert on all manner of death and spent almost as much time in court testifying as an expert witness as he did in his basement lab performing the grim rituals of autopsy. If anyone could enlighten Jinnah on the true nature of Sam Schuster’s death, it would be Aikens.
The pathologist greeted Jinnah warmly as he came through the door.
“Ah, Mister Jinnah,” he smiled. “What a pleasure.” Jinnah shivered and rubbed his arms.
“Jesus, it’s cold in here, Doc,” he exclaimed. “Don’t they give you central heating?’
“It’s always cold in here, Jinnah, you know that,” grinned Aikens, eyes twinkling from behind his thick glasses. “Cold as the grave, as you are fond of saying.”
Jinnah looked around. The gleaming, white room was impeccably clean at the moment, all shining stainless-steel fixtures and spotless floors. Jinnah was quite relieved by this. Aikens was not adverse to receiving visitors while performing the most gruesome operations. It helped him think. But today there were no half-dismembered corpses or accident victims on the tables. Aikens’ own person was as immaculate as his lab. His receding black hair was carefully coifed, his suit sharply pressed and hanging elegantly on his tall, slender frame. Even his eyebrows, which formed bushy triangles above his glasses, seemed permed. And yet, there was something slightly cadaverous about this fastidious man that never failed to unnerve Jinnah. Nevertheless, he followed as Aikens guided him through the lab to his office in the far corner. It was a small room crammed with books on anatomy, dissection, and coroner’s reports. Anatomical charts festooned the walls and the obligatory skeleton stood in the corner. Aikens took a stack of papers off a chair