“Right. ”
“But it wasn’t public knowledge. You had to call in favors to get that number. Volker isn’t getting calls on that line, so yours must have been a genuine surprise. ”
Trout nodded, seeing the shape of it now. “So he should have been outraged at my call. He should have read me the riot act, threatened repercussions, yada yada. ”
“And he didn’t. He didn’t even press you to find out how you got the number. He wanted to know why you called. Anyone else in his position would already know why you were calling—an insider’s view on Gibbon or the protests, or the issue of execution. That stuff. The sort of stuff you usually do. But Volker didn’t do that. I think he was not only trying to figure out why you called but was afraid of what you’d say. ”
Trout grunted. “You’re building a case for guilty knowledge. ”
“Hey,” said Goat, tapping his own chest with a crooked french fry, “if I was building a guilty knowledge scene in a movie, this would be cookie-cutter. ”
Trout settled back and stared into the middle distance. Goat held out the cardboard sleeve of fries; Trout took one and munched it slowly, biting his way along its length with tiny, contemplative nips.
“What’d you get out of it?” asked Goat.
“Not that much. You’re good, kid,” said Trout. He picked up his cell and punched a speed dial number.
“Regional Satellite News,” answered a voice that was as bright and flowery as a spring meadow.
“Dear Marcia,” said Trout, “how would you like to earn some overtime cash?”
“As long as it doesn’t involve a stripper’s pole or popping out of a cake, I’m your girl. ”
Trout grinned. Marcia Sloane had the voice that promised the smile and curves of a twenty-something California blonde. Everyone who called the bureau fell in love with her. She was actually just north of forty and far north of two hundred pounds. Curvy to be sure, with a heart-shaped face, masses of curly black hair, and—she claimed—nineteen separate piercings. Billy Trout had seen eight of them and, despite the fact that she outweighed him by at least fifty pounds, was intrigued to one day discover the rest.
“Sadly, not this time,” Trout said.
“Murray approve it?” she asked. Their editor, Murray Klein, was notorious for denying overtime for anything, expecting his staff to finish their work on their personal time. Trout didn’t hate him for it, though. Regional Satellite News worked with a budget surplus that could barely finance two cups of diner coffee.
“Yes,” Trout said, fudging the truth. Although Klein hadn’t approved this, given the nature of the story, he would. “I need some of your research magic. You could find Jimmy Hoffa if there were any legs left to that story. ”
“Probably. What can I do for you, Billy?”
“I need everything you can dig up on two people. Deep background. I need what’s on the Net and anything you can find from other sources. First is Selma Conroy. Don?
??t know if that’s her maiden or married name. ”
“Sexy Selma? God—don’t tell me she’s back in business. She went to school with my mom, and I’m pretty sure she was at least some part of my dear parents’ complicated divorce. ”
“Look … this is for something really important. Major. You can’t tell anyone. An-nee-one. ”
“Lips are sealed. ”
“I’m serious. ”
“So am I. ”
“Okay … this is tied to the Homer Gibbon case. And there is a strong possibility that Selma Conroy is Gibbon’s aunt, and she filed to have his body brought here to Stebbins. ”
Marcia grunted.
Trout said, “That’s it? I thought you’d be surprised. ”
“Actually … I’m not,” she said, “’cause now that you say it I can see a little resemblance. ”
“To Selma?”
“No … to her sister. ”