In Plain View by J. Wachowski Page A

here.”
    “Wait. Yes! ”
    “What?” Ainsley tried to peek around my shoulder.
    Tom had hung a bag of dry cleaning from the top of a door. Focusing on the suit, I caught a glimpse of the patches on what seemed to be a uniform. “Our boy was a public servant.”
    “Police?”
    “Nope. Firefighter.”
    “So those guys at the tree yesterday…”
    “Knew him.” Some instinct told me to scan the surroundings again. That crawly feeling someone was watching tiptoed up my spine. “Farmer Lowe hinted as much. Good news for us, College.”
    “What?”
    A shadow passed in front of the super’s apartment window. I gave Ainsley a happy, distracting shot to the biceps, urging him to walk toward the van. “It means he’s got a decent head-shot on record somewhere.”
    “Right! But how do we get it?”
    We climbed in the van and I used my elbow to casually trigger the automatic locks. “I’ll bet my new best friend at the Clarion might be able to help. Mr. Melton Shotter.”
    Ainsley’s face bloomed with relief as he started the engine. “Can you call from the van? There’s a DQ right around the corner and I’m dying for lunch.”
    “I watched you eat three bagels in the staff meeting.”
    “They were minis,” he said indignantly.
    “Fine. You eat; I’ll call.” Oh, to live the metabolism of a college kid again. I watched the building as we pulled out. Even though I couldn’t see them, I was sure someone was watching. “Get us out of here.”
    “With pleasure.”
    By the time Ainsley’d scored his Dairy Queen happy meal—with a large diet pop for me—we were miles from Tom Jost’s place and I was deep into the newspaper’s phone system trying to hook up with a real, live Melton.
    “ Clarion. Metro desk.”
    “Melton, my friend. You rolled over on me.”
    “Umm…who is this?”
    “You’re funny.” My day had not been very productive so far. Easy enough to punch a little Irish temper into the words. “This is Maddy O’Hara, Melton. Sheriff Curzon was at the station before I was this morning.”
    “Uh—sorry about that.”
    “What’d you do, draw him a map after you gave him my name? Whatever happened to protecting a source, Melton?”
    “I figured you, well—” He squirmed. “I’m sorry, all right?”
    “Yeah sure, because I got a great idea how you can make it up to me, Melton. I need some research help.”
    “What kind of research?”
    “Easy stuff. Everything you can find on a guy named Tom Jost—where he went to high school, adoption records, if he had a girlfriend, what he did on weekends besides whack off—”
    Ainsley coughed his chocolate shake all over the steering wheel.
    “It’s that dead Mennonite!” Melton’s lightbulb blinked on. “You got an ID?”
    “Maybe. We think the guy was a public servant, a firefighter.”
    “No way,” he said with glee. Salacious mysteries are meat and potatoes to reporters. “Where? What town?”
    “Not sure. His apartment’s in Warrenville. One thing, Melton, everything stays out of the paper until after I air on Wednesday.” I heard a grumble. “Did I mention there’s a possibility of credit in this for you? National, on-air credit. ‘Research by.’ Look mighty sweet on your resume. Not that you deserve it after ratting me out to Curzon like that.”
    “All right,” he whined. “Fine. I’ll try.”
    “Great. Tomorrow morning good for you?”
    “Jee-zus. Tomorrow? Tomorrow’s Saturday.”
    “Don’t go getting religious on me yet, Melton. The fun’s just getting started.”
    We agreed on an early afternoon deadline before he hung up.
    Things were getting done. I was feeling good. “Next item on the agenda: expert head.”
    “Whaaat?”
    Without looking up from my notes, I continued, “Get your mind out of the gutter, College. We need a specialist. A doctor. A psychologist. Someone we can get to say ‘autoerotic asphyxiation’ fast enough to work into a ten-second promo head-shot. That’s an expert