Yesterday's News by Jeremiah Healy

to fall asleep, maybe. But if she’s going off the deep end, and I’ve never seen more evidence of it short of a notarized bye-bye note, maybe she keeps grinding in the one and pouring in the other till she fades out.”
    Cardwell made sense. I said, “Anything else?”
    â€œYou talk with her landlady yet?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThen that’s all I’ve got.”
    I thanked him and rose.
    â€œHey, Cuddy?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œYou bring me something on this kiddie porn shit, I’ll think about it. Especially if, and I say again, if, the cops are in on it. Jane Rust never even tried me. Don’t know why, but she never did. You find something that ain’t ranting and raving, something tangible I can tie an evidence tag to, you come back and see me. Otherwise, I don’t want to know about you. Got it?”
    â€œGot it.”
    Someone, maybe Murphy, had taught Cardwell how to swim among the sharks. But I had the feeling he was learning how to grow that extra row of teeth all on his own.
    The Nasharbor Redevelopment Authority was tucked above a coffee shop on Main Street, about three blocks down from city hall. I left my car in the municipal lot and walked it, passing on the way one Roman Catholic church with high windows of stained glass and two taverns with low windows of neon beer signs.
    At the top of the stairs, a pleasant woman of sixty-plus years looked up from her typing. She was working at a machine that hadn’t benefited from electricity, much less memory, at the factory.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œMy name’s John Cuddy. I’d like to see Bruce Fetch if he’s in.”
    â€œJust one moment.” She got up and knocked at a door already ajar twelve feet away. She said, “Bruce?,” then something lower that I couldn’t catch. Turning back to me, she said, “Please go on in, Mr. Cuddy.”
    He was thumbing through a thick binder of blueprints still rolling up at the edges despite their considerable weight. The binder and a computer monitor and keyboard usurped most of his desk. “Have a seat, be right with … you. There it is!”
    He marked a place with a sheet of paper while I sat across from him. Knowing he’d dated Jane Rust, I guess I expected an accountant-type, with horn-rimmed glasses, white shirt, and thin black tie. The tie was thin and black, alright, but cut from distressed leather. It hung loosely from an L. L. Bean hunting shirt over wide-wale corduroy trousers. He was about five-ten and maybe a hundred forty with socks. His hair was dark brown, pulled back into a stubbly pony tail. He blinked frequently behind wire glasses that I thought had been unobtainable since “Mr. Tambourine Man” was on the charts. The hippie in the photo on Jane Rust’s dresser.
    Finally looking up at me, he said, “I’m Bruce Fetch, executive director here. What can I do for you?”
    â€œMy name’s John Cuddy. I’m a private investigator from Boston. Jane Rust hired me.”
    Fetch’s face was long and expressive, the kind you can watch a thought sink into. This particular thought hit ledge right away.
    â€œI don’t want to talk about her. Or why she hired you, okay?”
    â€œCan you give me a reason?”
    â€œYes, but I don’t see I have to.”
    â€œYou don’t, but I understood you dated her. I’d think you’d be a little more interested in her death.”
    He flared. “I am interested! Maybe I just don’t see why I should have to talk with you about it.”
    â€œThe cops think she took sleeping pills. You ever see her with any?”
    â€œNo. “ Fetch took off the glasses to massage his eyes with the heels of his hands. “No. She couldn’t take them, something about swallowing medicine when she was a kid.”
    â€œThe cops believe she ground the pills up and then took them in some kind of liquid, probably