Yesterday's News by Jeremiah Healy Page B

heard a cracking noise that could only have come from one of his knuckles. He doubled over, holding the right hand in his left palm and grimacing to the point of tears.
    â€œBruce?” said the older woman behind me.
    He squeezed out, “It’s alright, Grace. Just leave us alone.”
    â€œAre you sure? You look hurt.”
    â€œGrace, please. Just shut the door, okay?”
    Hearing the door click closed, I sat. “You ought to ice that.”
    Fetch worked his head up and down. “I’m going to tell you something. Not because it’s any of your business, but because I want you hearing it from me first.”
    His words seemed to be coming a little easier. I said, “Go on.”
    â€œI wanted to get married. Jane said she was pregnant.”
    â€œI didn’t know.”
    â€œNeither did I. The baby wasn’t mine.”
    I watched him, then said, “Whose did you think it was?”
    He shook his head and gingerly touched around the middle joint of the ring finger on his right hand. “I don’t know. I just know I had the mumps in college and the doctor at the infirmary had me give him a specimen. Turned out sterile. Not impotent, just sterile.”
    Appreciating the distinction, I said, “When I walked in here, you weren’t exactly forthcoming. How come now you want me hearing this from you first?”
    â€œBecause—shit, this hurts, I think it’s broken, that’s all I need. Because Richie’s deal, the project, is the key to what I’ve worked for the last two years. I’ve lost Jane. I don’t want to lose what Harborside can mean for this town.”
    Fetch looked hard at me, seeming to push the hand outside the room for a moment. “I don’t want to lose everything.”
    According to the white pages, Richard Dykestra listed his office under his own name. When I called, a vapid female voice advised me that Mr. Dykestra was “unavailable and not expected in the office today.” I told her it was usually one or the other, not both, but she didn’t get me, and I couldn’t see any sense in leaving a message.
    I also looked up Charles Coyne. No luck, but then Hagan had said Coyne’s place was a dive.
    Looping back toward my car the long way, I stuck my head into the Watering Hole. There were seven customers today. Three even had plates as well as glasses in front of them at two-fifteen. One of the three was Malcolm Peete.
    â€œMr. Peete, that doesn’t look like a very balanced meal to me.”
    He regarded his vodka and french fries. “Nonsense, my lad. We have here representatives of the two basic food groups, alcohol and cholesterol.”
    I sat down. “The experts would say you’re ruining your health.”
    â€œAh, that’s where the Smirnoff performs double duty.” He lifted the glass to eye level and rolled it affectionately between his fingers. “Preventive chemotherapy. Requires daily, nay, hourly treatments to be completely effective.”
    â€œYou sober enough to give me some background information?”
    â€œI’m highly offended. If I’m sober enough to be offended, I’m sober enough to educate the likes of you, good sir.”
    â€œJane’s landlady said she had two visitors the night she died. Both came by car. Any candidates come to mind?”
    â€œNo. Mrs. O’Day’s humble dwelling is far enough from everything to require a car to get there, so I fear I’m your only excludable suspect. I’ve deemed it inappropriate to drive for some time now.”
    â€œMeaning some judge hooked your license?”
    â€œI’ll not dignify that with a reply.”
    â€œMrs. O’Day also said Jane had a lot of visitors in general. Male visitors. Aside from Bruce Fetch, was she seeing anyone you know of?”
    â€œNo, not really any of my business. Tell me, though, did Mrs. O’Day press upon you her view of the generational