The Quiet Game

"So, sue me. My gut tells me it's a big story, and I'm going with it."

"Good for you. It is a big story."

She freezes with a shrimp in midair.

I take my Corona from Jenny the waitress before she can set it down. "How would you like an exclusive on the solution?"

"Is that a trick question?"

"There's one condition. You print absolutely nothing until I give you the okay."

"You know who killed him?"

"Maybe. But even if I do, proving it could be difficult."

She pops the shrimp into her mouth and chews for a few moments. "I don't get it. If you don't want me to print anything, why bring me in at all?"

"Because I need your help."

"For what?"

"Research that I don't have the time or resources to do."

"What do you need to know?"

"You haven't agreed to my condition yet."

She mulls it over some more. "Why should I muzzle my paper to help you? How do I know you'll solve the case any faster than I could?"

"Do you have a copy of the original police file?"

"No. But I'm working on a request for his FBI file under the Freedom of Information Act."

"Don't bother. You won't get it. J. Edgar Hoover sealed the Payton file in 1968 for reasons of national security."

She shakes her head in disbelief. "I smelled a Pulitzer the minute you told me about this case. Okay, deal. Tell me what you want, I'll get it. Fast. But I want in on everything."

"Fair enough," I say, wondering if I mean it. A half hour ago Cilia called from Houston. After spending hours tracing the names on Peter Lutjens's list, and finding most retired or dead, she lucked into a fan of mine. He hadn't worked the Payton murder, but he remembered it. More important, he numbered Special Agent Dwight Stone, the field agent Althea Payton recalled so fondly, among his old friends. Stone is retired and living outside Crested Butte, Colorado. Cilia called him and found him friendly enough until she mentioned Del Payton, at which time Stone bluntly stated that he would not discuss the Payton case with me or anyone. I intend to test his resolution very soon.

"So, what do you want to know?" Caitlin asks.

"I need everything you can get on Leo Marston. You know who he is?"

"Sure. A big-time attorney everybody calls Judge because he served on the state supreme court. I tried to get a comment from him for my Payton story, but I couldn't get through. His secretary's a cast-iron bitch."

"You should meet his wife."

"The woman who baptized you at the cocktail party?"

"That's her."

"No, thanks. Why Marston?"

"You don't need to know that yet."

She doesn't like this response. "Who else?"

I'd like a detailed bio of Ray Presley, but Caitlin can't access the kind of information I need on him. "Just start with Marston. Companies he owns, whole or in part. Personal and political connections. His tax returns if you can get them."

Jenny reappears at our table, her dark eyes watching me with a disconcerting intensity. "Have you decided?"

"I'm not really hungry," I confess, handing her my unopened menu. "I had to eat before I came. My daughter helped cook."

"How old is she?"

"Four."

"That's a fun age."

"Are they working on my ribs back there?" Caitlin asks.

"They'll be out in a minute." Jenny gives her a curt smile and heads back to her station.

"You owe me an answer too, remember?" says Caitlin. "You're the most liberal person I've met here, as far as race goes. You're a fascist on the death penalty, of course, but we'll skip that for now. How did you wind up so different from other people here?"

"It's simple, really. My father."

She puts her last shrimp in her mouth and chews slowly, her green eyes luminescent in the soft light. "Let's hear it."

"This never sees print. It's no big deal, but it's personal. That's something we need to get straight right now. If we're going to work together, some things never see print."

"No problem. It's in the vault."

"I remember three defining moments with my father when I was growing up. The first had to do with race. Most kids I grew up around used the word 'nigger' the same way they used 'apple' or 'Chevrolet.' So did their parents and grandparents before them. One night, at home, I used it the same way. My father got out of his chair, turned off the television, and came and sat beside me. He said, 'Son, I grew up working in a creosote plant right alongside colored people. And they're just like you and me. No better, no worse. We don't say that word in this house.' Then he turned the TV back on. And I stopped saying nigger.

"A couple of years later, the thing to be was a hippie, and I tried my best. Grew my hair down my back, smoked grass, the whole bit. I heard hippies on TV saying the 'pigs' this, the 'pigs' that. The cops, you know? So, one day, riding in the car, I said something about the pigs. My father pulled onto the shoulder, turned around, and said, 'Son, if we had to go three days in this country without police, it wouldn't be a place you'd want to live. We don't use that word.' And I never used it again."

Caitlin's eyes shine with fascination. "And the third moment?"