The Bullet Page 7

  • • •

  THE NEWSROOM WAS disconcertingly bright and modern.

  I wanted it to look the way the Washington Post does in All the President’s Men: a warren of chipped desks, drowning under piles of paper and clattering typewriters and flasks of whiskey. A place where unshaven reporters plied their trade, weaseling news tips out of shady sources. The way newspapers are supposed to look. But the Journal-­Constitution newsroom could have passed for a travel agency. Or a suburban bank. Cheerful blue-and-orange color scheme, glass internal walls, Aeron chairs. Everything looked sleek and sterile and anatomically correct.

  Everything, except Leland Brett’s office.

  He seemed to have missed the memo. His desk was parked in a ratty, stale-smelling corner. Ancient, pink While You Were Out . . . phone messages scrawled in fading ink were taped two and three deep on the windows and glass walls, blocking out most natural light. Jessica had knocked and shoved me through his door with only the briefest of introductions (“She’s a professor up at Georgetown; you wrote about her family ages ago”) and then disappeared. I was left clutching the sheaf of papers and wondering where to begin. What exactly did I want to know from this man?

  Fortunately, he made a great show of politeness, ushering me in and pulling up a chair across from me. I resisted the urge to brush off the upholstery before taking a seat.

  “So, what do we have here, pretty lady?” Brett was short and puffy, with blond hair that had thinned to just a few pale tuffets, dotted across his scalp. He looked about sixty. He adjusted reading glasses on his nose and reached for the articles, brushing his hand along my leg as he took them from me. Pretty lady? And touching my thigh? Surely they didn’t still do things that way down in Georgia. Or maybe they did. I frowned and explained as succinctly as I could that my birth parents had been killed in Atlanta in 1979, that I had been adopted and had only just found out about the murders, and that he had written the original stories for the Journal-Constitution.

  “I would have written them for the Journal,” he corrected me. “We didn’t merge newsrooms until a few years after that. The Journal was the evening paper; the Constitution came out every morning. But let’s see what you’ve got.”

  He scanned the first two articles with an air of concentration, then glanced up. “I can’t say I remember this. I’ve written a lot of murder stories over the years, sorry to say. You say these people were your folks?”

  “Yes.”

  “Awful shame. What a pity.”

  He turned back to reading. When he got to the third story—the one with the photograph—something sparked in his eyes. “You know, I think maybe I do remember them. Good-looking kids. They never caught the guy, did they?”

  He ran his finger down the pages. “That’s right. That’s right. They had a baby girl. I’m guessing that must have been you, am I right?” His gaze met mine and then wandered down appreciatively.

  Oh, dear. So the thigh brush had not been accidental. “It was me. Mr. Brett, would you have any idea how to reach these people you quoted? It looks like you interviewed a couple of neighbors, and also someone you identify as a close friend of Sadie Rawson Smith’s. I’d love to talk to them.”

  “No idea.” He scratched his head, puffing up the blond tufts until a clump of them stood on end. “You could certainly check if the neighbors are still living in their same houses. And as for the friend . . . what was her name?”

  I pointed to a quote in the third article, attributed to a woman named Cheral Rooney.

  “Cheral Rooney . . . Nope, no, ma’am, doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Might you still have old notes that you’ve kept? I suppose they would be on paper, not computer, from back then.”

  He looked over at a cardboard box dumped in a corner, overflowing with small, spiral-bound notebooks. “I do keep them. But not as far back as that. We moved headquarters three years ago. I threw most every­thing out.”

  I was impressed, despite myself, that he’d managed to accumulate so much clutter in a mere three years. “What about the investigation itself? I’d love to get some insight into why the Smiths were killed. There’s a cop quoted who suggests it might have been a burglary gone wrong.”

  “Sounds likely. I don’t recollect any whiff of their being mixed up in any trouble. Nothing that might have got them killed.”

  “You talked to a cop who told you they brought a suspect in for questioning—”

  “Did I?”

  I showed Brett the relevant paragraph. “See, right here. But they let him go.”

  “Well, they probably brought in lots of people for questioning. I honestly don’t remember. And let me level with you. I was a kid then. I must have been—let’s see—twenty-four, twenty-five years old. Covering general-assignment stories, whatever the editors decided to throw at me that morning. I didn’t have police sources. I swallowed whatever they told me and wrote it up.”

  “But this commander you quoted . . .” I searched the copy for the name. “ ‘Steve Meadows, commander of the Atlanta Police Department’s homicide unit.’ You must have talked to him.”

  “I’m sure I did. But that was thirty-four years ago. Who knows? It’s possible I lifted that quote from a briefing, or a press release. I wish I could tell you that I had a direct pipeline to the homicide chief, I really do. Not that it would have done me much good. The Atlanta PD was even more screwed up back in those days than it is now. Understaffed, same as today. The guys working homicide could barely keep their heads above water. Meadows or whatever his name was likely didn’t have a damn clue who took out your parents.”

  That seemed a rather indelicate way of putting things, and I shot Brett a dirty look.

  “Sorry. But it’s the truth.”

  I took a deep breath and willed myself to keep going. “Your colleague Jessica”—I cocked my head back toward the newsroom—“Jessica said reporters often know more than they’re able to print.”

  “She’s right. But whatever I might have once known about this story, I’ve forgotten long ago. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

  He leaned back and flicked his gaze up and down my legs again. “I tell you what. I’ll have one of the interns look at this today. See if they can track down a phone number for one of those neighbors who used to know your mom and dad. And meanwhile, I’ve had a thought.”

  I waited.

  “What I’m thinking is, you’re a great story, in and of yourself. We could interview you. Write up a profile. About your coming back to Atlanta, coming home after all these years, trying to find out about your family. It could be a sweet little update.”

  I shook my head no.

  “Now, hang on, hear me out. There might be readers out there who remember your folks. Certainly our older readers still remember that period in the city in general. Terrible time. Late seventies, early eighties, new murders rolling in every other day. It would be great if one of them turned out to have a happy ending after all this time.”

  “A happy ending? My parents died.”

  “True. My apologies, didn’t mean to sound disrespectful. But what I was fixing to say was that you turned out so well. After everything your family suffered. A college professor, and a beauty to boot.”

  “No,” I said firmly.

  “We could talk about it over dinner.”

  “No, thank you.” I narrowed my eyes in a way intended to signal that my refusal covered both the story proposal and the dinner invitation.

  “As you like. But think about it this way. Friends of the family might see the story and want to get in touch. Or old work colleagues of your dad’s. Who knows who might be out there? If my interns don’t turn up anything, it’s your best shot at locating people who knew your parents.”

  He had a point. I pressed my lips together. “Thanks for the offer. I’ll think about it.”

  • • •

/>   I DROVE FROM the newsroom to the cemetery.

  The obituary that Leland Brett had written that ran the day of the funerals mentioned the burial location. Arlington Memorial Park was in a neighborhood called Sandy Springs, just a ten-minute drive from the newspaper. A pretty cemetery. Tasteful fountains, small, landscaped lakes. If it weren’t for all the mausoleums and marble, the place could have passed for an upscale golf course.

  I stopped at the front office, housed in a squat building inside the gates.

  “Hi,” I greeted the woman behind the desk. “I’m trying to find a specific grave.”

  “Write the deceased’s name down here,” she said. “I’ll see if anyone’s free to do a location lookup.”

  Five minutes later another woman appeared, wearing a black pantsuit and carrying a pink-highlighted map. I reached out my hand for it.

  “Did you drive?” This second woman had a harsh, nasal accent. New York maybe, or New Jersey.

  “I did, yes.”

  “Easier if you just follow me then. The sections aren’t well marked. People get lost, drive around for an hour looking. I was ready for a smoke break anyway. ”

  I hopped back in my Mazda rental car and followed. She led for five minutes along smooth, paved roads lined with pine and magnolia trees. Birdsong came to me; a pair of robins flitted between our cars. Eventually she pulled over and rolled down her window.

  “Should be right over there.” She pointed down one of several rows marked by small, circular stones set flush in the ground. “Want me to get out and find it with you?”

  “No, I’ll be fine. Thanks. Thanks very much.”

  The day had warmed up considerably since I’d left my hotel this morning. An unseasonably mild breeze ruffled my hair as I climbed out of the car. Bright sunshine glinted off the asphalt. I shed my jacket, unwound my scarf, and threw them both on the front seat. I picked up the roses I had purchased en route and started walking.

  Their graves, when I found them, were modest but well kept. Boone and Sadie Rawson Smith were buried side by side under a single granite marker. It listed their names, dates of birth, and dates of death. Nothing else, no epitaph. I crouched down and ran my fingers over the lettering. I’d asked the florist to tie together two dozen white roses with a pink satin ribbon—pink, for the little girl who had loved this couple once, who had taken three decades to find her way back to their side. I laid the flowers on the grass and stood back.

  I had expected this to be the toughest moment in my journey to Atlanta. I had expected to weep. But I was all cried out from my morning in the newsroom. Instead I felt empty. And suddenly, embarrassingly, hungry. My stomach growled.

  I stood around a bit longer, waiting to be felled by overwhelming emotion. It didn’t happen. The photograph of my mother’s face had hit me harder than this sunny, peaceful spot. Within a few minutes I felt ready to leave. I touched my fingers to my lips and then spread them one last time across the cool stone where my parents’ names were carved.

  If it was closure I was looking for in Atlanta, I wouldn’t find it here.

  Twelve

  * * *

  Leland Brett called my mobile just as I was stepping back into my hotel.

  I’d booked a room at the St. Regis, an imposingly posh establishment that far exceeded my usual travel budget. The clientele was mostly expense-account types, business travelers who glided through the lobby wearing bespoke suits and brandishing platinum AmEx cards. But I was justifying the indulgence on the grounds that I’d suffered a terrible shock and therefore deserved a little pampering. I was spending my waking hours performing mournful chores, visiting graves and poring over obituaries. The only thing keeping me going was the prospect of returning in the evening to a good hotel with high-thread-count sheets.

  Leland caught me as I handed the rental-car key to a valet and pushed through the front doors. I leaned against the wall by the elevators, pressed the phone to my ear, and listened as he made his pitch.

  “More I think about it, more I love the idea of telling your story for our readers,” he drawled. “And it’s a grand opportunity for you, too. What about I swing by after work, buy you a drink, and we can ponder it further? Where are you staying?”

  The man was persistent, you had to give him that. No doubt a valuable quality in a reporter. But sipping cocktails across from him while he “accidentally” pressed his leg against mine under the table was the last thing I felt like doing.

  “I’d love to,” I lied, “but I have plans tonight.” Another lie. “And I’m leaning against this whole profile idea.” That, at least, was the truth.

  “Well, that’s a shame. But while you cogitate on it, here’s a little favor I’ve done for you. I’ve found you a phone number for Cheral Rooney. Your mama’s friend. Turns out she still lives in town. She’s a teacher, retired from one of the big private schools. Got a pen handy?” He read out a home phone number and an address. “I reckon if I were to ask the interns to keep working on this, they maybe could find numbers for other folks. Other old neighbors and family friends and whatnot. And of course, there’s no way of knowing who might come forward if we were to run a story about you.” He paused, then blew out a soft, low whistle. “No, sirree. Just can’t know until you try.”

  The rat. This was blatant and despicable manipulation. What made it even more annoying was that he was right.

  “What exactly would you need from me?” I asked warily.

  After that, he knew he had me.

  I did hold steadfast in my refusal to meet him tonight. But he talked me into having breakfast with him in the morning at eight, at the hotel restaurant. The interview would take an hour.

  “One other arrangement we ought to iron out,” he said. “We’ll need a picture of you. The staff photographers will want to do it at the golden hour. That’s right before sunset, the best light. Let’s take it in front of your parents’ old house. Where was that again?”

  “Eulalia Road. Near Lenox.” I was learning the lingo of Atlanta neighborhoods; Lenox Square was a huge shopping mall that everyone seemed to know.

  “Wonderful. What’s the house number? We’ll need to call the current owners, let them know what we’re up to.”

  “Oh, it’s a Mrs. Dorminy. I met her yesterday. She gave me a tour.”

  “Did she? So she already knows who you are. Hopefully she won’t mind a staff photog taking a few snaps with her house as backdrop. Technically, mind you, we can shoot from the street, never set foot on her property. But it never hurts to be courteous.”

  “Are you sure you need my picture, though?”

  “My dear, your picture is going to be the best thing about this story. The caption practically writes itself: “ ‘Dark beauty, haunted by ­tragedy . . .’ ” Readers will eat it up. Now, you have a good night, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Thirteen

  * * *

  I pause here to mention the state of my wrist and neck. Nothing is more tiresome than listening to people go on about their medical woes, so I’ve spared you the minute-by-minute updates. Suffice to say that my wrist hurt, nearly all the time.

  I had come, though, to feel it as a sort of background noise, a chronic nuisance that I was learning to work around. You can learn to live with almost anything, I suppose. Driving with one hand was easy. Shampooing, less so. Cutting steak or anything else requiring a knife and fork wasn’t pretty, though it could be done. The one thing I could not manage with one hand was typing. But here I had apparently gotten lucky. Typing—the very activity that provokes the carpal tunnel symptoms of most sufferers—did not bother me in the least. I could type all day without a twinge.

  As for my neck, it had stopped hurting. No, that’s not quite right. It hadn’t stopped hurting, but the hot pulsing had retreated, like a wild animal that has tired and decided, for now, to rest. The important thing was to keep still
. The pain nipped when I turned my head, especially to the right, so I learned not to do this. If I needed to glance sideways, I swiveled my whole torso. I probably looked like a geriatric constrained by an invisible neck brace, but it helped.

  My most pressing physical complaint, late on that Tuesday afternoon, was that I was ravenous. Five days without a proper meal had proved my limit. I dialed room service and ordered enough food to feed a family of four. Then I sat back to make a few phone calls. First, my mother. I knew instinctively that it would crush her to learn that Sadie Rawson Smith could have passed for my sister. I didn’t think my mother would feel jealous, exactly. More . . . left out. Excluded. So I glossed over my newsroom visit and focused instead on the cemetery, how pretty it had been, how peaceful. I told Mom about laying the flowers and running my fingers over the granite names. She offered, for the hundredth time, to fly down to be with me.

  “Just to keep you company,” she pleaded. My sweet mom. It was tempting to say yes. But she would slow me down, and this pilgrimage felt like something I needed to do on my own. I assured her that I was fine. I would wrap up here tomorrow, I told her, and probably fly back to Washington on Thursday morning.

  Next I left a message for Martin. Finally, I steeled myself and dialed the number that Leland had produced for Cheral Rooney. Again, no answer. Just a recording of a pleasant-sounding man’s voice, telling me to leave a message for Rick and Cheral. Lord, where to begin? I hung up, thought for a moment, then called back and left a short message stating my name, phone number, and that the matter was in regard to an old friend of hers.

  When the room-service trolley arrived, I asked the waiter to set ­everything out on the coffee table. He did so, along with two starched napkins and two sets of cutlery, having quite reasonably assumed that I couldn’t be planning to eat all this myself. It was a ridiculous spread: Caesar salad, tomato-and-basil soup, fresh fruit, a basket of warm rolls, a side of fries, a slice of pie. And a cheeseburger. To be precise, a glorious bacon double cheeseburger, dripping with mustard and grease. I wolfed it down and wished I’d ordered a second. Instead I contented myself with polishing off the rest of the food. It was delicious. Not a single bite tasted like cardboard.