Hard news - Jeffery Deaver [36]
Hopper took responsibility for the incident and personally went to Beirut to attend the funerals of the slain villagers.
Bradford and Rune continued to pore over the files and, though a portrait of Hopper as a complex, ambitious and ruthless man appeared, no evident motive for his death emerged.
From there they turned to the transcripts of interviews Rune had made over the past week as she’d traveled around the East Coast and the South talking to people who knew Randy Boggs.
Yeah, Randy Boggs worked for me for close to two years. He come in and was looking for a job. Good boy. Dependable. He wasn’t no killer. He pushed a broom with the best of them. I’m sure it was the sixties. We had the Negro problem then. Course, we still have the Negro problem. ‘Bout that, I’d like to say a few words, seeing how you have a camera—
Next …
Randy Boggs? Yeah, I knew the Boggs family. Boys I don’t remember. Father was a mean motherfucker. Man, the—
Next …
Randy? Yeah. We had this lobster business. But—you got the camera rolling? Okay, let me tell you this story. The wife and I were one time over to Portland and we were driving in the Chevy—we always buy American cars, even if they’re a pile of you know what. So we were driving along and there were these three lights in the sky, and we knew they weren’t planes because they were so bright. Then one of them—
Next …
Rune yawned violently.
“You okay?” Bradford asked.
“More or less.” She opened another file.
Her life had become an endless circle of long hours by herself, of flying on airplanes and staying in hotels that somebody else paid for, of tense meetings at the Network, of interviews that sometimes careened out of control and sometimes worked, of a lonely houseboat, of a chaotic editing room. (One morning she woke up to find that she’d fallen asleep with the Betacam next to her—which wasn’t so scary as the fact that she’d slept with her arm around it all night.) She gave up late-night clubs, she gave up West Village writers’ bars. Even gave up seeing Sam Healy much. Piper Sutton would occasionally swoop by Rune’s cubicle for a status report, like an eagle grabbing a squirming trout in its talons.
As she and Bradford pored over all this material now, amid the raucous laughter and boasting and flirting of dozens of young lawyers and businesspeople drunk on tequila and the thrill of life in Manhattan, Rune felt both more and more incensed that such a vital and important man as Lance Hopper had been killed and more and more certain that Randy Boggs hadn’t done it.
chapter 12
“COME ON, SAM. PLEASE?” SHE’D TRIED CHARM AND NOW she was pleading.
But Sam Healy was a detective who disposed of bombs for a living; it was tough to talk someone like that into anything he didn’t want to do.
They were sitting on the back deck of the boathouse, drinking beer and eating microwave popcorn.
“I just want to look at it. One little file.”
“I can’t get access to the files in the Twentieth Precinct. I’m Bomb Squad. Why would they even talk to me?”
Rune had spent a lot of time trying to decide if she was in love with this man. She thought she was in a way. But it wasn’t like the old days—whenever they were— when you were either in love or you weren’t. Love was a lot more complicated now. There were degrees, there were phases of love. It kicked in and out like a compressor in an air conditioner. She and Healy could talk easily. And laugh. She liked the way he looked like the man in a Marlboro ad. She liked the way his eyes were completely calm and deeper than any man’s eyes she’d ever seen. But what she missed was that gut-twist, that weight-losing obsession with the object of your desire that was Rune’s favorite kind of love even though it was totally rare.
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