High Profile

7

The reporters were gathered in a press tent in the parking lot in back of the Town Hall, to the side of the DPW garage. Several portable toilets had been set up. The equipment trucks had filled most of the parking lot behind the supermarket. More portable toilets. There was a press briefing scheduled each morning at nine a.m. in the Town Hall auditorium. Molly was to do the briefing.

“This is blatant sexism,” she said.

“You’re the only one I trust in front of the press.”

“How about you?”

“I’m the chief,” Jesse said.

“For crissake,” Molly said, “we have nothing to tell them.”

“True,” Jesse said.

“So what am I supposed to say?”

“Tell them we have nothing to tell them,” Jesse said.

“It may be weeks before we have anything to tell them,” Molly said. “What do I do up there every day?”

“Charm them,” Jesse said. “Wear the full gun belt, makes you look really cute.”

“You are a sexist pig,” Molly said.

“Maybe you could have your hat on at a rakish angle,” Jesse said.

“Fuck!” Molly said and left the office.

Suitcase Simpson came in with a notebook.

“What’s up with Molly,” Suit said. “I think she tried to bite me when I passed her in the hall.”

“Gee,” Jesse said. “I can’t imagine.”

Simpson shrugged.

“I got some preliminary stuff on Weeks,” he said.

Jesse said, “Okay,” and nodded toward one of the chairs.

“I’ll type this all up nice on the computer,” Simpson said. “But for now I’ll give you the, ah, salient facts.”

“You’re taking courses again,” Jesse said.

“Just one night a week,” Simpson said. “In a few years I’ll get my associate’s degree.”

“Onward and upward,” Jesse said. “Whaddya got that’s salient?”

“He was born in 1953 in Gaithersburg, Maryland. Went to high school there. Got a job after high school as a disc jockey, had a series of radio jobs, went to D.C. as a weatherman. Ended up with a talk show. Talk show got syndicated. And... you know. The rest is history. When he died he had a show on national cable two nights a week.”

“Walton’s Week,” Jesse said.

“Right, and five days a week on national radio,” Suit said.

“Walton Weeks: How It Is.”

“You listen to him?” Suit said.

“No.”

“He’s written a coupla books,” Suit said. “I ordered them online.”

Jesse nodded.

“He’s been married three times.”

“Was he married at his death?” Jesse said.

“Far as I know. Lorrie Weeks.”

“So where is she?” Jesse said.

“Haven’t found her address yet.”

“But why hasn’t she showed up here?” Jesse said. “It’s national news.”

Suit shrugged.

“How about the other wives?” Jesse said.

“Got names,” Suit said. “Haven’t found addresses yet.”

“Kids?”

“Not that I know about,” Suit said.

“Famous guy dies publicly, and no one shows up,” Jesse said.

“Not quite.”

“Somebody?” Jesse said.

“Bodyguard called in,” Suit said.

“Bodyguard,” Jesse said.

“Guy named Conrad Lutz.”

“Conrad did a hell of a job,” Jesse said. “You got an address for him?”

“Langham Hotel,” Suit said. “In Boston. He was there with Weeks.”

“Post Office Square,” Jesse said.

“I guess,” Suit said. “Molly told him to come in for an interview.”

“When?”

“ASAP,” Suit said.

“Press will swarm him,” Jesse said.

He shrugged.

“But that’s what they do,” he said.

“You think Weeks was afraid of something?” Suit said. “You know, having a bodyguard?”

“He was a famous man who annoyed a lot of people,” Jesse said.

“Be good to know who they were,” Suit said.

“Maybe Conrad will know,” Jesse said.