Absent Friends

And what could it become—be made to be? In this bleak landscape, could Marian plant seeds?

“You think Markie shooting Jack has something to do with Mr. Randall's death?”

“It's the story he was working on.”

Marian sat back. She paused, as though reluctant to go on, and said, “It's the money. The payments to Sally. You think there's something wrong there. Mr. Randall thought so, too.”

“Well, it's clear some people were lying about it, so something's obviously wrong somewhere. What can you tell me about it?”

“Nothing. Just that the payments came. We all thought they were from New York State.”

“Who told you that?”

“Sally. It's what her lawyer told her.”

“Phillip Constantine?”

“Yes.”

“Did he know where the money really came from?”

“He had to, don't you think?” Marian sipped at her coffee. It was bitter; had she forgotten sugar? “Have you talked to him?”

“I will.”

She would; of course she would. “He'll lie to you.”

“Why do you say that?”

Bitter or not, Marian drank. “Because he lied to me.”

“What did he say?”

“That he got the money from Jimmy.”

“How do you know that's not true?”

“Because it's ridiculous.”

“In what way?”

“Every way! Jimmy was a firefighter, where would he get so much money? And why on earth this absurd charade? He was Markie's closest friend. If he had money and wanted to help Sally out, why not just give it to her?” With horror Marian heard her own voice rising. She tried for a look of righteous indignation. “He's hiding something. Phil,” she added, to make sure this reporter, who seemed a little dim, would understand. “He's trying to blame something on Jimmy because Jimmy's dead. And because Jimmy's a hero, so whatever he was up to—Phil—if he can hook it to Jimmy, it won't look so bad.”

Laura Stone asked, “Where do you think the money came from?”

Enunciating very clearly: “I have no idea.”

“Captain McCaffery didn't tell you?”

“Jimmy?” A swift rush of blood filled Marian's face. Had this slow-witted reporter not heard anything she'd said? “How would he have known?”

“Did Sally Keegan know?”

Finally, a change of path. Breathe in, out. “No, I told you. Sally believed that money came from the State.”

“Are you sure?”

“We all did.”

“Why did Mark Keegan kill Jack Molloy?”

“You must know this! Jack shot at him.”

“Were you there?”

“Of course not.”

“Then how do you know what happened?”

“It's what Markie said.” Marian poured herself more coffee, added milk, made sure this time to include sugar. “And if you know I wasn't there, why are you asking me about it?”

“I'm sorry if this brings up unpleasant memories.”

“These aren't my favorite memories to dwell on, but that's not my question.”

“I'm just trying to follow up on Mr. Randall's story.” Diffident smile, and then: “Why did Jack Molloy shoot at Mark Keegan?”

“I don't know. Probably no reason. Jack was drunk.”

“He'd shoot at a friend just because he was drunk?”

“You never knew Jack, Ms. Stone. What are you getting at?”

“What's your theory on where the payments to Mrs. Keegan originated?”

Anger blazed through Marian again; but then into her mind sprang a picture, a friend's black dogs she'd seen playing tag in a field. The two zigzagged, broke this way and that, barking and yapping, taking turns being the chaser and the chased. Neither caught the other until one lay down, as if exhausted. The second trotted over to sniff, and the first leaped up and threw him into the mud.

She said carefully, “I really can't imagine. Well, except for Mr. Randall's fantasy.”

“His fantasy?”

Marian sighed, making sure to keep it subtle, not theatrical. “It's obvious what he was digging for. If someone paid Markie to kill Jack, and then Markie died, they might have kept paying. Mr. Randall wanted me to say that was possible.”

“Was it?”

“Of course not.”

“If it were, though, who would that have been?”

“Oh, please!”

“Mr. Randall seems to have thought it was Edward Spano.” Stone answered her own question. “Could it have been?”

Marian gazed across the room to a large photograph of the lush growth in a neighborhood garden MANY had funded, a garden far enough uptown to have escaped the dust and ash. “I can believe Eddie would do something like that, yes. But I can't believe it would be Markie.”

“But it was.”

Alarm gripped Marian's heart, though her voice did not change. “How do you know that?”

“It was Mark Keegan who killed Jack Molloy, I mean.”

“Well, yes.” The grip slackened, her heart slowed. “But it was self-defense.”

“So Keegan said.” Stone scowled at her recorder again, peering through the plastic to watch the tape rolling. As Marian relaxed, Stone, still adjusting buttons, said in preoccupied tones, “That could explain the payments to Keegan's family. Especially if someone else knew.”

“What do you mean? Will you stop fiddling with that thing?”

Stone looked up quickly. “I'm sorry. I'm just not very good with equipment. I'm not sure it's working. What did you say?”

“What did you mean about the payments?”