Vanished

“Who do you think this is at this hour? The butler?” And then suddenly he wondered if it was a crank call related to Charles Delauney. Representing him had been interesting, but early in the case it had also won him his share of crank calls and threatening letters …how can you represent a monster like that, etc. etc. etc. “Who is this?” he asked with a puzzled frown. Nobody had called him at home in weeks, months, let alone an attractive-sounding woman.

“This is Beatrice Ritter. Is this you, Tom?”

“None other.” He knew who she was by then, and he liked her. He had liked her when she'd come to him and begged him to take Charles's case. And he liked the pieces she had written about Marielle, and Charles, and his trial, since then. It was easy to figure out that she was on his team.

“I need to talk to you.” She sounded earnest and excited.

“Go ahead. You got me.” With a growling gut and an empty refrigerator and nothing else to do until the morning.

“Can you meet me somewhere?”

He glanced at his watch and winced. He was an attractive man, and he was standing in the kitchen in his white shirt from court that afternoon and his trousers and suspenders, and all he'd had for the past fourteen hours was a hell of a lot of black coffee. “It's almost eleven o'clock. Can it wait till tomorrow morning?”

“No, it can't.” She sounded desperate.

“Is something wrong?”

“I have to see you.”

“Have you murdered anyone?”

“I'm serious …please …trust me … it can't wait till tomorrow morning.”

“I assume that this is somehow related to my client?” She had become the champion of his cause for reasons Tom didn't quite understand, but he was willing to take advantage of, if it served his client.

“Yes, very much so.”

“And it can't wait?”

“I don't think so.” She sounded very earnest.

“Are you willing to come to my apartment?” Most girls weren't willing to visit a man at that hour of the night, but she wasn't just any girl. She was a reporter. She was used to doing things no sane man or woman would do, and he admired the gutsy way she did things. She was a tiny woman with an enormous spirit. And he liked her. One day they might even be friends, but not right at the moment.

“I be there …” she said excitedly. “Just don't tell me you live in New Jersey.”

“How's Fifty-ninth Street, between Lexington and Third?” He lived in a quiet brownstone.

“I'd say lucky. I live on Forty-seventh. I'll catch a cab and be there in five minutes.”

“Will you do me a favor first?”

“Sure.”

“Could you grab me a roast beef sandwich? I haven't eaten since breakfast.”

“Mustard or mayo?”

“Both. Anything. I'll eat the bag. I'm starving.”

“You got it.”

His doorbell rang twenty minutes later, and she stood there in navy slacks and a bright blue sweater. She had a blue bow in her hair, and she handed him a brown bag, with a beer, two pickles, and his sandwich.

“You're a saint.” He didn't even care what she had to say to him, he was just grateful she'd brought him dinner. “Do you want to share the beer?”

“No, thanks.” She shook her head, and slid into a chair in his kitchen. It was as though they were old friends, but he knew she had watched the entire trial, and indirectly, they had been through the war together.

“How do you think it's going?”

“I'm not sure. The jury's tough to read. Sometimes I think the guys like him better than the women, sometimes …I'm not sure. At least you gave Marielle Patterson a certain amount of credibility again. What a son of a bitch Patterson turned out to be.” He nodded, still cognizant of the fact that she was a reporter and this could be a trick. “You've done a great job for Charles Delauney.”

“Thank you. He looked good on the stand today, at least I thought so.”

“So did I,” she said softly. She had managed to catch his eye as he left the stand, and he smiled when she gave him the high sign. He had been touched by her interest and her faith in him, and a little puzzled by her zeal, but he liked her. Not nearly as much as she liked him, but in Bea's eyes, it was a beginning …unless …but that was up to Tom Armour …and the jury.

“So what's up? What brings you here at this hour with a roast beef sandwich? I assume you didn't just come here to tell me you admire my style in the courtroom.”

“No,” she grinned, “but you're very good. Better than most I've seen.” But her eyes grew serious then. She had something important to tell him. And they both knew time was running out for Charles Delauney. Both attorneys would be making their closing arguments the next day and after that, it was up to the jury. “I did a very strange thing,” she admitted to him, as she accepted a bite of one of his pickles. “I called someone I wrote a story on a long time ago …well, anyway …last year. You probably know who he is, Tony Caproni.”

“The mob boss from Queens?” Tom Armour looked startled. “You hang out with a nice bunch of guys, Miss Ritter.”

“I wrote a nice piece on him, and he liked it. He said if I ever needed a favor, to call him. So I did.”