Stone Cold Dead by James Ziskin (great novels of all time txt) 📕

seven hours. It was a luxury to rise at almost ten, and one glance out the window proved that Fadge had done the same. The store was locked, “Closed” sign hanging in the window, and the newspaper bundles left on the stoop had already been opened and thinned by early patrons.

I took a second look out the window an hour later to see if Fadge had arrived. He hadn’t but the New Holland Republic delivery truck was just pulling away from the curb, having left two bundles of papers on the stoop. That was odd, I thought, since the Republic was an evening paper.

I showered and dressed, still thinking about the special early edition. Surely Charlie would have told me about it. But then I remembered he’d left for Utica the previous afternoon for a weekend with his in-laws.

Fadge was just tying on his filthy apron when I walked in. He grunted good morning, and I reached for the Republic from the stand near the door.

“Good morning,” he repeated.

“Sorry,” I said, unfolding the paper to scan the headlines. “Good mor—”

I froze. There, in the upper right-hand corner of the front page was the headline: “Missing Girl No Runaway.” And the byline read “George Walsh, senior reporter.”

My heart sank, and no amount of sympathy from Fadge helped. I read it over and over again. Nearly verbatim, my story had been stolen by George Walsh yet again. I had forgotten having left it in my desk, and, especially while George was out of town, I hadn’t been worried about a repeated theft. Now my story was gone, and the sheriff would be furious. Darleen’s killer now knew what the authorities knew.

“He comes in here from time to time,” said Fadge. “I’ll make sure he gets something extra in his next sundae.”

“Thanks,” I said, staring at the special edition in disbelief. “You’re a good friend, Fadge, but that won’t help. Please, by all means, go ahead and do it. But it won’t help.”

I wasn’t willing to let Georgie Porgie off the hook this time for stealing my work. It was Saturday, with a special edition already on the streets, so there was no one in the office except Luba when I stormed in, ready to make my J’accuse speech. My frustration mounted. Charlie Reese was out of town, George Walsh was basking in glory that was rightfully mine, Artie Short was probably counting beans somewhere, and the offices were empty. I rifled through George Walsh’s desk drawers, hoping to find something I could use against him: my original story, perhaps, or pictures of him in ladies’ lingerie. But there was nothing. I would have to be content with the hope that he’d visit Fiorello’s very soon.

Then the City Desk phone rang. I didn’t want to answer it, for fear of barking at the person on the other end. But Luba was there, looking at me with hands turned upward, as if to ask what her broken English couldn’t: “Why don’t you answer it?”

I picked up the phone.

“Is this the Republic?” came an excited voice over the line. I said it was. “You got to get someone over to Cranesville right away,” the man said. “They just found a body stuck in the lock on the river.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I roared down Route 5, speeding toward Schenectady. To my right, the swollen Mohawk roiled and churned, a brown sludge coursing east, washing huge chunks of dislodged, melting ice down its throat. The river was running as high and fast as I’d ever seen it. I tried to outdrive it in my rush to reach Lock 10 at Cranesville.

Five county prowlers crouched on the side of the highway, just beside the railroad tracks and the huge, arching trestles that formed the lock and spanned the river. The gates were down, submerged into the rushing Mohawk, holding it back to the west, while releasing rockets of water out on the other side. The river was at least fifteen feet lower beyond the lock heading toward Schenectady. I marveled at the ferocity of the pitched battle between man and river, as if both had agreed to meet at this site to settle which would hold dominion over the Mohawk.

A big Packard Henney hearse sat behind the line of county cars facing the river, its back door swung open to the side, as the coroner, Fred Peruso, stood by with two uniformed crewmen and several county deputies. Bob Franklin, the police crime scene photographer, leaned against the hearse, his camera hanging from his hand. The Cranesville fire truck, a relic from the thirties, had made the quarter-mile trip across Route 5 from its station, ostensibly to put out any fires that might break out. Four volunteer firemen lounged about, smoking and chatting. Besides a couple of onlookers who had pulled off the highway to watch the scene, I was the only civilian present.

I called to Stan Pulaski, who was guarding the perimeter, and caught his attention. He waved for me to join him.

“The sheriff's over there,” he said, indicating the concrete deck of the lock near the edge of the river. The water roared over the gate just a few yards below his feet. Frank Olney and a man in a brown overcoat and fedora talked and pointed as they examined alternately the west and then the east side of the lock.

“What’s the scoop, Stan?” I asked, breathless, trying to see past him to the hearse.

“A state inspector came out here about an hour ago to check on the lock. To make sure it was working properly and not damaged by the fast water and ice. He found a little girl jammed in the gate. Stone cold dead.”

“Oh, God,” I choked. “Is it Darleen Hicks?”

Stan pursed his lips and nodded sadly. “That’s what the sheriff thinks. No positive ID yet.”

“Oh, God, oh, God,” I found myself repeating, feeling as if I’d been kicked in the stomach. Although I’d known in my heart she was dead since we found