Stone Cold Dead by James Ziskin (android e book reader txt) 📗

got off at the same stop. The one before the Metzger farm. There’s the Dobbs girl and the Liswenski girl. I don’t know their first names.”

“And you dropped those girls off that day?” He nodded. “What time was that?”

“Same as always,” he fidgeted. “I finish my run around four twenty or so.”

“I can show you the log from that day if you don’t believe him,” volunteered the dispatcher. “Right here,” and he flipped back several pages in his ledger to the date in question.

I ran my finger down the column, searching for G. Arnold. It was there. Route number 17, bus 63, South Side and the Town of Florida.

“It says here you returned the bus to the depot at six eighteen p.m.,” I said, and Gus Arnold blanched.

“Let me see that,” said the dispatcher, rising from his seat. He scanned the ledger then looked to Gus for clarification. “That’s right, you got back late that day. Where were you?”

Gus Arnold looked terrified, his eyes open wide, revealing a network of bloodshot capillaries in the whites.

“The streets were icy,” he said.

“But you were more than an hour late,” I said.

“And I had a flat.”

“That’s true,” said the dispatcher. “There was a big puncture in the tire.”

I knew that was a lie. Frank Olney had said that the bus driver had taken a nap near the snow hills beyond Darleen Hicks’s house. Maybe he was lying to the dispatcher to save his job. Or maybe he had other reasons to lie. I kept quiet; I would confront him about his story at a more appropriate time.

The dispatcher eased himself back into his seat and fixed his glare on the driver. He said nothing, but I could tell he was thinking hard on something.

“You changed the tire yourself ?” I asked after a long, awkward silence.

Gus Arnold nodded but wouldn’t look at me. I glanced at the dispatcher, who was still staring at Gus, a troubled look of doubt on his face, as if he was wondering how well he knew this man.

CHAPTER SIX

It was after eight, and I was already slouched on the sofa, working on my second drink of the evening. Laramie was playing on the television. No volume, and I wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t like westerns, especially on TV. Between sips of whiskey, I nibbled on some slimy canned asparagus spears and a cold slice of ham. Dinner. The phone rang. I didn’t recognize the voice at first. It was Norma Geary.

“Sorry to interrupt your evening,” she said.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“At work. I just wanted to give you your schedule for tomorrow.”

“Schedule?”

“You’ve got a nine a.m. appointment with Joey Figlio at the Fulton Reform School for Boys,” she began. “Maybe you should write this down.”

I rummaged through my purse for a pencil and paper, wondering who was working for whom. “Ready,” I said, and Norma gave me the agenda:

9:00 a.m.: Joey Figlio at Fulton Reform School

11:00 a.m.: City Desk meeting in Charlie Reese’s office

12:00 p.m.: Lunch with Norma Geary at Wolfson’s to review requested editions of the New Holland Republic and Canajoharie Courier Standard

1:00–3:00 p.m.: Work on Hicks story for Thursday’s edition

3:30 p.m.: Meet Darleen Hicks’s friends at junior high school

“Good job, Norma,” I said, quite impressed. “But what are you doing at work? What about your son?”

“I’m leaving now. Toby will be waiting for me at home. He likes to watch Dobie Gillis on Tuesdays.”

I said goodnight, feeling wretched for being two drinks into my evening ritual while Norma was still at work and her son, Toby, sat waiting with Dobie Gillis and Maynard G. Krebs for company.

WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 4, 1961

About eight miles west of New Holland, a cluster of single-story buildings huddled behind a high fence at the bottom of a hill: Fulton Reform School for Boys. Probably lush green in summer, the place was now barren, desolate, and white. A line of naked elms, their brittle, gray branches spreading like fans against the sky, fronted the school’s metal fence like pickets. The school looked like a lonely outpost in hostile territory.

The guard let me through the gate and instructed me to check in with the officer on duty, who was expecting me inside the main building. He searched my purse for contraband, confiscated my nail file, and asked if I really wanted to take a camera in there.

“More than likely you’ll get it stolen,” said the skinny young man in a green uniform and cap.

I left my precious Leica and billfold with the guard, who stashed them in a box below his desk. He smiled and waved me past, then pointed me in the direction of the visitors’ room.

Fulton wasn’t really a prison, so guests and inmates mingled in many of the public areas. A dark, heavyset man, smelling of stale perspiration, showed me to a large, cold room outfitted with long wooden tables and benches. The high, steel windows looked like the ones I’d seen at the junior high school, only these had a sturdy metal grating between them and the inmates below.

“Wait here,” said my escort, and he disappeared through the swinging doors.

I sat down at one of the long tables. Ten minutes later, the doors swung open again, and some students started drifting in. A rough-looking bunch, they sauntered over to different tables and slouched into their seats, eyeing me the whole time. After a few minutes of quiet study, three got up and began circling me like buzzards. The boldest of the three sized me up and took the seat opposite. I tried to avoid his stare, but he twisted and contorted himself like a bird doing a mating dance until he’d attracted my eye. He was small and wiry, with dark, curly hair and a football mustache above his lip: eleven hairs on each side. He had the hardened look of a wretch. Young, but let’s face it, already lost.

“Hey, you, pretty chick,” he said. “Hey!”

I ignored him. He reached across the table and flicked my nose. I recoiled