Paper Daughter Read online

"Hey!" he said. "Where are you going?"

  "Around to the parking lot."

  "No one's shown you the shortcut?"

  ***

  He led me down a back stairway and through solid doors into an echoing concrete space that smelled of news ink. A beeping forklift backed up with a huge roll of paper. Two men punched switches at a lighted control panel. And beyond them...

  Beyond them, on the other side of a long expanse of glass, the Herald's massive presses ran, all spin and speed and whirr and clack and endless, flowing ribbons of paper.

  "Oh!" I said, stopping, enthralled. "Oh"

  Harrison, bending to be heard over the racket, said, "I never get tired of watching."

  "I can see why," I said. "But why are the presses going now? The paper won't be ready until tonight."

  "Probably printing one of the Sunday sections that get done days ahead." From a pile of discarded pages, some with blurred type, some too light to be legible, Harrison picked up one of the better ones. "Looks like the monthly business roundup," he said.

  I nodded, recognizing it. Dad's news agency stories had sometimes run there.

  Harrison must have realized what I was remembering, because he said, "Whenever I read one of your father's pieces, I learned something I needed to know."

  "Dad used to say a story was worth writing if it made a difference to even one person."

  "He was right," Harrison said. "You must have been pretty proud of him."

  "I was."

  The presses were moving so fast, pulling paper over rollers, pulling on my feelings.

  "I was proud of my dad," I repeated. "I guess I still am."

  Harrison's eyebrows went up in a question.

  "I've been thinking a lot about him lately. Wondering who he actually was."

  "I suppose kids don't ever really know their parents," Harrison said. "Certainly they don't know what their parents' lives are like outside their family."

  "I used to think I knew him," I said.

  Chunk, chunk, chunk, chunk, chunk,. Blades sliced, folding metal arms flew up and down, and the streaming lines of paper became sections of the Herald.

  I said, "Ever since we started tracking down the Galinger thing, Dad has been on my mind, sort of hovering in the back."

  "Maybe because you've gotten a taste of the kind of hard digging for stories that he did," Harrison said.

  We continued to watch the hypnotizing presses. "He loved this," I said. "Newspapers, I mean."

  "I do, too," Harrison said. "But they're changing. They've already altered in ways few people would have imagined a decade or two ago. Fewer, smaller pages. Shifting revenue streams."

  "Because people are going to the Internet and things like wireless delivery," I said, thinking about how Mom already got her magazines on an electronic book reader that fit into her purse. "But the Herald's doing both, putting out a paper and an online edition."

  "Yes. And nobody knows whether it will be a good partnership or one will kill the other."

  I glanced at him quickly. "You don't mean that? That you think newspapers might truly go away?"

  He looked serious and sad enough that I knew he did, but he answered, "Not really. I hope not. Hard copy serves functions that cyberspace just can't, not the least of which is giving readers the pleasure of holding a physical newspaper. Though," he added, "that can be a mixed pleasure." Grinning, he showed me his hands, which were smudged from the over-inked, discarded page he'd picked up.

  I laughed with him, but the conversation left me uneasy. It added, actually, to a different uneasiness that had been increasingly nagging at me ever since I'd thought how the Munez kids were possibly being hurt. As we started walking again, I asked, "Harrison, what if we're wrong?"

  "About?"

  "About this story we're working on. What if we're so focused on digging up a crime that we're putting together a picture that's not real? That's just going to make trouble for people who haven't actually done anything wrong."

  "If we don't find wrongdoing, we won't write a story."

  I nodded. I knew that. But it didn't really answer my question, because I hadn't asked exactly what I meant. I tried again.

  "Say we do find that Landin, Galinger, Yeager, and Garcia all did a lot of illegal things. They'll deserve getting found out. But there'll be other people who'll get dragged into it. Their families, who might not know anything about the illegal stuff."95

  Harrison shook his head. "It's a good thing to keep in mind—to have an awareness of who's going to be touched by any story you write—but you can't let it stop you. Innocent people do get caught up in bad things."

  His answer wasn't very satisfactory, and we didn't say any more as we made our way through a newspaper bundling area, across a loading dock, and finally to a small door that opened directly onto the employee parking lot. As Harrison opened it, I said, "What you told me about how the news business is changing. Maybe if my dad somehow could see it in a few years, he wouldn't know it anymore."

  "Oh, I think he would," Harrison said. "How journalists do our jobs might change, but what we're doing won't. A country like ours—a democracy—depends on a population that knows what's going on, and people depend on us to find out and tell them."

  Then, looking a little embarrassed, he said, "Enough of the civics lesson. You make me talk too much."

  Still holding open the door, he, too, looked back toward the speeding, noisy, magical presses. He said, "Let's both hope those run a long, long time."

  CHAPTER 13

  The address the phone book gave for Garcia wasn't a proper house at all, but an abandoned-looking, made-over garage facing a side street. I said to Harrison, "That doesn't look like a place where somebody's financial custodian would live."

  "Nope," he agreed. "But the house that goes with it..."

  That house was big and looked expensive. It faced a wide tree-lined street and had a FOR SALE sign anchored in the front lawn. And we both knew who had owned it.

  "So now what?" I asked.

  "Well." Harrison surveyed the neighborhood.

  A commercial lawn crew was finishing up a job next door. Farther along, a teenager with a basketball practiced jump shots. On the corner opposite, a woman walked a terrier.

  "Excuse me," Harrison called, and went over to her. I tagged after. "We're looking for a Mr. Garcia, but..."

  "I don't think he lives around here," the woman said. "I know all my neighbors."

  Leaning down to pet her dog, Harrison said, "These days most neighborhoods aren't so close-knit that people can say that. But I suppose houses around here don't go on the market very often. Though"—he gestured toward the FOR SALE sign—"it looks like somebody's moving."

  "I wish it were just a move," the woman said. "That was Toby Yeager's place. Perhaps you read about him in the paper? Poor man—a city councilman, involved in all sorts of good causes—healthy one minute and then dead of a stroke the next."

  "I'm sorry to hear that," Harrison said. "I suppose the renovated garage goes with the property?"

  "Handyman's quarters," the woman said, "though the handyman cleared out right after Toby died. No loyalty, and the lawn was half a foot high before the real estate agency had somebody come cut it."

  "Do you know the handyman's name?" Harrison asked. "Could it have been Garcia?"

  "Oh!" the woman said. "I thought you were looking for one of our regular residents. Perhaps that was his name. I wouldn't know."

  ***

  Ralph Galinger was delighted when Harrison called him early Wednesday morning requesting an interview.

  "About my application for the vacant city council seat?" Galinger's booming voice carried well beyond the phone. "Sure! Sure! I'll be glad to fill you in on my vision for the town."

  "Actually," Harrison said, "I've got a range of things I'd like to ask you about."

  "Nothing to hide. I've got to be out your way for a lunch meeting. What if I stop in at the Herald about eleven a.m.?"

  ***<
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  He strode into the newsroom exactly on time.

  "You want me to disappear?" I asked Harrison, hoping the answer would be no.

  "Why? This is your story, too," he said, rising to shake Galinger's hand and introduce me.

  "Glad to meet you, young lady," Galinger said. "Always like to see an ambitious young person."

  He told Harrison, "I'm not going to stay, though. I appreciate your wanting to do a piece on me. My first thought was that it'd be good publicity, and any businessman—or potential politician—appreciates that."

  He waited for Harrison to chuckle along with him.

  "But on reflection," he continued, "I've decided to ask you to hold off. While I'm glad to help out my town, I don't want anyone to think I'm capitalizing on Toby Yeager's death."

  "I doubt anyone would jump to wrong conclusions, whatever coverage we give," Harrison said, his voice neutral. "But it would help if you'd fill me in on a couple of things. Please, take a seat."

  Galinger sat—reluctantly, I thought. His gaze skimmed the desktop, where a copy of the Herald was turned to the sports pages. "You a golfer?" he asked Harrison. "Because anytime you'd like a round at my country club..."

  "I'll keep the offer in mind," Harrison said. He picked up a pencil and notepad. "So I gather you did know Mr. Yeager?"

  "Certainly. We served together on a couple of nonprofit boards, helped with fundraising efforts for the hospital, that sort of thing. Not that my good works begin to come close to Toby's. Now, if you want to write about someone, a piece on him—"

  "We'll consider it," Harrison said. "But getting back to you. I was wondering if you had any other ties to Mr. Yeager. Business ties, perhaps?"

  "No, no." Galinger shifted in his chair. "I'm just a builder, while Toby..." He paused, seeming to search his memory. "Why, I don't know that I ever heard what line he was in. Suppose I always assumed he had investments, maybe family money."

  Harrison nodded, then said, "I meant to ask you about Galinger Construction. Running it must be a full-time job. You don't think that would conflict with the civic duties you want to take on?"

  "Oh, I don't do much hands-on work with the business anymore," Galinger said easily. "And of course, if I do get on the council, I'll step down as head of my company for the duration—wouldn't want to give even the appearance of impropriety."

  "Sounds as if you've thought things out," Harrison said. "So, as chair of the city's planning committee, Yeager never gave you special help on any of your projects?"

  "No!" Galinger looked indignant. "Special help because he was my friend? Of course not!" Then his expression smoothed. "But I suppose that's a newsman's question you've got to ask."

  He reached across the desk, picked up the sports section, and then dropped it. "The Herald's a good newspaper," he said. "That's why I still advertise in it. Shoot a lot of money your way despite people telling me I can get more value online."

  "Noted," Harrison said, writing something down. Then he asked, "About your construction projects—did Yeager have a financial interest in any of them?"

  This time Galinger's offended expression stayed. "Of course not. And that implication really is going too far."

  "Sorry." Harrison made another note. "How about the planning office staff? Donald Landin seems to have worked on all your projects. How well did you know him?"

  A pulse began to throb in Galinger's neck. "I didn't. I have my own staff to liaise with city employees. Lindan? I don't even know the name."

  "Landin," Harrison corrected. "But getting back to you and Yeager. So you two didn't share business interests. How about you and any of Yeager's family?"

  "Never met any of them," Galinger answered shortly. Then, seeming to regret his rudeness, he said, "Sorry. But Toby was divorced, you know."

  "That's what I understand," Harrison said. "I've only a couple more questions. Maggie—"

  Galinger broke in. "Look, I don't know what you're going after, but you've got my word there was never a more honest man than Toby Yeager. If you do write a piece on him, I hope you'll present him as the dedicated town leader he was. And if you must write about me, I hope you'll be fair. Remember, I didn't have to come in here."

  He looked at his watch. "I'll have someone fax you my biography and a bit about Galinger Construction. And now I really must leave."

  "Of course," Harrison said. "But first ... Maggie, didn't you have a question about something you found?"

  For a moment my mind went blank. Then, "Munez," I said. "Mary, Raul, and Luis Munez. We were wondering about your relationship to them."

  A dark flush coursed up the sides of Galinger's face, and he leaned forward so far that Harrison must have felt his breath. "I never heard of them," he said. "And now stop wasting my time."

  "You've never heard of three of Galinger Construction's principal owners?" Harrison repeated. "Interesting." He took his time writing. "I want to make sure I quote you correctly on that. And what about a J. A. Garcia?"

  Galinger stood abruptly. "Who's your editor?" he demanded. "I want to see him."

  "Sam Braden," Harrison answered. "I'll introduce you."

  ***

  I didn't get invited to that conference, although Harrison motioned me to move to a desk close enough to the glass sides of Mr. Braden's office that I heard most of the louder parts.

  The last thing Galinger said before hurrying out, anger marking every long-strided step, was, "You'll be hearing from my attorney, Braden, if you print one word."

  "What are we going to do?" I asked after I'd been waved in to take the chair still warm from Galinger.

  "Write it up," Fran answered. "Galinger's a candidate for a public office. People he'd be representing have a right to know about potential conflicts of interest, and about past ones involving him and the person he wants to replace."

  Mr. Braden nodded. "Stick to facts—which we've got plenty of, straight from the public record. No conclusions. And no paraphrasing anything Galinger said. Just straight quotes there."

  Harrison hesitated. "We could wait a day—dig around and try to paint a more complete picture. Though..."

  "Though if we do, someone else will beat us to the story," Mr. Braden said. "You want to waste an exclusive?"

  "No," Harrison said. "I don't."

  Fran said, "Me, neither. Besides, you can do more in a follow-up. You and Maggie will be on this one awhile."

  CHAPTER 14

  Harrison worked on the story all afternoon, and I made phone call after phone call, under his direction, checking and recheck-ing everything.

  Along with Fran and Harrison and me, Mr. Braden read the page proof with the finished article.

  It began, "Previously undisclosed financial ties between developer Ralph Galinger and a recently deceased Eastside city councilman who chaired the planning committee responsible for approving several Galinger Construction projects came to light this week when Herald reporters..."

  The lead didn't mention which reporters, but it didn't need to. Above the story were the words "By Ed Harrison of the Herald, with contributions from Margaret Wynn Chen."

  By then, other staffers had come over, their interest adding to a current of excitement that had been building all day. Everyone knew we had something that was more than routine.

  Those standing close in, like Jillian, heard Mr. Braden thump the page proof and say to Harrison and me, "Good work, you two."

  She waited till the others had drifted away. Then she said, for once sounding sincere instead of ditzy, "That's great, Maggie. It's really cool that one of us has been able to work on a real story."

  She pointed to the page proof that I was still reading. "And look! Your name's right there." Tapping the byline at the top, she said, "That is so, so..."

  But I was looking at the last paragraph: "Any investigation into possible improprieties in city planning practices could further delay work already backlogged because of Yeager's death and the abrupt resignation of planning office employee Donald
Landin shortly thereafter. Landin was subsequently killed in a drive-by shooting near the International District May 23."

  The International District? I'd assumed the shooting had occurred on the Eastside. That since he'd worked there, that was probably where he'd lived.

  "Harrison," I said. "Is that right? About where Landin was killed?"

  "Yeah, in front of his apartment," he said. "Does it matter?"

  "No," I answered. "Except that's where my dad died—or in the same area, anyway—that afternoon."

  Frowning, Harrison said, "Could he have been chasing the same story?"

  "Since he covered business news, I suppose it's possible," I replied. "Only I think his boss would have said so."

  "Well, it's easy enough to check," Harrison said. "Someone can call him tomorrow. I'll mention it to Fran. And meanwhile, you ought to give yourself a pat on the back. If your father was going after the Galinger story, he'd have been pleased that you found the connection that brought it in!"

  ***

  I went home brimming with details of the piece that would be in the next morning's paper. The evening before, I'd given Mom only the bare outline of what Harrison and I had been working on. Now, though, I had an actual story to tell her about, and it was one with my name attached to it. Not a by-line, exactly, but clear acknowledgment that I'd helped. I might have worked all summer without something like that happening.

  "Mom, you should have heard Galinger. He's the developer who..." I rattled on a bit and then stopped short. If Mom was excited for me, she sure wasn't showing it.

  "What?" I asked. "Is something wrong?"

  "I just wish you were doing something else with your summer," she answered. "Having a good time. Playing and going places with your friends."

  "Bett and Aimee are in the San Juans," I reminded her. "A ferry ride and fifty miles away. And this is better than playing. It's doing a real job that's important. What if somebody's building a house on land that won't support it, because an elected official took a payoff to—"

  Mom busied herself pulling salad makings from the refrigerator.

  "Mom!" I said. "I want to tell you about this. It's really a big deal."