Vengeance Road. Rick Mofina

There were photos of Fowler with city, state and federal politicians. His wife had a power job with the New York State attorney general’s regional office. His brother was married to the publisher’s daughter.

      Fowler was a political player and Gannon didn’t trust him.

      “I can’t give you my source’s name.”

      Nate looked at Wallace then back at Gannon.

      “You can’t? Did I hear you right?”

      “My source has too much at stake.”

      “And you don’t?” Fowler glared at him. “Do you have any documents supporting the story?”

      “No.”

      Nate Fowler glared at Ward Wallace then Gannon.

      “Jesus. So we have nothing in our possession. No warrant, no affidavit, no court record?”

      Gannon shook his head.

      “Do you have a source or not, Jack?”

      “I have a source, but I can’t give them up to anyone. I gave my word. You have to trust me.”

      “The hell I do! As an employee conducting business for this company, you are required to advise your managers of your source, or be considered insubordinate.”

      “Jack,” Wallace said, “just tell us who your source is and where they work.”

      “I can’t. My source would lose more than their job.”

      “Job?” Fowler said. “Let me tell you about jobs, Gannon. If we print a retraction, we rupture the paper’s credibility at a time of eroding readership. At a time of possible staff cuts. Do you understand what’s at stake here?”

      “I do. I swear my story’s good.”

      “Is it? Without so much as a thread of evidence, you’ve accused an outstanding member of this community of murder! A man recognized for putting his life on the line, a man who volunteers to help street people. Your story claims he killed a goddamn prostitute!”

      “A human being. A troubled nursing student, that’s what she was.”

      “A drug-addicted hooker.”

      “My story’s not wrong, you have to trust me.”

      “Trust you? We’re way beyond that.” Fowler thrust his finger at Gannon’s face, then the door. “You’re gone!”

      “What do you mean?”

      “I’m suspending you indefinitely, effective now and without pay.”

      “My story’s not wrong, Nate.”

      “Then give me your source.”

      “I can’t.”

      “Then get the hell out of my newsroom.”

      11

      Gannon left the Sentinel struggling to make sense of what had hit him.

      Blood drummed in his ears as he walked through the parking lot to his car. He rested his arms on the Vibe’s roof, letting time pass as he contemplated the building and his options.

      He had none.

      He’d given his word that he would not give up his source to anyone. Not even his editors. There was too much on the line.

      Sentinel workers were arriving. Oblivious to his trouble, some waved. As he watched them, Nate Fowler’s ominous words about staff cuts made his stomach tighten and he drove off.

      Navigating through Buffalo’s downtown traffic, he dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, adrenaline still rippling through him.

      The fact was Nate Fowler refused to believe his story. The guy had no respect for his own reporters. He didn’t care for the truth. He kowtowed to politics and could not be trusted with sources.

      Gannon recalled the advice of Sean Allworth, the paper’s Washington bureau chief, when they’d teamed up last month for a story that never saw publication. It was on state and county real estate contracts.

      Fowler had spiked it and that set Allworth off in one of their calls.

      “Jack, never give that guy your sources. He’s a snake. When I broke that land development story last year, I had to give him my source. A week later, Fowler’s brother bought some key property. The whole thing stunk.”

      Allworth said he’d heard rumors that Fowler was going to run for some state office, and through his wife, was cozy with big backdoor players. “He’ll give up your sources to build alliances. Be careful.”

      A popular hero cop like Karl Styebeck could give Fowler a ton of community support, Gannon figured as he stopped at a 7-Eleven lot.

      Okay, he was suspended, so now what?

      He’d pursue the story on his terms, as an outcast.

      Start at square one.

      He made a call from a public pay phone and it was answered by the third ring.

      “It’s Gannon, you read today’s paper?”

      “Yup. Big story.”

      “I need to see you.”

      “All right, the usual spot, say, half an hour.”

      He took the New York State Thruway south to Lackawanna, the former steel town, which was now harvesting the wind. When he got there, he entered the south section of Holy Cross Cemetery.

      One of the area’s largest cemeteries, it held over one hundred thousand graves, including those of people who had built this part of the country, immigrants who’d helped dig the Erie Canal, or worked on Great Lakes steamers or in the steel mills.

      A good place to bury secrets, he thought as he drove slowly along the graveyard’s eastern edge, to the Garden of Consolation. After parking, he sat on a bench near a stand of oak trees and waited.

      Within ten minutes he saw a familiar Chev Impala stop some distance away. A woman got out and started toward him. A white woman about his age, dressed in a lavender T-shirt, dark blazer, jeans and navy leather flat shoes. Her auburn hair was pulled up in a neat bun.

      This was Adell Clark, a former FBI agent.

      Two years back, he’d covered a botched armored-car heist at a strip mall in Lewiston Heights. The FBI had been tipped to the robbery and moved to thwart it. Clark was on the scene and was shot twice. She returned fire, killing the two suspects, aged twenty and nineteen. They were brothers from Philadelphia.

      In the days that followed, Clark agreed to be interviewed. He wrote a feature on the case and they’d kept in touch ever since.

      Her recovery had been rough. A bullet was still lodged in her lower back, forcing her to walk a little slower than most people, or endure a lot of pain. “Pills make me loopy, so I never take them.” To this day, the full terms of her disability claim remained tied up in red tape.

      Clark was a divorced mother of a little girl who needed expensive drugs to cope with a rare medical condition. They lived in a seventy-year-old two-bedroom house with a leaky roof on Parkview in Lackawanna where Clark ran a one-woman private-detective agency.

      She used him as an investigative resource. And he used her. That’s how it was.

      Clark lowered herself carefully onto the bench.

      “So, Jack, talk to me. How’d it go?”

      “I need you to reassure me that our information is solid, Adell.”

      “This stays here with you, me and the dead,” she said.

      “Of course.”

      “After they found Bernice Hogan’s body, SP’s lead detectives called a multi-agency