A Scourge of Vipers Read Online Free PDF Page A

briefcase was crammed with blue-banded bundles of hundred-dollar bills.
    *   *   *
    It was well past midnight by the time I got back to the newsroom. The place was deserted. Twisdale had left a note on my desk directing me to file something for our online edition, as if I needed to be told. I banged out a news story heavy on description, leaving out the cash and the names of the dead. When I was done, I shot Chuckie-boy an e-mail suggesting he have someone track down the Correias to get their account of surviving the crash. I figured he needed to be told. Then I spent a few minutes on Google.
    I turned up a few routine business stories about Egg Harbor Aviation, a two-year-old item about Christopher Cox getting his pilot’s license, and nothing at all about Lucan Alfano of Ocean City, New Jersey.

 
    5
    Next morning, my ringtone for Twisdale woke me at eight o’clock. I shut the phone off and went back to sleep. Around noon, I got up, made coffee, and popped a frozen sausage, egg, and cheese into the microwave. I snapped on the TV and ate standing up as I watched Logan Bedford, the blow-dried reporter for Channel 10, stand in front of the crash scene and paraphrase my story. He didn’t have anything new. He rarely did.
    I turned the cell back on, checked my messages, and found six, all from Twisdale. I didn’t listen to them. Tuukka’s water dish was dry, so I refilled it and dropped in another mouse. He startled, flicked his tongue at it, and turned away. Apparently still full from yesterday, he curled up to sleep. I considered joining him. Instead, I fired up my laptop, logged on to The Dispatch ’s online edition, and was scanning the sports news when Twisdale called again.
    â€œWhere have you been?” he said. “I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”
    â€œWhere do you suppose I’ve been after working half the night, Chuck?”
    â€œWell, shake off the cobwebs and get your butt in here.”
    â€œHave you forgotten already? You gave me today off.”
    â€œNo, I haven’t forgotten, but I need somebody who knows what he’s doing to follow the crash story.”
    â€œMaybe you could hire back one of the veteran reporters you let go.”
    â€œOkay, okay. You’ve made your point. Now come on in. You can reschedule the day off for next week.”
    â€œNo thanks,” I said, and clicked off.
    He rang back. I didn’t answer. I was not about to spend the day under Chuckie-boy’s thumb, but I couldn’t leave the story alone either. He’d want me to chase the survivors for a feel-good human interest story. I wanted to find out who Lucan Alfano was and why he’d been hand-carrying tens of thousands of dollars in cash to Little Rhody.
    I was trying to remember if I knew anyone in Atlantic City when my cell played the opening guitar riff of “Who Are You” by The Who, my ringtone for unknown callers.
    â€œMulligan?”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œIt’s Judy Abbruzzi.”
    â€œHey, Judy. How have you been?”
    â€œI’m good.”
    Judy had been The Dispatch ’s night city editor before she got laid off a couple of years back.
    â€œYou working?” I asked.
    â€œI am. I hooked on with The Atlantic City Press last November.”
    â€œAs what?”
    â€œAssistant metro editor.”
    â€œGlad to hear you landed on your feet.”
    â€œOne of the few,” she said. “I’m counting my blessings.”
    â€œSo, Judy. I’m guessing this isn’t just a social call.”
    â€œIt’s not. I hear that one of our South Jersey worthies got himself killed in Rhode Island last night.”
    â€œTwo of them, actually.”
    â€œI know,” she said, “but the one that intrigues me is Lucan Alfano.”
    â€œI thought the victims’ names hadn’t been released yet.”
    â€œThey haven’t. I got it from a source.”
    â€œSo