Jeremiah, she told herself, had just the kind of bulldog tenacity—the arrogance, the skill, the connections—to help her find out who was responsible for Friday’s attack and this afternoon’s call. Whether two different people or one, he could help her get to the truth. Unwittingly, against her will, she was involved, if not in the thick of things, as his source apparently believed, at least on the periphery. And she didn’t like it.
And if she didn’t get Jeremiah’s help, she at least wanted everything he had, and she wanted it now.
Which sounded pretty much like a plan to her.
She signed in with a security guard in the lobby and provided the name of a contact in arts and entertainment. Best to give herself an out in case she got cold feet before she reached Jeremiah’s desk. Since the guard didn’t give her a second glance, she assumed she didn’t look any more frazzled than the average Trib reporter. She’d worn a white linen shirt with a collar to hide her bruised neck.
She found her way to the newsroom and stood at the entrance, surveying the rows of desks, the flickering computers, the humming fax machines, the ringing telephones. A trio of men were arguing in front of a glassed-in corner office. No one seemed to be paying attention to them. Reporters went about their business, displaying an enviable ability to concentrate amidst the noise and general chaos.
“Looking for someone?” a young woman with a mug of coffee asked mid-stride.
Mollie took a breath. “Jeremiah Tabak.”
“His desk’s over on the wall.” She motioned with her cup, carefully matter-of-fact. “Doesn’t look like he’s in. Lucky for you. He’s in a bitch of a mood.”
She went on her way, and Mollie, sucking in a breath, plunged on across the room to a cubicle on the far wall. She was aware of eyes on her. Strangers in a newsroom wouldn’t go unnoticed. Someone looking for Jeremiah Tabak definitely wouldn’t go unnoticed. If she left now, she had no doubt his colleagues would be able to provide him with a detailed description of her. Blonde hair. White shirt, little tan skirt. Shaking like hell.
He wasn’t at his desk. His monitor was stuck with Post-it notes and clippings of cartoons, its screensaver of fish swimming across the screen on. The keyboard needed cleaning. His desk was cluttered with magazines, newspapers, notebooks, letters, scraps of paper, cheap pens, Star Wars pencils that might have belonged to a ten-year-old. An alligator paperweight held down one eight-inch stack of letters, many still in unopened envelopes. His ancient swivel chair looked as if he’d banged it against the wall a few too many times.
This wasn’t where Jeremiah lived, Mollie thought. The man was no more interested in his surroundings than her parents and sister were in theirs. They lived in their music. He lived in whatever story gripped him.
Her pulse drummed in her ear as she debated taking a quick cruise through his desk for anything related to a certain jewel thief plaguing the Florida Gold Coast.
“You looking for Tabak?”
Mollie jumped, startled. A small, handsome older woman approached Jeremiah’s desk, an unlit cigarette dangling from her fingers. Mollie reminded herself that she hadn’t done anything wrong, just had considered it. “Yes. Is he in?”
“Unfortunately, yes. He took off upstairs for coffee. I tried to follow, but he growled at me. Figure I’ll catch him when he’s caffeined up. Me,” she said, waving her cigarette, “I just smoke. I’d light up now but the freaking Nazis around here would have me shot. What we’re getting in for reporters today, you just wouldn’t believe.” She paused, scrutinizing Mollie with a clarity that reminded her of Jeremiah. “You’re Mollie Lavender, aren’t you?”
“I am, but how…who…”
She grinned, pleased with herself. “I’m Helen Samuel, dear. I’m paid to know these things. Leonardo Pascarelli’s goddaughter, attacked coming out of the ladies’ room at Diantha Atwood’s party Friday night. That must have been terrible. Are you all right now?” Mollie must have looked suspicious, because Helen Samuel, the legendary gossip columnist, grinned at her. “Relax, we’re off the record.”
“I’m fine,” Mollie said. “I just had business in the building and thought I’d stop and thank Jeremiah for his help.”
The old reporter’s dark eyes registered interest and a level of suspicion that, Mollie decided, was probably natural to her. Finally, she pointed her cigarette across the open newsroom. “Check the cafeteria. One floor up.” Then came a quick, compassionate smile that caught Mollie totally off guard. “I won’t tell him you were snooping.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Dear, what do you think I’m doing here?”
Mollie couldn’t resist a smile at the woman’s cheekiness. “You’re going to snoop in Tabak’s desk? What if he catches you?”
“He’ll be pissed as hell. What do I care? It’s not as if he’ll have left out a damned thing of use to me. If Tabak knows anything, he keeps it to himself. And believe me,” she added with a wink, “he doesn’t trust any of the rest of us.”
With good reason, apparently.