S usan pulled into one of the freshly designated visitor parking spots at the task force offices. She was a half hour early. Susan was never early. She didn’t even like people who were early. But she had woken up at sunrise with that burning hum in her stomach she got when she was about to write a really good story. Ian had already left by then. If he’d woken Susan up to say goodbye, she didn’t remember it.
A fog had settled on the city overnight, and the air was heavy and wet. The chilly humidity soaked into everything, so that even the inside of Susan’s car felt like it might mildew as she sat there.
To pass the time now, she opened her phone, punched in a number, and left a message on the voice mail she knew by heart. “Hi, Ethan. It’s Susan Ward. From the alley.” From the alley? Christ. “I mean the Herald. I was wondering if you’d had a chance to talk to Molly about me. I really think her story deserves to be heard. Anyway, give me call. Okay?” Ian had said not to pursue the story. That it was a time waster. But she had some time to kill, so why not do some background? Background wasn’t really pursuit. Really.
She waited in the car for a few more minutes, smoking a cigarette and watching people go in and out of the building. Susan was usually a social smoker. She smoked when she was out. When she drank. And sometimes when she was nervous. She hated being nervous. She flung the cigarette out the car window and watched the tiny explosion of sparks as it hit the pavement. Then she checked her appearance in the rearview mirror. She was dressed entirely in black, with her pink hair pulled back into a low ponytail. Jesus, she thought, I look like a punk-rock ninja. There was nothing to be done. She bit the bullet and went inside.
They had worked all night on transforming the bank into a working squad room. The boxes that yesterday had sat half-unpacked were now flattened and stacked by the door, waiting to be hauled away. The desks sat in pairs, facing each other, each equipped with a computer and black flat-screen monitor. No wonder the public education budget was short. Enlarged school photographs of each of the girls, as well as dozens of snapshots, were pinned to a wall-size bulletin board. Several city maps hung beside them, peppered with colorful pushpins. A copier was noisily spitting out paper. Coffee cups and water bottles sat on desks. Susan could smell coffee brewing. She counted seven detectives, all on the phone. A female uniformed officer sitting at a long desk immediately inside the door looked up at Susan.
“I’m here to see Archie Sheridan,” Susan said. “Susan Ward. I have an appointment.” She pulled her press pass out of her purse and let it dangle from its lanyard a few inches above the desk.
The officer glanced at the press pass, picked up her phone, dialed an extension, and announced Susan’s arrival. “You can go back,” she said, already returning to her computer monitor.
Susan made her way through the bank to Archie’s office. This time, the white venetian blinds were open and she could see him sitting at his desk reading some papers. The door was ajar and she knocked lightly on it, feeling a slight flutter of nerves in her stomach.
“Good morning,” he said, standing up.
She went in and took the hand he offered. “Good morning. Sorry I’m early.”
His eyebrows quirked up. “Are you?”
“About thirty minutes.”
He shrugged slightly and just stood there. Susan counted four empty coffee cups on his desk.
Oh God. He was waiting for her to sit down first. Right. She scrambled into one of the burgundy vinyl armchairs that faced his desk.
He sat down. The office was small, just big enough for a large cherry-veneer desk with a built-in bookcase behind it and two armchairs in front of it. A small window overlooked the street, where cars sped by at a regular clip. He was wearing the same corduroy jacket from the day before, but today his button-down shirt was blue. She felt like she should be asking for a loan. “So how do we do this?”
Archie placed his hands in front of him on the desk, palms down. “You tell me.” His expression was friendly, welcoming.
“Well,” Susan said slowly. “I’ll need access. To you.”
He nodded. “As long it doesn’t get in the way of me doing my job, sure.”
“You don’t have a problem with that? Me following you around while you’re trying to work?”
“No.”
“And I’ll want to talk to people around you.” She examined his face. It remained relaxed, unconcerned. “Your ex-wife, for instance.”
He didn’t flinch. “Fine. I don’t know if she’ll talk to you, but you’re welcome to ask her.”
“And Gretchen Lowell.”
His face constricted just a little. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Gretchen doesn’t talk to reporters.”