“Or the op-eds?” Susan asked.
“That’s where you come in,” Ian said. “There was no access last time around. They think that if they let us in on the process, we’ll be less inclined to point and snicker. So they’re letting us profile Sheridan.”
“Why me?” she asked skeptically.
Ian shrugged. “They asked for you specifically. You weren’t here the last time around. And you’re a writer. The M.F.A. makes them less anxious than a J-school degree.” He touched the sides of his head again, this time finding a tiny stray hair and gliding it back into place. “They don’t want a reporter. They don’t want digging. They want human interest. Also, you went to Cleveland High.”
“Ten years ago,” Susan pointed out.
“It’s where the first girl disappeared,” Ian said. “It’s color. Plus, you’re a terrific feature writer. You do great at the series stuff. You’ve got a knack for it. Jenkins is convinced this is our ticket to another Pulitzer.”
“I write quirky essays about burn victims and rescued pets.”
“You’ve been wanting to do something serious,” Ian said.
Should she tell them? Susan tapped her pen against the notebook for a minute and then laid the pen carefully down on the table. “I’ve sort of been looking into the whole Senator Castle thing.”
It was like she had started masturbating right there on the table. There was a moment of complete stillness. Then Clay slowly sat up. He glanced at Ian, who sat on the back of his chair, hands on his knees, back straight. “Those are rumors,” Ian said. “That’s all. Molly Palmer had a lot of psychological problems. There’s nothing there. It’s a smear campaign. Trust me. It’s not worth your time. And it’s not your beat.”
“She was fourteen,” Susan said.
Ian picked up his mug but didn’t take a sip. “Have you talked to her?”
Susan sank an inch in her chair. “I can’t find her.”
Ian gave a vindicated little snort and put the mug back on the table. “And that’s because she doesn’t want to be found. She was in and out of juvie. In and out of rehab. You think I didn’t look into this the moment I got to town? She’s disturbed. She was in high school and she lied to a few friends and the lie snowballed. Period.” He frowned. “So do you want the serial killer task force dream story, or should I give it to Derek?”
Susan winced. Derek Rogers had been hired at the same time she was, and he was being groomed to cover crime. She crossed her arms and considered the rather appealing possibility of not having to write another story about a police dog. But she had hesitations. This was important. It was life-and-death. And while she would never admit it to anyone in that room, she took that very seriously. She wanted the story. She just didn’t want to be the one to fuck it up.
“We’re thinking four parts,” Ian continued. “We’ll jump each story from A-one. You follow Archie Sheridan. You write about what you see. It’s your only beat. If you want it.”
The front page. “It’s because I’m a girl, isn’t it?”
“A delicate flower,” Ian said.
Ian had won a Pulitzer back when he worked for the Times. He’d let Susan hold the medallion once. Sitting there now, she could almost feel the weight of it in her hand. “Yeah,” she said, her pulse quickening. “I want it.”
Ian smiled. He was handsome when he smiled, and he knew it. “Good.”
“So?” Susan said, snapping her notebook shut in preparation to stand up. “Where am I supposed to find him?”
“I’ll take you over there at three,” Ian said. “There’s a press conference.”
Susan froze. Now that she had committed, she was dying to get started. “But I need to see him working.”
“He wants some time to get organized.” Ian’s expression didn’t leave much room for discussion.
Half a day. It was a lifetime in a missing person case. “What am I supposed to do until then?” Susan asked.
“Finish up all your other work,” Ian said. “And learn everything you can.” He picked up the newsprint-stained tan telephone that sat on the table and punched some buttons. “Derek?” he said. “Can you come in here?”