He would dash off a formulaic reply to each letter within hours of it arriving, and then guilt would compel him to carry it around for days afterward, like a security blanket. He’d told her to write him at the paper: he wanted her to see, to acknowledge each time she wrote out the address, that he’d made it. He’d done what he’d set out to do: he had a real job, in the city, at the kind of place where mail was delivered to his desk.
But as much as he tried to focus on that feeling, as much as he wanted to believe he was a success, there was always a nagging worry at the back of his mind about how much longer he might have this job. The circulation numbers were dropping every week, and there were always rumors about cutbacks. He couldn’t afford to lose his place here, and not just because he was barely making the rent each month. He’d done his time here—typing up weather reports and traffic accidents and summaries of college football games—and they owed him. He’d been waiting a long time for a break—and when the call came in, that call, he’d be ready.
And on that hot July morning, the call came in.
Janine took it, listened for a moment, chewing gum and scribbling, mumbling the occasional “uh-huh.” He kept his eyes on her face, and noticed that the stem of her cat’s-eye glasses was cracked, that her lipstick had begun to bleed into the lines around her mouth.
Then she said, “How old?” and “What’s the address?”
Just a missing kid, then. A teenager who’d stayed out past curfew, or a preschooler who’d wandered away in the street while his mom’s back was turned. It happened. There’d be a panicked couple of hours, then someone would notice him crying on a sidewalk and call the cops, and there’d be a happy ending and a nice photo of the kid and the mom, tearful and smiling through a mixture of shock and relief.
Predictable. Dull.
Still, it was a story and he might be able to work it up into something—a piece about rising crime stats or working mothers and latchkey kids, maybe. Something with a little human interest. So Pete put the bulletins to one side, swung his feet down, and straightened his tie.
Janine hung up, finished writing something, and tore a sheet off her notepad, then stood and headed for the metro desk. Pete was in front of her before she’d taken half a dozen steps.
“Hey there, Janine.”
She blushed. Snapped her gum. Took off her glasses and fiddled with the chain they hung from.
“Hey, Pete.”
“You’re looking awful nice today. I tell you that yet?”
Her blush deepened and she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Uh . . . no . . .”
“Well, you are. That husband of yours is a lucky guy. I hope he knows it.”
She giggled, one hand over her mouth, hiding her crooked teeth, and looked up at him, shifting her weight onto one hip.
“So what was that?” He nodded at the paper in her hand.
“Oh, it’s just a kid. A kid gone missing in Queens. In . . . um . . . between Queens College and Kissena Park.”
“And where might you be taking this missing kid?”
She giggled again.
“Oh . . . well, Mr. Friedmann told me to give the next call to Jack Lamont.”
Jack Lamont, who had picked up the murdered hooker story last month. Who’d somehow gotten an interview with the star witness at the Mendoza trial in March.
Out of the corner of his eye, Pete saw Jack getting to his feet, heading for the bathroom or the coffee machine.
He leaned forward, inhaled the smells of cigarettes and perfume and the face powder she wore. Lightly stroked the sleeve of her blouse.
“That’s a real pretty color on you, Janine.”
Her eyes widened and she blushed again. He risked a glance sideways and sure enough, Jack was gone. Pete straightened up.
“I don’t think Jack’s in today.”
She blinked.
“He isn’t? Oh, I could have sworn I saw him earlier . . .” She turned and they both looked over at Jack’s empty desk. Then she looked back at Pete, a little helpless.
“It’s okay. I’ll take it for you.”
“Oh, well, I don’t know. Mr. Friedmann said . . .”
“C’mon, Janine. I bet Friedmann would rather have someone else take it than leave a message lying around while the Star or the Courier pick up the story.”
He plucked the paper out of her hand and tucked it in his pocket. Then he winked at her.
“Oh,” she said again. “But Mr. Friedmann said . . . I mean . . .”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got it now.”
Pete drove slowly, looking for a parking spot. He might have thought he had the wrong street—this was a quiet neighborhood, not the kind of place where kids went missing—except for the women. Ten or fifteen of them, clustered in small groups on a patch of yellow grass outside an apartment building. Teased hair, low voices, faces glistening in the heat. Then he noticed a guy who worked at the Courier: Anderson, maybe. Something Swedish-sounding. Pete had seen him at a press conference: his shaggy blond hair and faded corduroy jacket standing out among the suits and ties. He was leaning on the hood of his car, doodling in his notebook.
Pete strolled up to him as casually as he could.
“Pete Wonicke from the Herald. You’re Anderson, right?”
The guy barely glanced up from his drawing. “It’s Anders.”