have helped reverse the
years-long trend of dwindling afternoon circulation?"
Bourbon burned when it came out through the
nose. "That's the most fatuous thing I've
ever heard," Tess said, snorting and laughing.
"Does it really work?"
"Well, I got on an elevator three
years ago as a reporter, chatted up the editorial editor about the
wonders of an Ivy League education, and by the time I got off, I was
well on my way to being an editorial writer."
"And to think I thought you were
crazy when you left Washington College for Yale," Tess said,
shaking her head in wonder. It wasn't that she
wouldn't do the same, given the chance. She just
wouldn't do it as well .
Perhaps there really were only two kinds of people in the world:
suck-ups and failed suck-ups.
"Then today, right after I saw
you, I ran into the Lion King," Whitney continued boastfully,
as proud of her talent for obsequiousness as if it were a sport she had
mastered. "I said, ‘The Wynkowski
story—it wasn't on the budget at
yesterday's four o'clock, was it, sir?'
The four o'clock is the last news meeting of the day. Some
things break later—"
"I know, I know."
"Right, I sometimes forget
you're a defrocked journalist. Anyway, he said, very tersely,
‘No, it wasn't.' So I said,
‘Well, it's none of my business, but if you want to
get to the bottom of it, and want someone you can trust—a
discreet private investigator with a special knowledge of
newspapers—I happen to know the perfect person.' We
went back to his office and chatted for an hour, mainly about his
impressions of Baltimore and his backhand. It turns out he really wants
to get into the Baltimore Country Club. My uncle is on the membership
committee, you know."
Tess had not been distracted by
Whitney's rambling details. "Back up a little.
Who's this discreet private investigator with the special
knowledge of newspapers?"
Whitney smiled coyly.
"Let's play Botticelli, Tesser. My letter is
‘M.' Ask me a yes-or-no question to figure out who
I am."
"Let's see. Are you a
five-foot-nine Washington College grad whose former college roommate is
apparently out of her fucking mind?"
"You guessed it right off the bat.
I'm Theresa Esther Monaghan, the perfect woman for the job,
don't you think? In fact, you've got a meeting with
the editors at two o'clock tomorrow. Do you have something
decent to wear?"
Tess tipped up the bourbon bottle and took a
swallow, largely for effect. Actually, she was not staggered by the
thought of Whitney, without consulting her, volunteering her for a job.
Whitney was always pushing Tess forward, trying to make her more than
she was. But she had over-looked a few key details here.
"I have a job, remember? I work
for Tyner."
"Who wants you to be more of a
self-starter, by the way. I ran this by him before I called you
tonight, and he's all for it. Said he really
doesn't have enough to keep you busy right now, and this
sounds like a good opportunity."
Great, Tyner and Whitney, president and vice
president of the Let's-Make-Tess-Apply-Herself Club, had been
conspiring behind her back again. Tess was surprised they
hadn't needed her mother, the club's founding
member, for an official quorum.
"My Uncle Spike is in the
hospital. If Tyner doesn't need me. I'd rather
spend my time getting to the bottom of what happened to him."
"Then it couldn't hurt
to have the Beacon-Light's files at your disposal. Computerized court documents, the
paper's morgue, Nexis-Lexis—all there at your
fingertips, as long as you're on the payroll."
Tempting, but Tess saw one last, huge flaw
in Whitney's plan.
"Look, you're saying
this was deliberate, right? Hacking, pure and simple?"
"That's the
scenario."
"So they're looking for
someone with a motive?"
"Naturally."
"Well, wouldn't Feeney,
along with this Rosita Taquita, be a prime suspect? I can't
investigate one of my friends. What would I do if I found out he did
it?"
"You're getting ahead of
yourself. The reality is, you probably won't be
years-long trend of dwindling afternoon circulation?"
Bourbon burned when it came out through the
nose. "That's the most fatuous thing I've
ever heard," Tess said, snorting and laughing.
"Does it really work?"
"Well, I got on an elevator three
years ago as a reporter, chatted up the editorial editor about the
wonders of an Ivy League education, and by the time I got off, I was
well on my way to being an editorial writer."
"And to think I thought you were
crazy when you left Washington College for Yale," Tess said,
shaking her head in wonder. It wasn't that she
wouldn't do the same, given the chance. She just
wouldn't do it as well .
Perhaps there really were only two kinds of people in the world:
suck-ups and failed suck-ups.
"Then today, right after I saw
you, I ran into the Lion King," Whitney continued boastfully,
as proud of her talent for obsequiousness as if it were a sport she had
mastered. "I said, ‘The Wynkowski
story—it wasn't on the budget at
yesterday's four o'clock, was it, sir?'
The four o'clock is the last news meeting of the day. Some
things break later—"
"I know, I know."
"Right, I sometimes forget
you're a defrocked journalist. Anyway, he said, very tersely,
‘No, it wasn't.' So I said,
‘Well, it's none of my business, but if you want to
get to the bottom of it, and want someone you can trust—a
discreet private investigator with a special knowledge of
newspapers—I happen to know the perfect person.' We
went back to his office and chatted for an hour, mainly about his
impressions of Baltimore and his backhand. It turns out he really wants
to get into the Baltimore Country Club. My uncle is on the membership
committee, you know."
Tess had not been distracted by
Whitney's rambling details. "Back up a little.
Who's this discreet private investigator with the special
knowledge of newspapers?"
Whitney smiled coyly.
"Let's play Botticelli, Tesser. My letter is
‘M.' Ask me a yes-or-no question to figure out who
I am."
"Let's see. Are you a
five-foot-nine Washington College grad whose former college roommate is
apparently out of her fucking mind?"
"You guessed it right off the bat.
I'm Theresa Esther Monaghan, the perfect woman for the job,
don't you think? In fact, you've got a meeting with
the editors at two o'clock tomorrow. Do you have something
decent to wear?"
Tess tipped up the bourbon bottle and took a
swallow, largely for effect. Actually, she was not staggered by the
thought of Whitney, without consulting her, volunteering her for a job.
Whitney was always pushing Tess forward, trying to make her more than
she was. But she had over-looked a few key details here.
"I have a job, remember? I work
for Tyner."
"Who wants you to be more of a
self-starter, by the way. I ran this by him before I called you
tonight, and he's all for it. Said he really
doesn't have enough to keep you busy right now, and this
sounds like a good opportunity."
Great, Tyner and Whitney, president and vice
president of the Let's-Make-Tess-Apply-Herself Club, had been
conspiring behind her back again. Tess was surprised they
hadn't needed her mother, the club's founding
member, for an official quorum.
"My Uncle Spike is in the
hospital. If Tyner doesn't need me. I'd rather
spend my time getting to the bottom of what happened to him."
"Then it couldn't hurt
to have the Beacon-Light's files at your disposal. Computerized court documents, the
paper's morgue, Nexis-Lexis—all there at your
fingertips, as long as you're on the payroll."
Tempting, but Tess saw one last, huge flaw
in Whitney's plan.
"Look, you're saying
this was deliberate, right? Hacking, pure and simple?"
"That's the
scenario."
"So they're looking for
someone with a motive?"
"Naturally."
"Well, wouldn't Feeney,
along with this Rosita Taquita, be a prime suspect? I can't
investigate one of my friends. What would I do if I found out he did
it?"
"You're getting ahead of
yourself. The reality is, you probably won't be
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