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source, as if everyone at the paper didn’t know the big contact was his aunt Dena, who worked the switchboard at One Police Plaza and was the queen bee of information gathering. Her drones were in every precinct in the city, from property clerks to the receptionist at the coroner’s office. As sources went, Aunt Dena was a valuable one. Sisman rarely left his desk, except for bakery runs.
    “I thought there’d been a break in the case.” One of the pieces had supposedly shown up in a Queens pawn shop. Sisman had made a big deal of his “investigation.”
    “That went nowhere,” the reporter admitted. “But I hear the people at Stanhope’s are screaming to the right people. Ergo, the mayor’s office is tightening the screws on the police force.” Sisman sat on the corner of Jamie’s desk, getting cozy. A ring of fat lapped his belt like an overinflated inner tube.
    Jamie reminded himself to cut out the midday doughnuts if he wanted to keep up with Marissa. “Then you’d better get on the big story.”
    Sisman licked filling out of the pastry. “You’re the arts guy.”
    “I am.” The staff at the Village Observer was small, so most of them doubled up on responsibilities. Jamie’s duties included every opening from gallery to letter.
    “Then you’d know about the White Star.”
    The ancient ivory amulet known as the White Star had been one of the pieces stolen from Stanhope’s. Jamie shook his head. “Never heard of it until the heist.”
    “Yeah, that’s the rub. Here’s this supposedly rare and valuable tschotske and nobody knows about it, not even you art-loving types. How come?”
    “It’s been in private collections.”
    “Interesting.” Sisman popped the last bite into his mouth.
    “Not really.” Jamie opened his laptop, then closed it again while Sisman brushed off his sweater. “What are you after, Skip?”
    “The Wart Hog wants a sidebar on the amulet. You could research it.”
    “You kidding me? I’m not doing your work.”
    “Okay, so you write the piece and get a byline.”
    “Go talk to Alice in Features.”
    “I tried. She sent me to you.”
    To the moon, Alice. “Then go bug someone else. Anyone else. The intern or the bike messenger. I have enough on my plate.”
    Sisman poked the thick ARC—advance reader copy—that had come in yesterday’s mail from one of the big publishers, along with a packet of promo materials and a plea for column inches. “The Savvy Woman’s Guide To Breast Feeding. Yeah, that sounds fascinating.”
    The man had a point. “But there are breasts involved. Which makes it far more fascinating than some dusty old relic.”
    Sisman heaved himself off the desk. “Any pictures in there?”
    Jamie laughed. “Changing your tune, huh?” Maybe he could turn the tables and con Sisman into writing the review or taking over his tickets to the Streetcorner Player’s experimental version of Guys and Dolls.
    “So you won’t help?” Sisman pushed.
    “Nope. Unless you’re willing to make a deal.”
    “Not if it involves breast pumps.”
    After Sisman had lumbered away, Jamie reached for the phone, feeling like he was fifteen again and calling for his first date.
    “Hey, Jamie,” Marissa said after the second ring.
    “You’re picking up again.”
    “Only when I recognize the number.”
    “Paul’s still in the Caribbean?” Subtext: he’s not racing home to win back your heart?
    “As far as I know. Let’s not waste our time talking about him, okay?”
    He heard her panting and for a moment thought she was overwrought until the rhythmic whirring sound penetrated his brain. “You’re at the gym.”
    “Yep.”
    “Got plans after that?”
    Whirr-whirr-whirr. “Nope, except for a few errands. Since I’m officially on vaycay, I gave myself a day all to myself. Tomorrow’s soon enough to go back to work.”
    Technically she didn’t have to return until Monday, but he didn’t bother to point that out. The law firm was her surrogate family,