“You
seem to manage to deflect your
mother’s
interroga tions pretty
easily.
And I still
can’t
believe
you really call your mom
‘Nadine.’
”
“That’s
her
name,”
Vic
shrugged. “I call her Mom too. And
I’ve
had years of practice
evading
her
questions.”
He smiled at her,
his
eyes
barely
visible
behind
his
aviatorframed
sun
glasses.
Lacey
knew
his
eyes
would
be
crinkling
up
at
the
corners.
“How’d
she
find
out about it,
anyway?”
“I
don’t
know,
she heard it on the
news
or
something.”
“The
news?”
Perhaps,
Lacey
thought,
Vic
hadn’t
quite
evaded
Nadine’s
latest
interrogation.
“I
didn’t
think
it
was
on
the
news.”
“Nadine is
very
plugged in. Get you some hot cider?”
She nodded and
Vic
sauntered
off.
A stand on the corner
was
doing a brisk
business
in
cider,
coffee,
and cookies.
Lacey
found herself
watching
the children
watching
the pa rade. There
was
no little shepherd
boy,
no flash of a blueand white robe. She had to trust that
Vic
was
right: No robe, no
danger.
Even
so, she still found herself
wanting
proof that the child
was
okay.
A child of
twelve
wandering
the streets of the District alone at night
was
in danger by
definition,
even
with out witnessing a crime.
“Hey,
Lacey!”
Brooke
Barton, Esquire,
waving
from
down
the street,
was
striding
toward
her,
sporting
her
favorite
accessory,
her
boyfriend
Damon
Newhouse.
They
both
wore
trench coats
over
jeans and black boots and matching Burberry scarves. They were the same height.
They
strode together in perfect unison. And
even
though
Brooke’s
long blond hair pulled back in her
predictable
ponytail
contrasted
nicely
with
Damon’s
short
cropped black hair and
Van
Dyke
beard,
they
had
achieved
the very same look, right
down
to their identical square black
sun
glasses.
A
sort
of
human
twin
set,
Lacey thought. She
hoped
this
phase
of
their
relationship
would
soon
pass.
Brooke
at
thirtysomething
still
had
the
air
of
a
very
proper
young
Washington
lawyer;
Damon at the same age
was
still
cultivat
ing a baby beatnik vibe, as if he were the Last
Hipster,
still for
ever
On
the
Road.
And yet
somehow
they
seemed to
fit
each other
perfectly.
Lacey
tried not to grumble
over
Damon’s
presence, because
Brooke
was
so fond of him. His
was
a
world
crammed with crackpot political
conspiracy
theories, alien abductions,
sublim
inal
messages
broadcast
via
cell
towers,
topsecret
pheromone
jammers, sinister pollutants in the Potomac. He
drove
Lacey
slightly
crazy.
But
Brooke
could be just as bad. In her
world,
everything
was
a
conspiracy.
No doubt
they
thought the Scot tish
Walk
was
a front for some kind of Celtic
unification
group bent on
world
domination, not just a demonstration of pride in a common
ancestry.
Lacey
found herself smiling at the thought. Then she told herself, for
heaven’s
sake,
do not share that the ory with
Brooke
and Damon!
She’d
be reading it on the
Web
Monday morning.
With
her
own
name attached to it as a reli
able
source.
Brooke
was
forever
telling
Lacey
to
check
Damon’s
notorious
Web
site,
Conspiracy
Clearinghouse, aka DeadFed dot com, to
keep
up with the “reality behind current
events,”
but
Lacey
figured
all she had to do
was
wait
for these
two
to open their mouths.
“More
excitement
at
The
Eye
?”
Brooke
inquired
with
a
knowing
smile.
“The
drums
say
Smithsonian
is
once
again
mixed
up
in
a
po
lice
incident.”
Damon
smirked
at
Lacey.
He almost
licked
his chops. “In the
alley
with a candy cane? My
my.”
“Really?”
Lacey
said. “Could those drums
have
come from a police radio?”
“And
no story in
today’s
Eye
?
A
coverup?”
he said. “Ex actly what is your
newspaper
hiding?”
“Let
Lacey
explain,”
Brooke
said.
“There’s
always
an
explanation.”
“Deadline,
Newhouse!”
Lacey
said. “It happened past dead line, so it
didn’t
go in the
paper.
Mac certainly
wasn’t
going to print a special edition just for a mugging, not in the District.
You’ll
just
have
to
wait
for
tomorrow’s
edition
to
get
the
prizewinning
paragraph from the police
log.”
“You
did write a story then?”
Newhouse
persisted.
“About
that suspicious attack in the
alley?
So you
know
what it really
means?”
Lacey
sighed. She
looked
around to see if
Vic
was
coming back with their
cider.
A brace of vintage
Bentleys
and Rolls Royces rumbled slowly past in the parade, filled with
inter
changeable local politicians
waving
at the
crowd.
“Strangely enough, I
didn’t
write the
story,
and I
have
no idea what
anything
means. I just called the
police,”
she said. “I swear I
don’t
know
what came
over
me!
There’s
a
woman
lying on the ground bleeding and I do something
wacky
like
that.
What
was
I thinking?”
“Okay,
okay,”
he
grumbled,
“you
did
your
good
citizen
thing, and then what?”
“And
then
Kelly
Kavanaugh,
our
new
police
reporter,
wrote the
story.
What little story there
is.”
Curse
Damon
and
his
one
track
conspiracy
theory
mind,
Lacey
thought.
He
was,
she
knew,
cooking up some bizarre
theory,
even
as
they
stood there.
Gangs
of
renegade
elves
from
the
North
Pole
are
taking
revenge
on
skeptics
like
Cassandra
who
don’t
believe
in
Santa!
“It
might not
even
make
it into print. The only
news
hook is that Cassandra
works
at the
newspaper.”
“And
you found
her.
That’s
a
news
hook right there. When
ever
you’re
involved,
Lacey,”
Damon replied, “I’m sure it’ll
make
headline
news
sooner or
later.”
“Just
watch
the parade,
Damon.”
Brooke
took his arm.
“We’ll
grill her
later,
darling.
I’ll
help
you.”
“Medium rare, please, with a little
marinade,”
Lacey
said. “That
would
be
wonderful.”
Brooke
linked
both their arms in hers. “The two of you working
together.
My two
favorite
people. What a team we
make!
Just
like
in
Paris
last month, hunting that
fabulous
corset, right,
Lacey?”
Where’s
Vic
when
I
need
him?
Lacey
scanned the
crowd
for him,
but
it
was
too big and too dense. “I
know you’d
really get along and respect each
other,”
Brooke
the
peacemaker
said, “if only you could
work
to gether on more big stories
like
that
one.”
“You
know
you’re
my role model,
Smithsonian,”
Damon
said with a grin.
“Oh
please.
Cut
the
bull,
Damon.
What
do
you
want,
really?”
“Not much. If you could just put a
word
in for me at
The
Eye
?”
“What?
You
want
a job? At
The
Eye
?
You’re
serious?”
We
don’t
have a
science
fiction
beat,
Damon,
she
wanted
to
say.
“It
would
mean so much to
me,”
Damon said. “I could be a stringer for special
investigative
reporting? Stories that could tap my unusual
expertise
and contacts?”
“DeadFed dot com is not
exactly
the kind of resume
they’re
looking
for.”
“Great! Thanks,
Lacey.
I’ll
email my curriculum vitae to you
first
thing.
You’re
the
best.”