Worse
if
they
had,
Lacey thought.
I’ve
had
their
coffee—
Police
brutality.
“I’m sure everything will work
out.”
Lacey
didn’t
necessarily
believe
it. “But it
would
be better if you had someone to
verify
where you were on Friday
afternoon.”
“Mac said
you’d
help
me.”
“Excuse me?”
Lacey
put her plate
down.
So Mac had prom ised both Cassandra and Felicity that she
would
help?
Without
her permission? Behind her back?
Of
course
he did.
“I’m scared,
Lacey.
If you need to
know
anything,
I’m here to
help,”
Felicity said. “Harlan too,
anything
you need. Let me
know
what you come up with, okay?” She sighed and retreated to her
own
desk, the
very
picture of
woe.
“And
if you could be quick about it, that
would
be
great.”
Lacey stormed into
Mac’s
office.
“Were
you planning
on
telling me
you’d
committed my time and
efforts
to help
both
of
them? Do you just
like
the surprise element of it all? Or did you
do
it
just
to
get
Felicity
baking
again?”
He lifted his
own
plate of hot chocolate pudding
cake
and saluted her with his fork. He had the
nerve
to chuckle. “I had to tell them something,
didn’t
I?
You’re
the one ruining Christ mas. I
was
just trying to
save
it. And
it’s
your
fault
anyway,
Smithsonian.”
She slapped her hands on his desk. “My
fault!
How
in the name of
heaven
is this my
fault?”
“I
don’t
mean the attack on
Wentworth.
I mean in general, sticking your nose into murder
cases.”
He paused for breath and
an
expansive
gesture.
“And
then
somehow
you
just
stumble
over
the
killer,
don’t
ask me
how.
It’s
a
gift.”
“I do not stumble!” She stood ramrod straight and folded her arms.
“And
there is no killer here!”
“You
know
what I
mean.”
“Do I?”
He concentrated on the pudding
cake.
“Besides, if it turns out to be one of
Cassandra’s
hate mailers,
we’ve
already got the police on it.
That’s
not what I
want
you to
do.”
“Hate
mailers.”
She took a seat.
“You
mean one in particu lar?
You
have
a suspect?”
“We’re
working
on
it,
Smithsonian.”
He
polished
off
the
cake
with a
satisfied
lip smack.
“Anytime
we get some whack job writing a crazy letter or an email or posting
something
threatening on the
newspaper’s
blog, we put it in the
file.
Cas sandra called these the
‘puffy
letters.’
Hand
delivered,
big en
velopes.
Nutcases, it seems, are rarely concise.
They
tend to
ramble.”
“Yeah.”
She had gotten her share of weird letters. She usu ally handed them to Mac.
“Your
file
is not as
fat
as
Cassandra’s,
but
it’ll
do.”
“Huh. I thought you just tossed them in the
shredder.
Any
clues?”
Mac
downed
his
coffee.
“They
don’t
generally attach their real names or
business
cards. She does
have
one particularly
nasty
nonadmirer,
so
we
gave
the
cops
her
file.
Just
today.
Might
get
them
off
Felicity’s
case.
And
if
he
shows
up
again,
building
security
will
detain
him.
Chances
are
he’s
the
as
sailant. Johnson thinks
so.”
“So
that’s
it?” It
was
an odd feeling,
but
oddly freeing. The cops might
take
care of it after all.
“We
just
wait
for the cops to collar this guy? End of story?”
“No, we
don’t
just
wait!
I’m interested in this kid of yours in the
alley.
The cops are not going to be
any
help with this kid. That’s
the
story
I
want
you
on.
That’s
great
human
interest
stuff,
especially in the holiday season. If we can
find
the shep herd girl
it’ll
be good for the
paper.
And the best thing for the kid, the
very
best thing.
That’s
the main
thing.”
“She
hasn’t
called me back since
yesterday.
I’ve
tried call ing the
number.
She
doesn’t
pick
up.”
“Let’s
hope she does, and soon,
Lacey.
The cops get hold of her and put her in the system,
she’s
got no one to look out for
her.
Except the
system.”
He snorted.
“Last I heard
they
were still looking for an Hispanic
boy.
What if I can
find
Jasmine’s
school and try to spot her when school lets out?”
“If
she’s
homeless or close to it, she probably isn’t
even
going to school!
It’s
like
this, Smithsonian:
She’s
not a crimi nal. Maybe she
takes
something small, a robe
off
a statue in the stable.
She’s
just
hungry,
or
she’s
cold. But if she gets caught by that long arm of the
law,
she still goes to detention, some ju
venile
facility,
some
ugly,
scary,
soulkilling place.
You’re
a kid, you got no
voice.
Maybe
she’ll
go to a foster home. Some are
okay,
some
are
like
a
game
of
musical
chairs.
Too
late,
got
no
chair for you, kid!
You
get
bumped.
It’s
a hell of a life for a
kid.”
“Sounds
like
you
know
a lot about this sort of thing,
like
personal
experience.”
“Yup,
I got some personal
experience.”
Mac
didn’t
elabo rate.
“We
have
to
find
Jasmine Lee. Find a place for
her.”
Lacey
stood up.
Talking
about Jasmine just made her feel helpless. “I
have
no idea where to start. Except to
wait
for my cell phone to
ring.”
“Funny thing about my wife.
You
know
Kim,”
Mac
said.
“She
can’t
stand the thought of kids out on the street with no
home. Put Christmas into the mix and she broods about it. I
don’t
like
my wife to brood. Bring that girl in.
Make
it happen.
Too
many
kids
fall
through the cracks. Find this one, before she does
too.”
“Make
it happen?” She
wasn’t
sure she could do
anything
at all.
“I’ll
see what I can do,
Mac.”
“Do better than that,
Smithsonian.”
LaToya
Crawford
was
waiting
for her outside
Mac’s
office,
with a tale of outrage
over
Peter
Johnson’s
behavior.
Appar
ently
he
was
trying
to
interrogate
everyone
in
the
office
who
had
worn
a Santa cap at the National Press Club the night of the
party.
“I think
he’s
losing
it,”
LaToya
said.
“He’s
this
close.”
She squeezed
two
fingers
together.
“I mean Johnson starts babbling, insulting reporters, yours truly included, accusing editors of as sault, and then he launches into something about
Dostoyevsky’s
Crime
and
Punishment.
Nobody
knows
what
he’s
talking
about. He
doesn’t
either.
He just thinks
it’s
smart or something to
throw
in
Dostoyevsky!
Then he drops Herodotus on us,
like
an Hbomb,
like
we’re
all supposed to understand
he’s
some brilliantass reporter who
knows
who Herodotus is, and I mean, Smithsonian, what the hell does Herodotus
have
to do with the
fact
that someone got pissed
off
enough to
take
down
Cassan dra
Wentworth
in the
alley
the other night? Not a damn thing,
that’s
what.”
Lacey
would
have
said something,
but
at that moment she
looked
up
and
saw
Peter
Johnson
strutting
in
her
direction.
Lacey
looked
to
LaToya
with a silent plea for help.
“Oh no, girl!
It’s
your turn. I been on the grill
already.
He says another
word
to me I’m gonna hurt him.
You
are on your
own
with
Mr.
Herodotus
Dostoyevsky,
and
watch
out he
don’t
pull Plato and Aristotle on you too. I got
work
to
do.”
LaToya
had nailed Johnson. He
was
one of those
Washing
tonians who
believed
he
was
always
the smartest person in the room. It
never
dawned
on them that
everyone
else in the room thought
they
were the smartest ones too. It could be so
exhaust
ing,
Lacey
thought, to be caught in the same room with so
many
smartypantses.
Johnson ignored
Felicity,
and she ignored Johnson. But she made a
show
of
offering
LaToya
a big piece of pudding
cake.
Lacey
could see Johnson
was
irritated.
Felicity’s
return to the
land of pudding
cake
was
not something to be missed. Johnson hissed at
Lacey
under his breath.
“So Smithsonian, come up with
anything
brilliant yet?”
“How
could I,
Peter,
I’m not a genius Hill reporter
like
some people.”