"Why only one edition?"

"Good question. One of many being asked around the office today." Whitney's eyes locked on hers, steady and serious. "It wasn't suppose to be there, Tess. Not today. Maybe not ever. Someone decided otherwise."

"So what happened? You should know, you're a lock for a Pulitzer for in-house gossip."

"I'd rather have that Far East fellowship, the one in Hawaii, or one of those Alicia Patterson grants for young journalists," Whitney said, as if "Pulitzer" was the only word she had heard. For a moment she seemed lost in some private reverie, perhaps an image of herself striding through the Orient, literally head and shoulders above the populace. She blinked, returning to Baltimore, Tess, and the roof.

"As it turns out, I do know quite a bit about this. I got it all from the big boss, right after I saw you today. Editor in chief Lionel C. Mabry himself."

"Do I know him?"

"He came to the paper nine months ago, lured out of semiretirement at Northwestern University. Ran the Chicago Democrat in its glory days. Reporters call him the Lion King, because he has this mane of blond hair sweeping back from a high widow's peak. They also call him the Lyin' King, because he has a tendency to tell you nice things to your face, then go to the editors' meeting and stick knives in your back. Long, elegant, quite sharp knives."

"Not your bony back, Whitney. Bosses always love you."

"The old bosses did. But Mabry doesn't know my work as a reporter, and he's going to have a big say in who gets the Tokyo bureau when it opens up this summer. I'm on the short list, but I'm not a lock. Not even close."

Whitney frowned. She looked baffled, much in the same way she had the first time she'd attended a Passover dinner with Tess's mother's family. "That's not horseradish," she had insisted politely, poking the tuberous root with her spoon. "Horseradish comes in a jar." No one had dared contradict her.

Tess poured more bourbon into Whitney's glass. "You'll win him over."

"Or die trying. I even used the elevator technique on him today."

"What's that, some blow job tip from the pages of Cosmo?"

"Well, it's not fellatio, but it is a kind of oral sex." Whitney hoisted herself up on the ledge and sipped her drink, legs crossed demurely at the ankles. "There's a theory that the most important part of your career is the thirty seconds you spend on the elevator with the boss-or in the hallway, or the john, but that last outlet doesn't exactly work for me. It's prime exposure time, and you should prepare for it in advance, the way you prepare for orals in college, or the way you train for a race, so it's all second nature."

"Prepare what?"

"Your tapes. Think of your brain as a mini tape recorder. You need two or three tapes at the ready, to drop in the slot at the first sight of the CEO. Editor in chief, in my case. Each tape features a timeless question or observation, demonstrating you are a motivated, loyal, dedicated, happy worker who's willing to do a hundred and ten percent to make your terrific place of work even more terrific."

"I think I need a demonstration."

Whitney threw her shoulders back and shook her hair away from her face, transforming herself into an eager acolyte. "Mr. Mabry," she began, a little breathlessly, her voice higher and sweeter than usual. "Mr. Mabry, I noticed our circulation numbers for the evening edition have stabilized. Do you think the redesign, and the attempt to market the evening paper as a street-driven product, 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 able to figure out who did it, but Mabry wants to show the publisher he takes this sort of thing very seriously. I think Mabry's secretly delighted the story got in the paper. It's the biggest thing going, and the Beacon-Light had it first. Mabry only held it to begin with because of the unnamed sources. All he wanted was for Feeney and Rosita to go back and get people on the record first. Someone just accelerated the schedule, that's all."