(In case you haven’t noticed, in the office I’m like the city of Rome. All roads lead to me.)

Pomeroy rose to full height and turned his angry eyes in my direction, staring daggers as I set the coffeemaker on the table, filled it with Maxwell House and plugged it in. “Is this true, Mrs. Turner?” he demanded, voice cold and sharp as an ice pick. “Have you appointed yourself office manager now? How dare you send Lenny home on the day of a major art deadline?!”

“Lenny has the flu,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest, refusing to buckle under Pomeroy’s tyrannical gaze. (Where my newfound strength came from, I’ll never know.) “His temperature was raging, and he was on the verge of passing out. People can die from the flu, you know. I thought it wise to get him out of here before we all became infected. Better to be shy one art assistant than the whole darn staff, wouldn’t you say?”

“You had no right!” Pomeroy shouted, walking toward me with intent to kill. And I believe he would have accomplished his goal if the office entry bell hadn’t jangled, announcing Mr. Crockett’s return to the office.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Crockett!” I yelped, hastening to snag the boss’s attention (and, as a result, his unwitting protection). “Did you have a nice lunch?”

“Hummph,” Crockett grunted, declining to answer yes or no. He hung up his hat and coat, scooped the afternoon newspapers off my desk, and-without a single glance in my direction- headed toward the back of the workroom. Pomeroy shot me a demonic grin, then spun around, followed Crockett into his private office, and slammed the door.

Aaargh! I was in trouble so deep it was dismal.

Acting as cool and unperturbed as Grace Kelly in To Catch a Thief, I strolled across the room and sat down at my desk, turning my back on my gloating coworkers and burying my nose in a stack of invoices. I was freaked out about what was going on in Mr. Crockett’s office, but I’d have swallowed a live slug before letting Mike and Mario know the extent of my discomfort.

Pomeroy came out a few minutes later and marched up the aisle to my desk. “Mr. Crockett wants to see you in his office,” he growled. “Now.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, keeping a dozen curse words in my head and off my tongue. Rising to my feet and walking to the rear of the room, I felt like Marie Antoinette on the way to her execution. Would this moment mark the end of my hard-won Daring Detective career? Mike and Mario were both staring at me with barely disguised expressions of glee. They were lusting to see my head roll.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Crockett?” I said, coming to a stop in his open doorway.

“Yeah,” he snorted, taking a soggy cigar stub from his ashtray and relighting it. “Come in. Shut the door. Sit.”

I followed his instructions like a good little girl.

Crockett got straight to the point. “Pomeroy says you told Lenny to go home early yesterday.”

“That’s right,” I admitted. “He was very sick.”

“You knew it was deadline day?” One of his bushy white eyebrows was cocked to the hilt.

“Yes, I did, sir, but-”

“And you told him to take today off, too?” Crockett interrupted.

“Yes, sir. I spoke to his mother, and she said he was still sick, and-”

“You did the right thing,” he interrupted again.

“What?!” Were my ears deceiving me?

“I was gonna send Lenny home early myself, as soon as I got back from lunch, but I got detoured by our distributor and never made it back to the office.”

“So you’re not mad at me for what I did?”

“Nope. I’m glad. Lenny was in bad shape. He couldn’t work for beans. And I didn’t want the whole office getting sick.” He leaned back in his chair, chewing on his stinky cigar. “Pomeroy doesn’t feel the same way, though,” he added. “He wants me to fire you for insubordinate behavior. Said cousin Oliver wants it, too.”

“Oh,” I said, steeling myself for the worst. There was no point in arguing. If Pomeroy wanted me out because Harrington wanted me out, I was as good as gone.

“I’m not doin’ it, though,” Crockett croaked. “Not yet. I want to talk to Harrington first, see if that’s really what he wants. You’re the only real reporter we’ve got, and he’s been happy with your work in the past, so I’m not sure Pomeroy’s tellin’ the truth. How could Harrington even know about the Lenny thing when Pomeroy just found out about it himself?”

“Good question,” I said, adding nothing, keeping the real reason Harrington might want me fired closely under wraps. (Well, what was I supposed to do? Tell Crockett that Daring Detective’s distinguished owner and publisher might have murdered a prostitute? That he might want me given the axe just to keep me off the story? An allegation like that could cost me a hell of a lot more than my job!)

“So here’s what I want you to do,” Crockett said, squashing his cigar butt in the ashtray and lowering his voice to a conspiratorial grumble. “I want you to go back out there and pretend I gave you the boot. Act upset. Cry a little if you can. Pack up all your stuff, say your good-byes, and get out of here quick.

“Then you can take the rest of today and tomorrow off,” he went on. “That’ll make it look like I followed Harrington’s orders, and it’ll give me time to find out if the orders really came from him. I’ve got a hunch only Pomeroy’s to blame. Harrington knows you’re a good writer, and that you sell magazines, and I don’t believe he wants me to give you the sack. If it turns out I’m right, you can come back to work on Monday.”

“How will I know if you’re right?”

“I’ve got your number. I’ll give you a call over the weekend.” He sat back in his chair and shoved his stubby fingers through his thick white hair. “Go on, now. Get outta here. Act hurt and turn on the tears. Give the boys a good show.”

THE CRYING PART WAS EASY. I FELT SURE THAT I really would be fired, so I was truly distraught. The tears poured freely down my hot, humiliated cheeks. The saying good-bye part was hard, though. As much as I disliked (okay, detested) Pomeroy, Mike, and Mario, I knew I was going to miss them.

(In my case, familiarity always breeds as much fondness as contempt. Don’t ask me why. That’s just the way I am. And you want to know something else? I could tell from the sagging, less-than-satisfied smirks on my contemptible coworkers’ faces that they were going to miss me, too.)

It wasn’t until a little while later-after I’d dried my eyes, blown my nose, stuffed my few office belongings in a bag, and taken the elevator down to the lobby-that I realized how perfect the timing of my “firing” was. I was free as a bird for the rest of the day, and the whole day tomorrow, and the Saturday and Sunday after that. Except for the time I’d be spending with Dan (however much and whenever that turned out to be), I could devote all the rest of my waking hours to hunting down the sick creep who killed Virginia.

Lucky me.

Deciding to launch the next phase of my investigation immediately (i.e., before the thought of losing my job could set me adrift in a sea of self-pity), I darted over to the bank of pay phones on the far side of the lobby and dialed Sabrina. She answered after the first ring.

“Hi, Sabrina,” I said. “It’s me, Paige.”

“Yes, I know,” she stiffly replied. “I’d recognize that accusatorial tone anywhere.

“No, I’m calling to apologize,” I declared. “I’m really sorry about what I said on the phone last night. Please forgive me; I didn’t mean it. I was upset that you wouldn’t tell me why Virginia became a call girl, but I never once considered you a suspect in her murder.” (That was a little fib, you should know. I was still at the stage of suspecting everybody.)

“Thank you for your trust.” Her words were dripping with sarcasm.