“Hiya, Zimmerman,” I said, setting the Coffeemaster down on the service table and measuring out the Maxwell House. “How’s tricks?”

“Okay,” he said, still panting for air. “It’s not so… hot today, thank… God.”

“Yes, the good Lord’s smiling on us now,” I said. “But it’s the least he could do, wouldn’t you say? For the past five days he’s been laughing his almighty head off.” I plugged in the coffeemaker, walked over to my desk, and started arranging the morning newspapers in a tidy pile.

“Hey, speaking of days past,” Lenny said, his breathing returning to normal, “where did you disappear to yesterday? You left work in such a hurry, you didn’t even say good night.”

“I had to go meet somebody, and I couldn’t be late. I’m working on an important story assignment, don’t ya know.” I gave Lenny a conspiratorial wink, hoping that would mollify his curiosity. I didn’t feel like discussing the case or telling him what happened at the Actors Studio. And I didn’t even want to

think about what took place at Sardi’s.

“Who did you meet?” Lenny persisted. “Did you learn anything new?”

“Nothing significant-unless you want to count the fact that Ben Gazzara makes Abby’s insides quiver.”

“Who? You mean the actor? What does Abby have to do with-”

“I’ll tell you later, Len. Right now I have to take Mr. Crockett the newspapers.” I scooped the early editions up in my arms and scurried off to deliver them. Then I exited Crockett’s office and scooted back over to the service table to fix him a cup of coffee.

Lenny was still standing in the front of the workroom, anxiously tapping his metal lunchbox against his thigh. “What’s going on, Paige?” he demanded. “Why are your eyes so red and puffy? Something happened last night, and I want to know what it was.”

“Sorry, Len. Gotta take the boss his java,” I said, scurrying away again. While I was in Crockett’s office, setting his cup down on his desk, the front door entry bell rang. Glad for the timely interruption, and quickly assuming my required receptionist role, I went out into the workroom to see who had come in. It was Mike and Mario, of course (somehow they always managed to arrive together), and it was probably the first time in my entire

Daring Detective career that I was pleased to see them.

Surely

they would keep me from thinking about Dan.

“Goooood morning, Paige Turner,” Mario intoned, big lips curving in a devious smile. “You look very enticing today… Isn’t that right, Mike?” he asked, giving his partner in crime an exacting look. “Doesn’t she look fetching?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess so,” Mike said, not sure how Mario wanted him to respond. He removed his hat and jacket and hung them on the rack. “Very enticing,” he echoed, just to be on the safe side.

“You can say that again!” Mario went on, hanging up his hat and jacket and walking down the aisle toward his desk, and-since I was standing near his desk-toward me. “You know what I think?” he said, talking to Mike but staring straight at me. “I think she looks like a hot new mystery novel-so juicy and sensational, you want to set her down on your lap, open her up, and turn all her pages.”

Mike started laughing, and then Mario joined in. Pretty soon, they were howling like two harebrained hyenas.

“Hey, shut the hell up out there!” Mr. Crockett yelled from his office, never looking up from the newspaper. (From where I was standing I could see that his nose was buried in the

Herald Tribune.) “Pipe down and get to work!”

Mario sat down at his desk and then Mike made his way to his own. Then Lenny walked back to the rear of the workroom, stashed his portfolio and lunchbox on the floor right next to his desk, and-giving me a stern you-better-tell-me-what-the-hell-is-going-on-soon squint-sat down in his wooden swivel chair and turned toward his drawing board.

Aisle finally clear, I walked back to my desk in the front of the room and sat down with my back to the boys. Then I took a deep breath, picked up my pencil, and-doing my doggone damnedest to read and edit Mike’s latest story-started thinking about Dan again.

Chapter 33

MY OFFICE DICTIONARY DEFINED OBSESSION as “the domination of one’s thoughts or feelings by a persistent idea, image, or desire.” I already knew the meaning of the word, of course, but I looked it up anyway. My obsession with Dan had reached the sickening stage, and I wanted to see if the dictionary would offer a useful antidote or cure.

No way, Doris Day. All Random House presented was the list of symptoms, which-big surprise!-described my state of mind to a T. Especially the persistent image part. No matter what I tried to focus on that morning-the galleys I had to proofread, the stories I had to edit, the newspapers I had to clip-all I could see was the clinch and the kiss (i.e., the locked-together limbs and lips of my daring detective and his ravishing redhead).

I was going out of my mind.

I really couldn’t stand it anymore.

So when Brandon Pomeroy arrived at the office (early again, if you can believe that!), I was elated. (Okay, not really elated, but more like… well, happy for the change of scene.)

“Good morning, Mr. Pomeroy,” I said, smiling. “Enjoying the cooler weather?”

“Yes, Mrs. Turner,” he stiffly replied. “It’s a considerable relief.” He didn’t return my smile, but he didn’t bite my head off, either. Could his newfound courtesy, I wondered, have anything to do with my new story assignment?

Pomeroy took his pipe out of his jacket pocket and hung the jacket on the coat tree. As he was walking around his desk to his chair, he spied Crockett’s soggy cigar stub in his ashtray and made a horrified face. “That’s disgusting!” he hollered at me. (

Jeez! Did he think I was the one who left it there?) “Please take it away this instant! I can’t work with a rancid cigar sitting right under my nose.”

At least he said please.

I sprang across the aisle and picked up his heavy marble ashtray, which I then carted into the file room and emptied into the large trash can in the corner. (I certainly didn’t want to put the stinky stub in

my wastebasket!) Ordinarily, I would have been fuming (in silence, of course) over Pomeroy’s rude and despotic treatment, but today I was grateful for the diversion. It beat the heck out of obsessing over the clinch and the kiss.

Returning to the workroom with the empty ashtray in my hand, I took a look at the clock. It was eleven thirty-an hour before my lunchtime, and a good three hours before the typesetter’s messenger was due to come pick up the corrected proofs and stories.

If only I could go search Binky’s apartment right now! I said to myself. That would save me from having a nervous breakdown over Dan, and I could still get back to the office in time to finish my day’s work. Well, some of it, anyway.

“Can I speak to you for a second, Mr. Pomeroy?” I ventured, replacing the ashtray on his desk and giving him a piercing (okay, pleading) look. “It’s about the story assignment you gave me yesterday.”

Pomeroy sat up straighter in his chair and granted me his full attention. “Yes, of course, Mrs. Turner,” he said, mustache twitching to one side. “How can I help you? What’s on your mind?”

I was so shocked by his keen (not to mention cordial) reaction, it took me a few seconds to gather my wits and concoct a reply.

“I’ve been investigating the murder of Gray Gordon, just as you directed,” I said, leaning over his desk and lowering my voice to a near whisper. “And I’ve begun to make some real headway. Detective Flannagan of the Sixth Precinct is in charge of the case, and I’ve learned the identity of his primary suspect. But I think he’s focusing on the wrong guy,” I added, pausing to let the weight of my statement sink in. “I think somebody else is the murderer, and I’m working around the clock to dig up enough evidence to prove it.”