“Nothing,” she said.

“That’s impossible,” Jake said. “The fourth biggest leaseholder?”

Casey’s fingers kept darting between clicks of the mouse.

“No,” she said after several minutes, “but see this? New York Corporate Law, the only public reporting required for a closely held corporation, is a biannual statement to the secretary of state that includes the current corporate mailing address and the CEO.”

“That could be anyone,” Jake said.

“Probably not just anyone,” Casey said, shaking her head. “Someone important. I’m not a corporate lawyer, and it’s been a long time since I studied this stuff, but I’m pretty certain that the CEO of a closely held corporation has a lot of rights, and whoever they are, he or she probably owns a lot of shares in the corporation, if not all or most of them.”

“So how do we get it?” Jake asked.

“We contact the New York Secretary of State,” Casey said, looking at her watch, “in about thirteen and a half hours.”

“Public information,” Jake said.

Casey’s phone rang and she looked at the number.

“Graham?” Jake asked.

Casey nodded.

“Don’t answer,” Jake said.

“I’m not going to hide from him.”

Jake put his hand on top of hers. “You’re not hiding. Think. If he’s really behind all this, your best bet is to stay away. If it’s all a mistake, then he’ll forgive you for being unavailable.”

Jake gave her a serious, pleading look.

“Is that your Geraldo look?” she asked.

He grinned. “Call me anything but Geraldo.”

Casey silenced her phone and put it down just as Jake’s rang.

He studied it and instead of putting it to his ear, Jake hit the speaker button and said, “What’s up, Marty?”

“Hi, Mr. Carlson. You still at the firm?” Marty asked.

“Yes.”

“Okay, well,” Marty said, his voice tinny and small through the speaker, “I just got a call from Ralph. He said he was looking for Ms. Jordan, but then he asked if I’d seen you.”

“And you told him we’re-I’m here?” Jake asked.

Marty hesitated, then said, “Just that you needed to use the library for something with your story. Why? I didn’t do anything wrong, did I? He sounded okay with me helping you out. I know it’s her he’s looking for, but I figured I should let you know. I got the sense he’d be dropping by.”

“Thanks, Marty,” Jake said. “Gotta go.”

Jake snapped the phone shut and took Casey by the arm, leading her not toward the elevator but the fire stairs.

“You think-” Casey said.

“I don’t know what to think,” Jake said in a low tone, tugging her down the stairs, with the clap of their feet echoing down the concrete well, “but there’s no sense sticking around.”

50

WHEN THEY REACHED the bottom of the stairwell, they found a door with a red warning on the handle.

“It’s going to set off an alarm,” Casey said, breathless.

Jake shrugged. “You ready?”

Casey nodded and he put his shoulder to the metal door, slammed his palm against the handle, and burst through. The alarm shrieked, piercing her ears. They dashed across a parking lot, crossed the street, and up a grassy knoll into the shadows of the old brick post office.

Casey giggled, feeling the thrill of her youth running through the backyards of town on Halloween night with toilet paper and eggs. Jake spun, looking over her shoulder, and his own smile melted.

“Christ,” he said under his breath. “Is that a gun?”

Casey turned to see the bullet-head shape of Ralph rounding the building at a speed unreasonable for his broken gait.

“I think a flashlight,” Casey said.

Jake tugged her deeper into the shadows. Graham appeared on the corner in a flannel shirt and jeans, following Ralph, but with eyes that scanned the street and parking lot. Ralph reached the emergency exit door and slammed it shut, silencing the alarm. The two of them talked in low voices Casey couldn’t make out before they split up, Ralph continuing down through the back alley and Graham returning to the front of the building.

Casey and Jake stayed put until the Lexus pulled around the corner, into the back parking lot, and disappeared, with taillights glowing up the alleyway where Ralph had gone.

“Let’s stick to the shadows,” Jake said, rounding the post office.

“Why the hell should we have to hide?” Casey asked.

“We’re not hiding,” Jake said, “just avoiding them.”

“We’re not the ones who need to hide,” she said.

Jake gently brushed aside the hair on the back of his head so she could see the long line of crusty stitches. “If you don’t mind, I’m doing my best not to tear the stitches.”

“Think Ralph will bonk you with his flashlight?”

“You laugh, but it’s a little creepy, them showing up like that,” Jake said, “hunting you down.”

“Where’s your car?”

Jake took her hand and they sprinted across the street, jumping into the rented Cadillac he had parked in front of the courthouse steps, which were still littered with duct tape, bunting, and cocktail napkins from the earlier press conference. They hopped in and Jake eased the car out into the street, wary for the Lexus. He took a quick right and plunged them into the backstreets.

“Where are you going?” Casey asked, recognizing the same traffic circle Martin had driven them through earlier.

“Myron Kissle’s,” Jake said. “It’s not far. Then, if you like, I’ve got a place for dinner where Graham and his goon won’t spoil the meal.”

“We’re having dinner now?”

“A working dinner,” he said.

They traveled down the main road along the east side of the lake until they came to a gravel drive that led up the hill to a farmhouse nestled into a cluster of enormous trees. When Jake saw a big white van, two rental cars, and a shiny black limousine in the driveway, he made a face.

“You’re kidding me,” he said, stopping and snatching his keys as he started up the drive.

Casey caught up with him on the front porch. Inside, she saw the tangle of cables and the bright blue lights focused on a set of chairs in the front room and the two people sitting in them. Jake walked right into the middle of the shoot.

“Myron?” Jake said. “What the hell are you doing?”

The woman reporter swiveled around.

“Excuse me?” she said, her auburn hair stiff and frizzy under the lights and the mask of her makeup wrinkling with outrage and disbelief.

“I’m Jake Carlson,” Jake said.

“I know who you are,” she said.

“You’re Hanna Keller,” Jake said, studying her face, “with Private Matters.”

“You don’t just walk into the middle of an interview,” Hanna said.

“Myron, you said exclusive,” Jake said. “We had a deal.”

“You didn’t tell me I could get paid for this,” Myron said, raising his hands in the air.

“Oh, great,” Jake said, throwing his own arms up.

“It’s a consulting fee,” Hanna said, indignant enough for her small red mouth to show teeth. “The interview has nothing to do with that.”

“Nice,” Jake said sarcastically to Myron before he turned back to Hanna. “You might want to check him as a source. That’s why I’m here. His story isn’t being corroborated by his fellow officers at the time. We’ll likely have to pull his interview from our piece. He lied about the police putting out an APB for a black man. They did no such thing, and I’m sure he’s lying about other things, too. Myron, did you really show up at a PBA meeting in your pajamas?”

“Nice try,” Hanna said, forcing a smile, “but this goes to air on Wednesday.”

“Two days before Twenty/Twenty,” Jake said, “I know. So you’ll have two days to enjoy it before your credibility goes in the shitter and the City of Auburn files a lawsuit.”

“Jamar,” Hanna said, appealing to her three-hundred-pound soundman. “Would you show Mr. Carlson the way out?”

Jamar removed his headset and put a hand on Jake’s shoulder. Jake shrugged him off and turned to go. Casey followed him out on the porch.