“Well, Danika, I guess I just don’t have your taste and refinement.”
She tsk-tsked. “What you need is daily guidance from a woman of taste and refinement.” She leaned forward, the top two buttons of her pale-yellow silk blouse strategically unbuttoned. Whatever she wore underneath must have been spun from a single spool of gossamer.
“No woman of taste and refinement would possibly want me,” he said, careful not to let his eyes drift south.
“Don’t you be so sure, now.” She grinned, settling back and rocking her swivel chair so that he could get a good look at the rest of her. “You’d be an interesting project.”
“‘Project.’ How romantic. How’s Tyrone?”
She beamed. “He just had his fourth birthday party on Saturday. Ten neighbor kids showed up. They had a ball, but I spent all afternoon yesterday getting chocolate cake and ice cream out of the carpet.” She laughed. “That boy’s something. You know, before he opened his presents, he insisted on reading all his birthday cards out loud. Didn’t miss a single word.”
“Such a bright little guy. Takes after a lovely lady I know. And how’s Melvin treating that lady?”
She wrinkled her nose. “That man, he’s the most infuriating- Oh, don’t you get me started, now.”
“Any mail?”
“Nothing in two weeks. Just one call, this morning-Mr. Bronowski. That’s your editor, right?”
“So he believes.”
“He asked you to return his call today, if possible. And your one-thirty arrived early. Mr. Diffendorfer.” She tried to keep a straight face. “He’s occupying office number eleven.”
“All of it, I’m sure.”
She laughed, the dimples deepening in her smooth coffee skin. “You bad.”
“Danika, you have no idea.”
*
Hunter left her and headed down the hallway of the suite. It was a perfect set-up: a “virtual office” lease arrangement from a national chain that provided him a downtown address, mail and call-forwarding, and time-shared space whenever he needed it. Anybody who wished to find Dylan Lee Hunter could try to contact him here. But anybody whom he did not wish to find him would reach a charming but unyielding stone wall named Danika Cheyenne Brown.
The conference room was empty, so he ducked in. From the thigh pocket of his cargo pants he pulled a cell phone. It was one of the many cheap, prepaid models that he bought anonymously, with cash, from drugstores throughout Maryland and Virginia, then dumped after brief use. He reinstalled the battery, thumbed the number for the managing editor’s line at the Capitol Inquirer, then sat on the edge of the conference table as the call rang through.
“Bronowski.” The voice was harsh and harried.
“Hunter.”
“Finally! Dammit, Dylan, you’re harder to get ahold of than a virgin on a first date. Don’t you check your messages?”
“Annually.”
“Very funny. Why the hell don’t you give me a direct number where I can reach you?”
“I’ve told you. I don’t share my personal contact information.”
“But this is stupid. I’m your editor.”
“Not stupid. What I write upsets people. Powerful, nasty people. I need to protect my privacy.”
“What, you don’t even trust me with your number?” Silence. “Well. I guess not, then. Dylan, this whole goddamned arrangement is weird. You realize we still haven’t met, even though you’ve been working for me for a year?”
“Not for you, Bill. Not for anybody. I work for myself.”
“Know something? Even for a writer, you’re an uncooperative, egotistical, insufferably arrogant prick.”
“Hey-who are you calling ‘uncooperative’?”
Bronowski laughed in spite of himself. “Well, you’re right about one thing. What you write does upset people. Wanna know who you’ve pissed off now?”
“No.”
“The frickin’ governor of Maryland, that’s who. He was none too happy with your feature about his inmate commutation policy.”
“Tough. I’m none too happy about his policy. Neither are the victims of all the thugs he’s turned loose.”
“Yeah, easy for you to say. You weren’t the one who had to take the phone call last night.”
“Did you give the guv my regards?”
Bronowski snorted. “Call wasn’t from him. It was from Addison. Our dear publisher was not amused. You’ve simultaneously pissed off both a governor and our boss.”
“ Your boss. Remember?”
“Okay, my boss. Regardless. He wasn’t pleased about having his Sunday golf game down in Lauderdale interrupted by a call from Annapolis. He got an earful, and last night he returned me the favor. Now he wants to know what I’m going to do about you.”
He paused. Hunter said nothing.
“Don’t you care what I’m going to do?” Bronowski demanded.
“No.”
The editor dropped a cluster of f-bombs. Then stopped. Hunter heard a sigh.
“Dylan, what the hell am I gonna do with you? You know what kind of position you’ve stuck me in? Look, I’m not gonna lie to you. You’re the best investigative reporter I’ve run into in a long time. I don’t know where you got your training-but that’s the point! I don’t know a goddamned thing about you. Where you come from. Where you went to J school. Who you worked for before, where you live, whether you have a wife or kids or a dog-”
“Cat.”
He snorted again. “How nice. You know, after you started freelancing with us, I Googled your name. I figured, your talent, a thousand links would come up. But nothing. Not one. You’re like the Invisible Man.”
Hunter was studying a wall photo of the Washington Monument. He spoke quietly. “My past doesn’t matter to me. Why should it matter to you?”
Bronowski was silent a moment. “Okay. I won’t pry anymore. Hell, I don’t care if you flunked English or were Saddam Hussein’s press secretary. Only thing that matters is, you keep delivering the goods. Right now your freelancing generates more mail than anything my staff here produces. Which reminds me-the circ audit just came in. I checked back. Since you started pitching me stories last year, we’re up eight percent. That’s while the competition is bleeding readers and advertisers.”
“So what did you tell Addison?”
“ That’s what I told Addison.”
“Good for you, Bill.”
“Yeah, well, since you’re gonna cost me my job any day now, you damned well better make your next piece worth my while.”
It reminded him of why he had come here today. He felt his jaw tighten.
“It will be the talk of the town.”
He removed the battery from the cell again as he left the conference room, then rounded a corner and opened the door to number eleven.
*
Freddie Diffendorfer perched like an enormous Buddha on the armless visitor’s chair next to the desk. His legs were splayed far apart, unavoidable given the size of his thighs. An open box of a dozen assorted doughnuts covered much of the desktop-at least, it used to contain a dozen. Three were left.
He looked up at Hunter, a semi-circle of white pastry poised in his hand. His cheeks were streaked with powdered sugar.
“Hello, Dylan,” he mumbled as he chewed.
“Hello, Wonk.” Hunter barely managed to squeeze past him to get to the chair behind the desk. “What’s this? Late lunch?”
His visitor shook his head. A crumb hiding somewhere in one of his chins came loose and landed on his lap. “No, I had lunch at McDonald’s. But on my way through Dupont Circle, I observed that the hot light was on.”
“I understand. Opportunity of a lifetime. So, do you need some time to finish up?”
“No, I shall save the rest for a snack later, thank you.”
Hunter watched with a mixture of awe and disgust as Wonk crammed the remaining half of the doughnut into his mouth. Barely chewed before he swallowed. Then licked his fingers. Then clapped his fat palms together, raising a small white cloud. Then wiped his hands on stained, unpressed slacks the size of a circus tent.