X

“Hey, mine too. I don’t even own a computer.”

“I have an old Mac my son-in-law passed along when he bought his new one, but I can’t make heads or tails of it. He says it’s user-friendly, but I’ve got news for him. Time was, I could have mastered the darn thing in a day or two, but now there’s no way. Might be time to retire. I’ll be eighty-eight August nineteenth, and my best years may well be behind me.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. You know more than anyone else around here.”

“Well, I thank you for the vote of confidence, but I’m not too sure. This is a young man’s game. Reporters and editors these days are all kids in their fifties. Too much ambition and energy for my taste. They cuss, they wear jeans to work, and most can’t spell without help, but they dearly love their jobs, which is more than I can say.”

“But what would you do if you retired? You’d go nuts.”

“That’s a worry, now you mention it. I’m not one for needlework, and you can only read so many books before your eyesight fails. Someone suggested volunteer work, but that’s out of the question. I’m accustomed to being paid, and the idea of giving away my time and my skills is an affront. Braver women than I fought decades for equal compensation in the workplace, so why would I undo their accomplishments? Anyway, I doubt you came here to hear me complain. What can I do for you?”

I wrote the name Christian Satterfield on a slip of paper and pushed it across the counter. “I’d like to see the file on this guy. I have two clippings, but I’m hoping there’s more.”

She read the name. “Let me see what I can find.”

Within minutes I was seated at a desk along the side wall with the envelope in front of me. There wasn’t much in it beyond the articles Hallie had passed on to me. The only other item of note was a brief mention of an academic scholarship he’d been awarded on graduating from Santa Teresa High School in 1975. He’d been accepted at UCLA, where he hoped to major in economics. The guy was smart and, if his photograph was representative, good-looking as well. How had he ended up in prison? I’d had classmates—dull-witted, dope-smoking losers—who’d ended up better off than he had.

I returned the folder to Marjorie. “I have a question. I believe someone came in making a similar request for information about this guy. This would have been a woman in her forties. Tall, thin, masses of red-brown hair, a beaky nose—the sort of face you’d see in a snooty magazine ad.”

“I’d remember someone of that description. Of course, I was out on vacation over Christmas, and she could have come in then,” she said. “I can ask around, if you like. Someone might remember her. We don’t get much business up here these days. One day soon newspapers will be a thing of the past.”

“That can’t be true. You think? I mean, people want to know what’s going on in the world. A television broadcast is never going to take the place of hard news.”

“All I know is there was a time when a newspaper was the heartbeat of the city. Now, not so much. It’s like the lifeblood is draining out.”

“Well, that’s depressing.”

“Try looking at it from where I stand,” she said.

13

I walked back to the office and retrieved my car. I had time for one more stop before I headed home. I checked my index cards to verify Taryn Sizemore’s address. I cruised up State and turned right onto a side street, approaching a bar and grill called Sneaky Pete’s, which had closed and reopened under a new name some years before. Despite the new moniker, it was still referred to as Sneaky Pete’s. What loomed large in my mind’s eye was the vision of the specialty of the house: a sandwich made with spicy salami and melted pepper jack cheese, topped with a fried egg, the whole of it served on a Kaiser roll that dripped with butter as you ate. I would have pursued that fantasy, but I spotted Taryn Sizemore’s office address directly across the street. I had to make a hasty turn at the next corner and swing back around. It was well after five by then, and many of the area businesses were closed for the day, which made street parking a breeze.

I locked my car and entered the renovated Victorian structure, which apparently now housed an entire complex of psychologists’ offices. From this, I cleverly deduced that Taryn’s PhD must be in marriage and family therapy, counseling, or social work. She’d probably had years of professional training in how to feign interest in what others had to say. This might work to my advantage until she realized I wasn’t in the market for a shrink.