Sliver Of Truth

He shrugged. “The best I can figure at this point is that it’s some kind of encrypted website. A place to leave and retrieve messages. There must be a way to log in, but I couldn’t figure it out.”

“And the video?”

He shrugged again. “We have some people working on it. We’ll figure it out soon enough.” His voice went low at the end of the sentence, as if he was issuing a warning.

I lifted my feet onto the couch, made myself comfortable. Fatigue was pulling at the lids of my eyes. Now that I knew Jake was okay, or at least that it wasn’t his blood on the floor of the studio, everything else seemed less terrifying and urgent. But that was just one of the many things I’d be wrong about in the next twenty-four hours.

THE NEXT THING I was aware of was sunlight streaming in my east-facing windows. It took me a second to orient myself, then everything of the day before came back at me with sickening clarity. Had Agent Grace really been here? Did he really tell me it wasn’t Jake’s blood on the floor? I felt nauseated that I might have dreamed it all. Or that I had fallen asleep while he was sitting in my apartment. How weird was that? I noticed then that someone had taken the chenille throw from my bed and covered me with it. A dull pain throbbed behind my eyes as I sat up. There was a note on my coffee table. We’ll talk tomorrow, it threatened, signed with the initials DG. It was the handwriting of an arrogant pain in the ass if ever I’d seen it-big looping letters, huge initials. I had to smile. I still hated him but he was starting to grow on me.

I tried Jake. Still no answer. I made some coffee so strong it tasted bitter in my throat. I walked into my office and looked over the notes I’d jotted down during my conversations with Jenna and Dennis. I checked the time; it was seven A.M. I had thirteen hours to find out as much as I could about Myra Lyall and about that website before I went to the Cloisters that night.

I know what you’re thinking: that I was at best reckless and foolish, at worst suicidal. What can I say? You might be right.

It was too early to call a hacker-wannabe like Jenna’s ex-beau Grant, but ambitious people don’t sleep in. A young assistant at the New York Times, especially one worried for her job, was likely to be at her desk before the sun came up. I called through the main number at the Times and was surprised and disappointed to get voice mail. I left a message.

“Sarah, this is Ridley Jones. Before her disappearance Myra Lyall was trying to reach me. Some pretty odd things have been happening to me since. I wonder if we can talk, get together for coffee?”

I left my number and hung up. I know, it was a pretty risky message to leave, considering how many ears and eyes might be on my communications-not to mention hers. But I needed the message to be interesting enough to warrant a callback. The phone rang before five minutes had passed.

“Is this Ridley?” Her voice was young; she was practically whispering.

“Sarah?”

“Yeah.”

“You got my message?”

“Yes,” she said. “Can we get together?”

We arranged to meet in a half hour at the Brooklyn Diner, a tourist trap in Midtown where no real New Yorker would ever eat. I wondered at her choice but figured she just didn’t want to run into anyone from the Times.

“How will I recognize you?” I asked her.

“I know what you look like.”

One of the advantages of infamy, I guess.

THE DINER WAS crowded; a cacophony of voices and clinking silverware rose up as soon as I opened the door. Strong aromas competed for attention: coffee, eggs and bacon, the sugary smell of pastries on a tray at the counter. My stomach rumbled. I stood by the door and scanned the room for a woman sitting alone. There was a petite blonde with her hair pulled back severely from her face, but she had her nose buried in a copy of the Post, sipping absently from a thick white coffee cup. A mix of people sat at the counter. A pink puffy family of three, all wearing I NY T-shirts, huddled over a guidebook with the Statue of Liberty on the cover. I said a silent prayer that they wouldn’t get mugged. A businessman chatted loudly on his cell phone, oblivious to the annoyed stares of people around him. An elderly lady dropped her napkin; the young man sitting next to her bent down and picked it up, handing it to her with a smile.