The Unprintable Big Clock Chronicle Read online

  Well he had me there.

  “Let's see, he's married, has two kids in college, and he brings me my mail,” Ian said, then held his hands out. “I'm satisfied.”

  “Fine, fine,” I said and stepped back into the main office.

  When Fredriksen finally arrived, everyone gathered around the circular table for a meeting. In the handful of times I had dealt with him, I'd always found Fredriksen to be affable—but distant. He had a pleasant persona, but didn't reveal much about himself. It was just as well, really, because between him and all-business Ian, the meetings moved along pretty briskly.

  After Fredriksen reviewed a few changes that were implemented the last time he'd visited, he asked Monica if she had any feature articles planned that hadn't yet been discussed. “Actually, I do,” she said. Proudly she recapped the idea she'd put forth the other day—the one about the case of Joe Slock, the CEO with a double-life. Fredriksen was clearly not as open-minded about the concept as Ian had been.

  “No, Monica, that's not really for us,” he said apologetically. “While it's a unique idea, it's not representative of the direction in which I hope to move the Chronicle.” Then he addressed the group. “As you know, I have had considerable success with arts and entertainment as a core theme, and I hope to strengthen those aspects of the Chronicle. Over time, I'd like us to move away from the really hard-edged news stories.” I failed to see Joe Slock as “hard-edged,” but Fredriksen was the boss, after all.

  “But—” Monica began.

  Fredriksen held his hand up. “Furthermore, everyone already knows the details of the Joe Slock case. His case is highly unique; we wouldn't to treat what he did as some kind of trend, rather than an anomaly. And we wouldn't want to tread old ground.”

  “Oh, no, I agree, and I wouldn't be,” Monica said. “What I plan to do is to use Joe Slock as an entrée, if you will, into the broader topic—how what he did reflects a threat that is actually plausible in our increasingly digital world.”

  Clearly, Monica Fong hadn't mastered the golden rule of the straight-A student: show up your peers all you want—but always hide from the teacher that you're smarter than him. Fredriksen straightened his tie, took a meaningful pause. “As always, Monica, I appreciate your passion,” he said with unmistakable finality in his tone. And a subtle undercurrent of authority that implied the man didn't appreciate being challenged.

  I darted a glance at Monica, who appeared stunned, like she'd just been slapped in the face or spanked like an insolent child. Though Fredriksen's tone had been perfectly diplomatic, it was hardly the teacher's-pet encouragement she'd gotten used to with Ian. In that second, I felt kind of sorry for her. It seemed like this particular article was very important to her for some reason.

  Everyone knew Fredriksen's passion lay in the arts, and that small newspapers across the country were rolling over left and right. It also wasn't a secret that the Chronicle was gradually moving in a direction akin to Fredriksen's other publication, Culture & Performance. So I didn't think that Monica should be quite as shocked as she appeared to be.

  Meanwhile, Ian shifted focus. “John, as you know, Caitlyn has been writing our new section, the monthly movie spotlight.” Strangely, it felt weird to hear Ian call me “Caitlyn.” “She's been doing a fantastic job,” he added.

  Fredriksen nodded emphatically. “I agree. Caitlyn, I really like what you've been doing with the column,” he said.

  Don't make fun of me, but inside, I soared with pride. It felt so great to be praised and set apart at the paper—like this was what I had silently been waiting for all this time. I'd never been a straight-A student like Monica. But I was still a very good student, and I was used to doing well.

  Fredriksen continued, “In fact, I'd like to consider expanding the 'movie spotlight' to a weekly column. I'm not sure how that would fit into your work flow, but I'd be very interested to try that.”

  Smiling, I assured him, “I could definitely work that in; I'd love to write a weekly film review.”

  “Good,” Fredriksen said. “Ian, what do you think is a good starting point?”

  Ian met my eyes dead on. “How about you submit one detailed review per week to me for the next four weeks? Let's stay in that 500 to 700 word range. Of course we'll put your reviews in the Sunday paper for maximum readership. Then we can evaluate how it's going and what needs streamlining. Eventually, I'd like the Chronicle to transition to a larger film section that includes multiple reviews and a spotlight interview. But that's down the road. One thing at a time. How does that sound?”

  “Great,” I agreed, smiling brightly. “I'll write as many reviews as you want!” Only after I said it did I realize how ludicrous that offer sounded.

  Fredriksen gave a brief chuckle. “That's the enthusiasm every editor wants to hear, right, Ian?” Ian replied with a sort of wry, inscrutable look on his face. Before turning his attention to another topic, Fredriksen added, “In all seriousness, Caitlyn, I see that Ian was right about your work. You have a great voice, and this past trial period has definitely convinced me that you're ready to build on it.”

  Call me self-involved, but I kind of tuned out the rest of the meeting, and sat there, blissfully stunned. Ian had said I had a great voice? Ian had helped convince Fredriksen that I was ready for my own weekly column?

  It took several minutes for it to sink in that my monthly movie spotlight had actually been a test. Ian had been grooming me for something more, but hadn't told me. Instead, he'd made me prove myself, and maybe that's why he was so hard on my reviews—because he knew that Fredriksen was, in effect, grading them.

  The rest of the meeting careened by. Monica stayed silent for most of it. I didn't know her well enough to be sure, but I had a feeling she was sulking. As usual, Gary won Fredriksen over with a lot of hype-talk about his sales numbers. Then, conversationally, he asked, “So Mr. P., are you heading into Minneapolis after this, or is it back to La La Land?”

  “No, I'll be in town a little while longer,” Fredriksen replied, then checked the time on his thick gold watch. “I promised to go to my nephew's basketball game.” This detail, while innocuous, was notable only because Fredriksen rarely spoke about his private life.

  After the staff meeting, Fredriksen met with Ian about the budget and a few other complicated spreadsheets. I returned to my desk and found the article I had clicked on earlier, still opened on my screen. Automatically, I gave it a quick read before closing the window.

  UNIDENTIFIED BODY FOUND IN RIVER, POLICE HAVE NO CLUES

  Two fishermen found the body of a woman floating in the North Shore Channel of the Chicago River at approximately seven a.m. this morning. The woman had no identifying marks on her clothes or body, except for a small tattoo. Medical examiner estimates the age of the deceased to be between thirty and forty years old. A physical evaluation will be done to determine the cause of death. At this time no purse or coat has washed up. Authorities are withholding further information from the press in an effort to secure a positive identification of the body.

  Of course the last line was a tactful way of saying that the police expected to see the usual array of crackpots and liars making false identifications of the body based on details they'd read in the newspaper. I shook my head at the thought; I would never understand people, as much as I might pretend otherwise.

  When Mr. Fredriksen finally left the Chronicle, I stopped by Ian's office and knocked on the door jamb. “Hey—I just wanted to say thank you. I'm really excited about doing more reviews.”

  Ian nodded. “Me, too.” Then he had to ruin the moment by adding matter-of-factly, “And if you just leave out all the unprintable passages, I'll have an easier job.”

  I twisted my lips in sort of a smirk. “Such an exaggerator.”

  He gave me one of his rare smiles, and kept it brief. “Back to work, Rocket,” he said with a nod toward my desk. “You've got a full plate in front of you.”

  And for better or worse, he was right. Of c
ourse, little did we realize that the Chronicle was barely the half of it.

  Chapter 13

  “Still nothing—this is so frustrating!”

  Amy was focused on her own laptop, but mumbled her agreement. Meanwhile Cappy lifted her head at my outburst and gave me a mildly chastising look, before burying her fluffy head under a throw pillow.

  “How can Jennifer Agnor still be offline?” I persisted. “It doesn't make sense.”

  At that Amy shrugged. “It's not impossible. We are, too, for the most part.”

  “I know,” I said, setting my laptop aside on the couch. “But we don't have media pages. Jennifer Agnor does. Usually people on PretendR are pretty obsessed with it.”

  PretendR had exploded on the scene a year or two ago, and had recently become the most popular social media website out there. The site's appeal included its visual design, idiot-proof usability, and strict privacy policy. These days, if you were the kind of person who enjoyed online friend communities, then you were on PretendR.

  My mother had unknowingly given me this idea the other day when she'd talked about my brothers and their media pages. (“Media page” was PretendR terminology for one's profile, photo slide show, and message board.) The notion hadn't hit me until well after our conversation: why not look for Jennifer Agnor and Suzie Diamanti on PretendR?

  Maybe I should have thought of it sooner, but PretendR wasn't a website I used. Neither Amy nor I were inclined toward online profiles or large masses of friends. If it weren't for the intricacies of the football world, I'm not sure my brothers would bother with it, either. But I was pretty sure we were in the minority. Since most people did seem to enjoy updating their personal information on a regular basis, and connecting with people through PretendR, I figured it was a sure bet that Jennifer and Suzie would have media pages of their own.

  Unfortunately, the search wasn't as simple as I'd hoped. I found no matches for “Suzie Diamanti,” and over twenty matches for “Jennifer Agnor.” In order to narrow down the latter, I had to join PretendR and set up my own account. After I went through that whole rigmarole, I finally isolated the Jennifer Agnor I was looking for.

  From the photograph I knew it was the same women who had worked briefly at the Metropolax Company. I could also see that up to that Wednesday—the day following the robbery—the woman had updated her media page at least once a day. PretendR logged the history of all updates. And so it wasn't a stretch to extrapolate that Jennifer suddenly going dark for over a week was definitely unusual, possibly even suspicious.

  “The chicken should be done soon. Want some wine?” I asked on my way to the kitchen.

  “No, I'm fine.” Amy sealed her laptop shut with an efficient click, and let out a sigh.

  “What's wrong?” I asked. I took one of the wineglasses that had arrived from my mom off the drain board. The package contained a set of four, each with a snowflake pattern etched across the glass. After filling it halfway with Chianti, I peeked in the oven. Whenever Amy came for dinner, I tried to make something “healthy.” Tonight's attempt was baked chicken primavera. The box claimed it was healthy, anyway. (Though given the saga that was the ingredient list, I admit I had my doubts.)

  “It's this party we're planning,” Amy said.

  “Are the details not coming together?” I said, leaning against the counter.

  Amy, who had been sitting cross-legged on the floor, hopped to her feet. She pushed her glasses higher on her nose. “It's not that. It's my mother. She keeps changing her mind. Which is making this whole process inefficient.”

  This year was the second annual “Holiday Gala” hosted by R&D Labs. It was a semi-formal party held on R&D's vast main floor, by invitation only—however nearly every business interest in town received an invitation. Basically the event was a fund-raiser dressed up for Christmas with seasonal decorations and a live orchestra. Amy had been dragged onto the planning committee by her mother, but the two women had starkly different personalities. Also—though I adored my friend, I had to be honest—she had a much lower threshold for chaos, whimsy, and disorganization than most people.

  “I'd rather not even think about it right now. Let's get back to what you're working on. Now how do you plan to progress with this?” she said.

  I set the bread down on the table and Amy took a seat. Cappy Blackburn hopped off the couch and scampered over. Her tail was wagging like a windshield wiper during a storm, as she sat at Amy's feet, waiting for handouts. “Okay, I've already sent Jennifer two PretendR messages, and still no response. Granted, she doesn't know me, but still—there's been no activity on her account. According to the site, she hasn't even logged on since last week.”

  “Well, we could conclude that anyway based on her established pattern of daily greeting changes,” Amy pointed out. “Statistically, it would be improbable that she would suddenly be logging onto her page without changing her greeting.”

  “So where does that get us?” I asked, confused.

  “Nowhere,” Amy stated simply. “I'm just agreeing with you.”

  “Oh. So what should I do now? Just keep checking for her to update her page, keep sending her messages and wait for a response?”

  Amy shrugged. “What else can you do, really, short of stalking her? Practically speaking: can you afford to spend hundreds of dollars to hire a private investigator, just to find out everything he can about a person you don't even know?”

  “No,” I admitted. “So I'm at a dead end with Jennifer Agnor for the moment. What about Suzie Diamanti? She's not on PretendR—but there's got to be some way to track her down.”

  “But to what end?” Amy said. She blinked at me, her eyes wide behind her glasses, her studious face waiting patiently for a logical explanation—a finite objective wrapped up in a bow made of graph paper. Well, I'm sorry, but I didn't have that.

  “I'm not sure,” I said honestly. “I just can't get it out of my mind that both women seemed to vanish from Metropolax right after that break-in was reported. I can't get it out of my mind that Fritz Sachs, the president of the company, wanted the whole case buried.” Then I began numbering with my fingers. “Both women hadn't been at the company long. Both were not overly liked by their coworkers. Both were blond. Fine, that last similarity is a stretch. And what about that cryptic phone conversation Suzie was having when she first came to Big Clock? Remember?” I had already refreshed Amy's memory about the 4th of July event at the Marriott. “Clearly Suzie knew someone in town, and it sounded like she had deliberately tracked the person down. Oh, God—Aim, I just thought of something. What if whomever Suzie tracked to Big Clock actually killed her and then faked her resignation to cover it up?”

  My new theory was met with a skeptical stare. “Caitlyn. Your imagination is spiraling out of control now,” she told me.

  “Fine,” I said with a sigh, pretending to relent for a moment. “But what if it were Jennifer?” I went on. “It would certainly explain why they both disappeared! Maybe Jennifer knew Suzie, got her the job at Metropolax, and then ended up killing her. And she fled because she was afraid of being caught!”

  “I thought you said Suzie worked there longer than Jennifer.”

  “Oh, right...” Restlessly, I rapped my fingers on the table. “I'm so lost with this!”

  Ever the calm one, Amy reached a hand down to pet Cappy's head. “I thought the deal with your boss was that if you came up with some solid leads about the alleged burglary at Metropolax, then you would get a recommendation from him, and the office with the window. Is that correct?” Amy said.

  “Yes.”

  “Then as far as I can see, you've accomplished that. You've infiltrated the company, learned about some possible suspects, and even figured out exactly how the supply room is secured and accessed, on a daily basis. You don't need to dig any further to present Ian with a few plausible theories—i.e. leads.”

  Only Amy Laraby could say “i.e.” in casual conversation and it sounded normal. And she did have a point
. I was tearing my mind apart, trying to understand all the fragmented pieces of the whole, and technically, I didn't have to...

  Yet...I felt close, eerily close. Like I was on the precipice of discovery. I couldn't just quit now. Just then there was a knock at my door.

  “Hi, Lucy,” I said, smiling, “come on in.” She wore a “kiss the cook” apron over her outfit, and one of her purple hats with a big flower in the center.

  “Hi there—oh hi, Amy,” she added brightly, then handed me the round metal tin she was carrying. “For you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Gingersnaps. I was just getting in the Christmas spirit this afternoon, doing some baking—and look.” She lifted her billowy linen skirt to flash her latest ankle sock.

  “Love it! Oh, how cute, the reindeer are skiing,” I said.

  “Hey, I see you have that family photo from your mom on display,” Lucy remarked, pointing toward the frame standing on my breakfast bar. She walked closer to it. “Your mom sure is pretty,” she said. “By chance is she a model?”

  “No,” I said with a laugh, “but I'll tell her you said that. She'll be very flattered.”

  “Was she ever a model?” Lucy persisted.

  “No,” I told her, as I set the tin on the table. “Thanks a lot for the cookies.”

  “Sure. I just hope you like gingersnaps.”

  “Yes, definitely,” I lied. By the rosy blush of her cheeks and her warm, bright smile, I could see that Lucy was feeling joyful—so there was no way I was going to tell her that gingersnaps were among the few cookies I disliked.

  “Baking is therapeutic,” she added.

  “I guess that's true,” I said. “Why...is anything wrong?”

  “No,” she replied unconvincingly, then plopped down in a chair across from Amy. “Just that the holidays can make you feel lonely, you know? I don't know...with Christmas coming up, I always just wish I had more things to be excited for.”