had not lost her judgment to grief and shock, that she had come to beg for this story because it was a juicy one, not because working on it would keep Harry's name before her all day, keep as hers whatever there was left of him—that was important now. So she agreed with Leo's idea of Harry, false as she knew it to be.
Although, a strange, unfamiliar voice inside her said, maybe right after September 11, when Harry had been more lost than she'd ever seen him, all the other reporters (Laura one of them) chasing after the stories, Harry paralyzed with sadness. Maybe then.
She silenced that voice, said to Leo, “But not since this story.”
“Stone,” Leo said, in a voice that could have been Leo thinking about what she'd said, or Leo thinking about how to tell her that delusional reporters had no place at his paper, “people don't fall off bridges by accident.”
“No.” A point of agreement. Laura forced herself to stay calm. “They don't.”
Leo leaned his chair back, tapped his sapphire signet ring on the newsroom glass. Every reporter who heard looked up. At one of them, Leo pointed. Hugh Jesselson, a cop reporter. Broad, blond, and rumpled, he lumbered to Leo's doorway.
“Jesselson,” Leo grunted. “You hearing anything about the Randall suicide being something else?”
Jesselson looked uncomfortably at Laura, but Leo was not giving him a pass, so he answered with a headshake.
“Nothing? No other theories?”
“No.”
“You have any?”
“Me?”
“Stone here thinks he didn't jump. Is she the only one?”
Jesselson looked at his shoes, a cop reporter's oxfords, worn and dusty. “No one . . . Haven't heard it.”
Contradicting his mountainous presence and abundant prose (that fullness the reason, it was said, that he'd never made the front), Jesselson pared spoken language to a nub. Talking with him was like getting telegrams.
“No police investigation?”
Jesselson looked up, but only at Leo. “Not real popular downtown these days. Randall.”
Leo glared. “In our business that's a good thing, Jesselson. Because of McCaffery?”
“Alive, a legend, McCaffery. Dead, a saint. Untouchable.”
Leo narrowed his eyes and stared at neither of them; both of them waited. “The McCaffery story, the fallout, then the reporter dies,” he said to Jesselson. “No one's interested?”
“The story, the fallout? Sure. Spano, the Fund, that lawyer. Lots of money at stake. Blood in the water.”
“So where are the sharks?”
“Later. When things get back to normal. Feeling seems to be this can wait.”
“But Randall? No one's interested in that?”
Jesselson turned to Laura again, his eyes those of a man regretting the bad news he's brought. “No.”
Leo looked at Laura.
“They're wrong,” she said.
“NYPD doesn't seem to agree.”
“NYPD has enough to do.”
Undeniably true. Detectives in surgical masks were clambering over the landfill mountain on Staten Island, spreading out the rubble that came in in buckets, picking through it for body parts and evidence. Uniformed officers stood at concrete barricades at City Hall, at the reservoirs, at tourist sites as they reopened. Cops in every precinct answered a deluge of calls about letters and packages citizens were afraid of.
“You have anything else?” Leo rubbed his enormous jaw. “Or just that the story was too good?”
“A story like this? That he broke? Harry was never—he was never suicidal.” A tough word, but she got it out. “Not since I've known him. Jesus, Leo, not even after what happened.” Like all New Yorkers, Laura waved an arm toward downtown, toward Ground Zero, when she said “what happened”; and like all New Yorkers, Leo knew without question what she meant. Her voice rose, louder and higher. “Leo, he had something else, he was on to something! And we're supposed to believe he jumped off a bridge now? Why would he do that?”
Leo eyed her, picked up the important words. “Something else?”
Laura nodded, told Leo: “He left papers.”
“Randall?”
“No, Leo! The firefighter. McCaffery. Papers no one had seen. Harry was on his way to see them. It's the last thing he told me.”
Yesterday afternoon—yesterday? No, it must have been years ago, centuries, when her heart, now a barren desert, had been a boundless, teeming sea—Laura had been sitting at her desk, polishing her SoHo merchant story, checking her e-mail every fifteen minutes, as always.
It was one of the first things the legendary Harry Randall had noticed about the new kid, Laura Stone: the way she surfaced from the depths of a project to snap at e-mail like a trout at flies. Harry's desk was behind Laura's, a little off to one side. She'd never dared speak to him except, on