Brooklyn Graves by Triss Stein Page A

explaining to her why it was a good idea to talk to me. Quid quo pro—that means one hand washes the other.”
    â€œI know what it means.”
    â€œI could give her a quote, or a shout out and she could put it on her Facebook page. Tweet. It’s in her interest, you know. That’s what the press does.”
    Something about him repelled me. Maybe because the shop girl wasn’t much older than Chris. Or then again, maybe it was because it had been such a tough few days and I was spoiling for a fight. With anyone. About anything.
    â€œYour job? Really? Let’s see a press card.” He thought I was a big shot? I would act like one.
    â€œPress card? Please. That’s so old school. I’m a reporter on a news blog, Brownstone Bytes. We cover everything about the brownstone neighborhoods on the ’Net. Like the old Brooklyn Eagle, only for the digital age. We’re an important news source.”
    â€œWhat nonsense,” I said in my best no-nonsense, big shot voice. “I have a friend who actually worked on the Brooklyn Eagle . He’ll laugh himself silly when I tell him about this. Important? Not bloody likely. More like self-important.”
    â€œAw, come on. You were here that morning. You must have learned something.” He put out a hand to take my arm. I shook it off. “What exactly happened? What did you see? And hear? Can I get a photo?” I would have laughed at how dense he was if I had not been so annoyed.
    â€œAm I speaking Hungarian? Go. Away. Now!”
    He smiled sheepishly, shrugged, backed away still talking. “Big mistake. Someone will talk to me and it will be someone with no reason to be careful. Believe it.” He tossed a card at me and said, “Think it over” as he left.
    He was a joke. Really, he was. The only flaw in my analysis was that, yes, he had provoked my curiosity. He was so very sure something newsworthy had happened here. I was told it was an accident. So what beyond that could it be? Always assuming there was anything at all. Someone was hurt? Something valuable was damaged? And how annoyed would Dr. Flint be if we did not get him the inside story? Again, assuming there actually was one.
    When Ryan came back to me, phone in hand and looking rather ill, I put it all out of my mind, at least for now.
    â€œThere was a message from the boss. He’s demanding to know what progress we’ve made and he’s on the warpath. And we are way behind! I feel sick.”
    So I was not the only person who thought Flint was a little scary. I reminded myself that I was the grown-up here.
    I said calmly, “Don’t worry. What is the worst he can do?”
    â€œFire me. Fire you.”
    â€œDon’t be silly. He doesn’t have the power to fire me.”
    â€˜You don’t know how much influence he has!”
    â€œNot that much. Not for the pittance the museum pays me. And why would he fire you? It sounds like he needs your skills as much as you need the job. Maybe even more. You said people kept quitting on him.” He brightened up just a fraction and I added softly, “Maybe you need to remember your own value.”
    He only grunted but it was a more cheerful grunt, if such a thing is possible, and we didn’t say another word all the way back to work. He was lost in his thoughts, and I was concentrating on how we could pacify Dr. Flint.
    I thought Flint might approve of an interview with Ms. Skye, especially if I actually learned something useful. Should I take Ryan? That preoccupied me the rest of the way back. I didn’t intend to exclude him. On the other hand, I didn’t want him scaring the already skittish owner of the letters.
    Back at the office, we quickly divided the fat envelopes of letters. We went back to our workroom, tidied up, made notes as needed, then he left, I left.
    ***
    When I got home later, Alex was sitting on the top step of my front stoop. He looked sad and cold