Charm City by Laura Lippman Page B

you make
a lovely Luddite."
    For someone
who's so gung ho about the future, Guy Whitman was sure
behind the times when it came to the current thinking on what
constitutes sexual harassment . Tess thought
about reprimanding him, but he had ducked through a narrow space
between two plastic dividers covered with soiled, once-blue
fabric—the systems manager's
"office."
    Behind the dingy dividers, all was
order—a severe, meticulous order. The metal cabinets shone,
as did the desk, giving the alcove the high-tech, unused look of an
office in an Ikea catalog. With the exception of a Georgia
O'Keefe wall calendar and one Post-It note on the computer
terminal, there was not a single scrap of paper in this office. Not
even a newspaper, Tess noticed.
    "So, where's the
computer geek who presides over this electronic kingdom?" she
asked Whitman.
    A scratchy female voice came from somewhere
around their ankles. "The geek is under her desk, unplugging
a laptop whose batteries she was recharging because the prima donna
reporter who had it last couldn't be bothered with such a
mundane task."
    A plump woman in her late thirties crawled
out and stood up, brushing off her jeans. Of medium height, with
flyaway brown hair that had long ago surrendered to a nest of cowlicks,
she was as soft and disarrayed as her office was hard and sleek.
    Tess held out her hand. "Tess
Monaghan, vicious purveyor of stereotypes."
    "Dorie Starnes. And I
don't mind being called a geek. It's a promotion
for someone who started in circulation. Who'da guessed I had
a natural gift for computers? Not the teachers at Merganthaler Vo-Tech,
that's for sure. They kept trying to steer me toward the
commercial baking classes."
    Dorie was not someone to do one thing when
she could be doing two or three. As she spoke, she settled into her
ergonomically perfect chair, complete with tie-on backrest, and rolled
another chair to her side, patting it in invitation even as she began
to type a series of mysterious codes into the computer.
    "Move on, Mr. Whitman.
You'll just be in the way. Go make a news decision, or
convene a focus group on box scores. Aren't you going to run
a reader's contest to name the new basketball team? Oh, I
forgot, that was a promotion marketing worked out with Wynkowski. Guess
that's no longer a go."
    Whitman forced a hearty laugh.
"That's a good one. Of course, Dorie
doesn't even read the paper, do you, Dorie? Who's
the prime minister of Israel, Dorie? Is the state legislature currently
in session? Who's the President of the United States?
What's NAFTA stand for?"
    "I try to read the newspaper, Mr.
Whitman, I really do. But all I see are the computer commands that make
it possible to put black stuff on white stuff. Sometimes the
arrangements turn into stories I want to read, but most of the time
they just look like those crazy paintings in that new wing at the
Baltimore Museum of Art. Black stuff on white stuff."
    Dorie stared at her computer monitor as she
spoke, running her fingers rapidly across the keys like a pianist
warming up. As far as Tess could tell, she wasn't really
doing anything, but it looked impressive, blocks of copy appearing and
disappearing on her screen.
    "Very clever, Dorie. When
you're through taking Ms. Monaghan through the system, ask my
secretary to take her to the office we've set up for her.
Jean also has a list of the workers you need to interview,
Terry." Terry! That was worse than
Theresa . "By the way, would you like
to have lunch with me today? I find myself unexpectedly without
plans."
    "What happened?" Dorie
asked, all sweet innocence. "Was there a fire at your
favorite motel?"
    This time, Whitman's fake chuckle
was not so robust.
    "Now, Dorie, Miss Monaghan will
have the wrong impression of me if you keep this up."
    "I'm afraid I
couldn't join you today, anyway. I have plans."
Dorie might have been kidding about the motel room, but Whitney had
warned her that the very married Whitman felt honor bound to make a
pass at