FIRE AND ICE (2 page)

Still hanging over her cubicle wall, his frame was so large she thought he might just snap the panels. When Sophie stood, Gary was entirely too close, his rancid aftershave overwhelming.

So that he couldn’t snoop while she was in Bitterman’s office, Sophie turned her computer off and made sure he saw her do it. She wasn’t being paranoid. Just last week she had caught him sitting at her desk trying to get around her password to access her e-mail. He had already rifled through her desk. Two drawers were open, and he
hadn’t bothered to put the stack of papers back where she had left them. When she demanded to know what he was doing at her desk, he stammered lamely about his computer being down and how he was checking to see if hers was down, too.

Bitterman roared again, and Sophie, feeling somewhat like a mouse navigating a maze, hurriedly zigzagged her way around the cubicles to reach his office at the end of the long room. She pictured a piece of yellow cheese dangling from a string in front of her boss’s door. Wasn’t that the reward for the little mouse at the end of the maze?

“Hey, Sophie, heard from your father lately?” Gary shouted from behind.

He had asked her that same question about ten minutes after she had started working at the
Chronicle,
which was probably why she had taken such a quick dislike to him. Not only was Gary a snoop, but at times he could be downright antagonistic. Usually, people skirted around the subject of her dad, Bobby Rose, when they first met Sophie, but not Gary. She had just started writing her first article when Gary had called over the cubicle wall, “Hey, Sophie Rose … oops, it’s Sophie Summerfield, isn’t it? I forgot, you’re not using your daddy’s name. Guess you don’t want the world to know who you are, huh? I wouldn’t either if my old man was a crook. Who’s he scammed lately? Heard he’s made off with a butt-load of money. If you ever see him again, tell him ol’ Gary could sure use a loan. Tell him a couple of million would do just fine….”

She hadn’t answered him then or the hundred or so other times he’d asked about her father, and she wasn’t about to answer him now.

Gary wasn’t the only one interested in finding her father. She received regular visits from the FBI, the IRS, the CIA, and just about every other government agency with initials. All of them wanted to know where Bobby Rose was; all of them wanted a pound of his flesh.

She heard Gary call out his question again, but she continued to
ignore him as she rounded the last cubicle and reached Bitterman’s office.

“Shut the door, will you,” Bitterman ordered. He didn’t bother looking up.

The urge to slam the door was strong, and though it would have given her enormous satisfaction for a fleeting second, with her luck these days she’d break the glass and Bitterman would make her pay to replace it. Besides, if truth be told, she actually liked her boss. For all his bluster and bellowing, he was a good man. He loved his wife and family, and he cared about his employees, too, at least most of them.

One of her conditions for accepting her job at the
Chronicle
was that Bitterman wouldn’t pressure her to talk or write about her father, which was the reason she had left her last job. Bitterman had given her his word, and so far he’d kept it. He’d taken his promise a step further, too. He shielded her as much as he could from what he called those blasted, sleazy, rag mag, bottom-feeders—he absolutely refused to call them journalists—who continually hounded her for an interview. Bitterman also attempted, but failed miserably, to protect her from the FBI, citing every amendment and law he could think of that would give her the right to be left alone.

No, she wouldn’t be slamming any doors today. No matter how much he aggravated her, Sophie would treat Mr. Bitterman with the respect he deserved. She gently pushed the door shut, stepped around a crate of root beer, and waited for him to look up from the stack of papers he was bent over.

“Sir, you really have to stop calling me Blond Girl. It’s sexist, rude, and demeaning. I’ve worked here long enough for you to know my name, but just for fun, let’s go over it one more time. Sophie Summerfield Rose. There. Not so difficult to remember, is it?”

“No, it’s not,” he agreed. “And you’re using your mother’s maiden name on your bylines. Summerfield, right?”

Since she had just reminded him of her full name, she didn’t feel it necessary to answer.

Bitterman couldn’t help but notice she was still frowning. “All right. No more Blond Girl. I promise.”

“Thank you.”

He considered her for a long minute and then said, “Sophie, everyone in Chicago knows who you are. You’re Bobby Rose’s daughter.”

“Yes, I am his daughter,” she agreed. “However, I don’t believe
everyone
in Chicago knows, which is why I use my mother’s maiden name on my articles.”

He tried to lean back in his chair, but the crates of root beer stopped him.

Not wanting to continue the conversation about her father, she hastily said, “I finished that piece on termite infestation you wanted. It’s riveting. I e-mailed it to you a minute ago. Do you have anything else disgusting for me to research and write about? Sewage? Vermin? The mating habits of beetles?”

He laughed. “Why, Sophie Rose, are you giving me attitude? I think maybe you are. I know it when I hear it. I get enough sass from my eight granddaughters. I don’t need to hear it from my employees, not even from my favorite one.”

She smiled. “Sir, you have four granddaughters, not eight.”

He reached for his root beer. “When they’re all chattering away at me, it seems like eight. And yes, I do happen to have something else for you. A man named William Harrington called and pitched a story idea. You ever run a 5K?”

He explained the human interest story, told her how long he thought the copy should be, handed her his notes, and said, “Call him and set up a time to meet before the race. Maybe you could get a couple of photos of him, too. Yeah, do some before and after shots. You know, get a good one of him starting off and one of him crossing the finish line. Harrington swore to me that he’s photogenic. He seemed to think being good-looking was important.”

“Shouldn’t Matt take the photos? He’s always telling everyone here that he’s the official photographer for the
Chronicle;
I’d hate to
upset him. You know how he can be.” She didn’t say the word “neurotic,” but she thought it. “The more excited he gets, the higher his voice goes. He could break glass if he tried. With all these root beer bottles, it would be a disaster.”

Bitterman nodded. “You’re right. Matt should take the photos … if he were still working here. He quit on me. Gave me his notice last night and told me he didn’t want to stick around this dump—his words, not mine—for two more weeks. He said it was a waste of his valuable time. That’s right …
his
valuable time. He cleared out his cubicle lickety split.” Bitterman waved his hands, one over the other, like a professional card dealer signaling to the ceiling cameras in a casino. “I don’t know if he has another job lined up. He told me he wanted to take
important
photos for
important
articles.”

Sophie hadn’t known Matt well. She’d only worked with him on a couple of stories, and both times he’d thrown a territorial tantrum.

“To be honest, he was a lousy photographer anyway,” Bitterman said. “Always cutting off the top of people’s heads, and besides, you’ve got a better camera than the
Chronicle’s
ancient one. I think Jimmy Olsen used one like it in that Superman movie. And those photos you took last month of the kitchen makeover were good, real good.”

“I’ll give it my best try,” she said. She was looking at his notes, trying to decipher his chicken scratches. “Sir, I can’t tell … when is the race?”

“Saturday.” He put a hand up to ward off any argument she wanted to give. “I know what you’re going to say. It’s short notice.”

She laughed. “Short notice? Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

He shrugged. “What can I tell you? It’s obvious we weren’t Harrington’s first choice … or second or third, I’m guessing. The guy just called.”

“I won’t have time to do much of a background check.”

“We’ve already got this Sunday locked in, so we won’t run it until next Sunday, and if Harrington turns out to be a wacko, it might even make for a more interesting article. You’re not going for
the Pulitzer here. Do what you can, and if it doesn’t work out, if the guy really is a flake, we’ll run something else. Time’s a-wasting. Better get going.”

She was pulling the door closed behind her when he said, “You know the drill. Meet him in a public place, and better yet, take a friend with you. Be safe, not sorry.”

He always said those exact words to her whenever she left on an assignment. Be safe, not sorry. The ritual was actually comforting. Bitterman, she decided, had a duel personality. One minute he was barking orders like a mad Doberman, and the next he was playing the part of an overly protective mother hen. At least she thought that was how a mother would act. She didn’t have enough experience to know.

In her cubicle, Sophie typed “William Harrington” into a search engine and within seconds all sorts of information about him popped up on screen. The man had his own website, a blog, and would soon, according to his entry, have a video of himself on MySpace, YouTube, and Facebook. He’d written long essays on his childhood, his summers in Europe—which should have been interesting but weren’t—and on his fitness campaign.

Sophie wouldn’t have any trouble recognizing Harrington. There were dozens of photos of him on his website.

After making a few notes about his other 5K wins, she called him. He must have been waiting to hear from her because he answered on the first ring. Sophie thought it would take only a few minutes to set up a time and place to meet, but Harrington was a talker and kept her on the line for a good fifteen minutes before he finally got around to scheduling their interview.

“Of course you know the race is tomorrow, so we’ll have to meet tonight. I hope you’re a morning person because the 5K starts early, and you’ll want to be there, right? With a photographer,” he added in a rush. “The race is in Lincoln Park, so how about tonight we meet someplace around there?”

“How about Cosmo’s Pub?” she asked and gave him the address.

“I’ve never been to Cosmo’s. I go to more upscale restaurants. But that’s just a few blocks from where the race will start tomorrow. We could meet at seven. No, better make it six-thirty to give us more time. Does six-thirty work for you? I need to get to bed early. I want to be in top form tomorrow, especially since I’m going to be filmed.”

“Someone’s filming the race?”

“No, they’re going to film
me
running the race,” he corrected. “They’ll stay with me the whole way.”

“Do you plan to put the video on your website?”

“Of course.”

The man sounded serious. Who besides William Harrington would watch it? she wondered.

“So you’re paying someone to film the entire race?” she asked, still doubting.

He spoke at the same time. “Twenty-five wins is more than impressive, at least to some very important people it is. After the trial, there will be another video on my website, and that one will, no doubt, be just as impressive. Twenty-five wins is a huge accomplishment. Don’t you agree?”

Running the Boston marathon was impressive, and finishing that race was definitely an accomplishment. But a 5K? Not so much. Sophie kept her opinion to herself, though, because she didn’t want to squelch his enthusiasm or antagonize him. Harrington had an ego the size of Illinois, but he was polite and eager and seemed harmless enough.

Getting him to stop talking about himself proved to be a challenge, and time was slipping away. It was already after three.

“What did you mean when you said there will be another video after the trial? What trial?”

“I’ve been invited to join the Alpha Project. It’s very exclusive,” he boasted. “Only the fittest are asked, and I plan to break a record with this race. I’m going to shave off a couple of minutes. Bring a stopwatch if you don’t believe me.”

When he finally took a breath, she blurted, “So much to talk about tonight. I’ll see you at six-thirty. Bye now.”

He was still talking as she disconnected the call. She quickly gathered her things and raced around the cubicles to get to the elevator. In her hurry she nearly ran headfirst into a delivery man wheeling a dolly with yet more crates of Kelly’s Root Beer. She pointed the way to Bitterman’s office.