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hint of who she might be. She dismissed the idea. Why would they believe her?
    She went into the bedroom, opened her laptop and typed in “David Mathews.” A series of sites materialized, most linking to articles in the Journal . She clicked on the first. David’s picture came up, standing on the top step at the capitol, all smiles and nods and victory fists thrown in the air, announcing his candidacy. The byline read: “Catherine McLeod, investigative reporter.”
    She had to think. Catherine McLeod had covered the campaign. She probably knew more about David than anyone else. But she couldn’t call the newspaper from the apartment. She couldn’t leave any traces. She glanced at her watch: almost ten thirty. Walmart was four blocks away. She found her bag, hurried across the room and stopped at the door. She had to compose herself. Nothing about her could seem unusual. There could be nothing that the clerks who helped her select a disposable cell phone or checked her out at the register might remember. Just another woman making a purchase.

4
    The new offices of the Denver Journal occupied three floors in a sleek concrete building that rose against the skyscrapers of downtown Denver and overlooked Civic Center Park. A short walk from the capitol, library, art museum, history museum, dozens of restaurants and the shuttle that ran up and down Sixteenth Street. Catherine wheeled off a side street and onto the ramp that dropped like an amusement park ride into a fantastic underworld of dim, surrealistic light suffusing rows of parked cars. She slid into her slot. The sound of her door slamming bounced off the concrete walls. Musty chemical smells that accumulated with the dozens of vehicles that crawled up and down the ramp every day filled the garage. She hurried toward the swoosh and crank of the elevator in the far wall, conscious of her heels clicking on the concrete.
    The elevator opened into the first floor lobby of gleaming tile floors and white walls that stretched toward a wall of windows. The morning crowd hurried past on the street outside. She jammed her badge into the slot next to the elevators across the lobby. The newspaper’s business and legal offices spread over two upper floors, but the heart of the paper—the newsroom—was on the fifth floor beyond the small lobby where the stone-faced receptionist with tightly pulled back hair sat behind a desk and defied anyone to pass without permission. Six months ago, the paper had decamped across downtown from the old brick building it had occupied for fifty years. The shrinking financial statements, loss of classifieds and other ads, consolidation of departments and layoffs had all contributed to the move. Ironic, she thought, that as the paper got smaller, it had moved into a building appropriate for an expanding enterprise.
    â€œIs it true? David Mathews murdered?” The receptionist wheeled her chair sideways and knocked a pen against the edge of the desk, like a conductor tapping the rostrum to bring the orchestra to attention.
    â€œLooks like it,” Catherine said, trying for a smile that said, “Sorry, no time to chat.” She darted past the desk, inserted her badge into the security slot and hurried through the opening door into the newsroom. A wide corridor ran around the rows of glass-enclosed cubicles where reporters jammed phones into their necks and hunched over computer screens that glowed and jumped with black text. The sounds of ticking computer keys and subdued conversations buzzed like an electrical current. She knocked on the glass door with the sign that read Marjorie Fennerman, Managing Editor, before stepping into an office twice the size of the cubicles. Marjorie sat behind the desk, head tipped toward a phone with the speaker turned on. “Damn TV and bloggers.” A man’s voice, crackling and distant, erupted into the office. “They’re ahead of us on this story, Marjorie.