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smiled. “My grandmother’s nice. We talk on the phone a couple times a month. She’s been following my work online since college, and she likes to hear about the behind-the-scenes parts.”
    “Have you met them?”
    “Even if I could take the time off, I’m not sure how I want to handle that. But all in all, it’s certainly better than I thought it would be. I was afraid and resentful for so long.”
    “I’m glad.” 
    “And?” I prompted.
    “And what?”
    “You have something-I’m-not-saying face. What’re you thinking?”
    “That I want to know if she told you anything about your father.”
    The hundred-thousand-dollar question.
    That I was still a little chicken to ask. Even when my mom poured out the whole story, I didn’t get a name—she didn’t offer, and I didn’t pry. I called my grandmother for the first time fully intending to find out, but it’s a funny thing: when your throat closes around a question every time you start it, it never quite gets out there.
    “I haven’t gotten around to that.”
    “Afraid of the answer?”
    “It seems.”
    His lips tipped up in a sad smile. “I know the feeling.”
    I put one hand over his. “I’m sorry.” It was just above a whisper.
    He nodded, patting my hand before he ran one of his through his hair again and stood. “I’ll work on this and let you know what I find. You watch yourself. And call me if you need me.”
    “Thank you.” I stood, hefting my bag onto my shoulder. “I appreciate that. And I’m glad you’re doing well.”
    I waved as he pulled out of the parking lot. I hated that Kyle was sad because of me. Surely I was smart enough to figure a way to help him—as soon as I dug up a little more on Aaron’s mystery murder victim.

      
    Journalism in the age of the Internet 102: part of the reason newsrooms have smaller staffs is because computers make it possible for me to accomplish in a half-hour what would’ve taken my 1979 counterparts three days of hunting through files.
    Back at my office, I flipped my laptop open and pulled up the website for the condo complex. I copied the architectural firm’s name into my Google bar, and in ten minutes, I had a set of blueprints for the building on my screen.
    The bright as noon unit from last night? Number seventeen-oh-four.
    Clicking open another window, I pulled up the city’s property tax record database. A few keystrokes and three clicks later, I had a name.
    David Maynard. I jotted it in my notes and tapped the pen on my blotter.
    Journalism in the age of the Internet 103: the computer can only get you so far.
    While the odds were overwhelmingly in favor of Maynard being the victim, I couldn’t print it. Could be him. Could also be the landlord (Maynard was the seven-year-old condo’s original owner). Or maybe the victim didn’t live there at all. What if it was a guest, a friend, a relative? The information was handy, but without confirmation, its usefulness was limited to one sentence that would mostly fill space and show Andrews I’d done my homework.
    I also knew Charlie well enough to know if she hadn’t finished this particular task, she would before the end of the day. So I needed something she couldn’t get before six. Where could I find it?
    The cute, flirty doorman.
    Let Aaron keep his secrets. A way around the answer was there for the taking—I just needed the right source.

5.
      
    Leads

      
    Jeff the doorman was standing at his post when I pulled up, but the RPD uniform between the parking lot and the front door was twice as broad—and ten times as prickly—as Officer Palmer from yesterday. I tucked my notebook into my bag and touched up my lip gloss before putting on my best haughty expression, channeling Percival’s owner as I strode purposefully toward the door.
    “Miss?” The barrel-chested police officer took two steps toward me as I crossed the opposite end of the driveway, but was waylaid by an agitated man in a four-thousand-dollar suit who