Devil's Plaything - Matt Richtel [10]
A second desk stands along the right wall. Hardwood floors stretch between the desks, partly covered by a handsome area rug woven with orange, brown, red, and yellow squares. I detect a manufactured crisp scent, lemonish, doubtless a tribute to Pauline’s slightly obsessive commitment to having the place cleaned regularly.
All-in-all, this modestly appointed office is the 21st-century newsroom. And it is the bane of the traditional newspaper and magazine empire, which have relatively gargantuan cost structures and things like printing presses and full-time employees with health-care benefits.
And it is devoid of Pauline.
I close the door and walk to the back rooms. I find no Pauline in the bathroom, nor in the data closet filled with racks of servers and hard drives that process and store Medblog’s data.
I return to the main room and pull out my phone. I call Pauline. I get voice mail. I text her: “Where r u?”
I balance a prickling of panic with a reality check. The fact that the door of the office was left unlocked could well mean that Pauline has gone for a moment to get something from her car. Or that she’s gotten us a drink or had some other fanciful impulse. That would be more like her than not.
Or, after the events of the day in Golden Gate Park, it is not too much to think more conspiratorial forces are at play.
What if something’s happened to the first woman I’ve met in years who doesn’t think my worldview needs to be realigned by a shrink or shaman? She says she wouldn’t change a thing about me except the part where I use wanderlust as an excuse not to go on a second date. And she seems to help keep my brain in check. Once when Pauline and I were sitting at a downtown café, a woman plopped at the table next to ours, Giants baseball cap pulled down low, clutching to her chest a big purse made of black fabric. A surgical scar ran from the woman’s wrist to her triceps, dotted around its edges with other tiny pink scars. They were textbook shrapnel wounds. Through careful straining, I could make out that the bag contained a heavy, thick battery, something that might power a small generator. I’d once survived a bombing at a café and I whispered my concerns to Pauline, trying to sound like I was making a joke. She introduced herself to the woman, who turned out to be a mechanic, injured once by an exploding combustion engine that spewed debris and hot oil. Pauline hired her to maintain her BMW, and to remind me, as she put it, “to err on the side of not being crazy.”
That’s what she’d tell me now, with a smile and a gentler prod of her index finger to my ribs, as I look around the empty office. I’m sure she’ll return shortly from whatever errand she’s on, and I can go back to keeping the perfect package at arm’s length.
I shrug off my backpack, pull out her swiveling ergonomic chair and sit to take stock.
On her desk sits a pile of manila file folders. The folder’s tabs have headings like “Q1 financials” and “Competitive analysis.”
Also on the desk, in an elegant silver frame, is a black-and-white 4-by-6 photo of a twenty-something guy, smiling, hollow-cheeked, bowl haircut. Pauline’s brother, Philip, an addict who battles fiercely against the lure of crystal meth.
Beside the frame is a calendar filled in neat script with daily meeting reminders. I’d not have noticed except that it’s turned to September—last month. September 27 stands out. It’s circled in thick red pen.
What I notice most on her desk is what I don’t see: an envelope addressed to me, with the heading “for your eyes only.”
I wonder if I should call the police. And say what? My boss is late to meet me for drinks?
I call her again. I get voice mail.
I gaze