Annie hurried past a couple of untenanted desks; smiled a greeting at the matronly white-haired woman who managed the Life section and knew every birth, death, and scandal in between on the island; and headed toward a far corner and an old wooden desk mounded with papers. The slap of her shoes on the wooden floor seemed loud, out of place. Marian Kenyon looked around. She swiveled from her screen and waved at a rickety wooden chair. Annie dropped into the seat, wondering how to begin, but Marian saved her the trouble. “Billy’s keeping his hole card covered.” Marian swiped an ink-smudged hand through tangled short dark curls. “But you can have what I’ve got. I hung around the Buccaneer yesterday evening, trying to catch people coming home from work. I was about to call it a night when all of a sudden cops were swarming all over the place, going door to door, scouring—love that word—the parking lot, including the Dumpster.”
