“I don’t see why I have to go to the wedding.”She and Parker sat around the expansive oak table in one of the Manhattanite conference rooms with Solomon, the private dick who had proven invaluable to Clara’s research on Deirdre Van Doren. The rumpled PI was actually a real swell once you got past that top layer of snark.They’d been working for hours—it had been early morning when they’d started and now Clara could hear reporters chattering outside about which restaurant to order lunch from. Clara had forgotten all about food. She’d been subsisting purely on cup after cup of strong coffee.“I know you’re not too keen on watching Lover Boy marry someone else tomorrow afternoon,” Parker said with a cruel grin. He wore a deep-burgundy suit today with a skinny blue silk tie. “But you’re just going to have to suck it up. Real journalists learn to put their feelings aside.”Clara picked up a photo of Deirdre that Solomon had taken. “Not having them in the first place must make the job real easy for you, then.”Solomon scratched his neck.
