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Rose took the elevator to the fourteenth floor and the offices of the New York Sentinel. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, maybe rows of wooden desks and typewriters with green-glass shaded desk lamps. Of course, that might have been the case decades ago, but the reception she stepped out into was clean and bright. The reception desk itself was a simple curve of silver-topped white wood, bearing nothing but a computer monitor and a complicated-looking landline phone. A receptionist was tapping animatedly on her cell phone and barely gave Rose a glance as she walked in. Through the open door behind the desk was a large open plan office full of more modern desks and desktop computers, several people in casual office attire, some working, others milling around.
Rose decided to be brazen and take a chance. She strolled casually past reception and the young woman on the phone, and through the open door. The receptionist didn’t even look up. Rose thanked the gods of social media and the inattention of the young.
She wandered around the large space, trying to look like she belonged. Several people sat at their desks working keyboards or phones didn’t look up, or didn’t acknowledge her if they did notice. Others stood in pairs or small groups chatting. Several single offices, with large glass fronts and closed doors, stood all along one wall, windows beyond looking out over the city.
Rose spotted a framed photo of Jazz and her mother on one desk and headed for it. Her stomach clenched as she picked up the photo for a closer look. Her friend was really dead. Jazz’s mother looked young in the photo, barely even 40. Rose remembered the stories from Jazz, how her mother had been a teenage mom. Jazz had said she almost grew up together with her mom as much friends as parent and daughter. They were close. Did her mom know what had happened? She could be barely out of her forties and Rose remembered Jazz was an only child, the poor woman would be devastated. Rose made a mental note to try to track down Mrs. Richards and offer her condolences at least.
The computer on Jazz’s desk was on, a screensaver of tumbling neon lines rolling on forever repeat across the screen. Rose spared a quick glance over her shoulder and she was still remarkably unnoticed. Perhaps it was pretty normal for people to come and go from these offices. Either way, she would take advantage of it as much as she could. She shifted the mouse hoping to get a look at Jazz’s files. A dialog box popped up asking for a password. Rose silently cursed.
On a whim, eyes narrowing, she tried blackrose. Black Rose had been Jazz’s somewhat tongue-in-cheek nickname for her, and perhaps her return to New York had made Jazz think of it. Who knew if she even changed her password often. It was a long shot, of course, but... The screen unlocked.
Heart racing, barely able to believe her luck, Rose quickly opened the browser and looked at the search history. Nothing. Everything had been erased. So had all the bookmarks. That had to be a deliberate cleansing. After the murder? She opened up the Recent Documents box and there was a list of items, mostly Word documents. At the top was one file called “Price-Missing”. What might that mean?
Rose clicked on it, but the computer informed her the file could not be found. Also deleted. This was all too convenient and more than a little worrying.
Wondering where on the hard drive to look for other files, Rose glanced over her shoulder again and barely suppressed a startled jerk. Coming in her direction was a tall Latina with thick dark hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, clearly heading directly for a confrontation. Rose quickly re-evaluated, trying not to let guilt color her perception. The woman was imposing, but her face was relaxed, even kind-looking. Rose remembered Jazz talking about her boss, the editor here. LaGuerta, that was it. Jazz had a lot of respect for the woman and often talked about how lucky she was to have that kind of boss, especially in the media industry where so many places were still run by old white guys and their rusted-on prejudices.
Rose quickly closed the file window she had opened, and picked up the photo of Jazz with her mother, as if that was what she had been looking at all along.
“Can I help you?” the tall woman asked as she got nearer.