Daniel Suarez - Daemon

“You’ve reached the office of Melanie Smalls. Ms. Smalls is not available at the moment. To reach her assistant, Jason Karcher, press 3349.”

Anderson punched in the numbers.

“Ms. Smalls’s office. Can I help you?”

“Jason, it’s Anji Anderson. Put me through to Melanie.”

“Hi, Ms. Anderson. Melanie’s on another line. Do you want to hold?”

“Look, I’m standing out here in front of KTLZ, and they’ve locked me out of the studio. Get Melanie on the damned phone.”

“Okay. Hang on.”

Anderson reached her car and clicked the remote. She got inside and cleaned up her mascara in the rearview mirror while Barry Manilow tortured her on hold because it looked like she had emphatically not “made it.” The anger built inside her with each passing verse.

Finally Melanie clicked on. “Anji, what’s going on?”

“I’ve just been fired at the studio front gate—publicly humiliated. Josephine Curto tells me that you knew my contract wasn’t being picked up.”

“Who the hell’s Josephine Curto?”

“Some toady from Human Resources.”

“Anji, we’re still in negotiations with the network, and I wasn’t told that any decision had been made. The ball was still in Kahn’s court.”

“Josephine just told me that my agent knew about this, Melanie. I just signed papers!”

“Well, she doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about, and what do you mean you just signed papers? Why would you sign papers?” Melanie’s voice became muted. “Jase, check the fax machine.”

Anderson started crying again. She hit the dashboard—angry with herself for being so emotional. “Damnit, Melanie. Why didn’t I see this coming? Who the hell did the network get to replace me?”

“Don’t beat yourself up. We’ll see if we can get you something on the E! Channel or—“

“No! Stop. I’ve been trying for six years to get on a serious news desk. I can’t afford to do any more fluff pieces. I’m a journalist, not a damned fashion model.”

There was silence on the other end.

“Hello?”

“I’m still here. Anji, you don’t have the right pedigree for it. You haven’t been a journalist, honey. Not really. And you weren’t talking serious journalism when we got you onto the San Francisco affiliate.”

“I’m realizing—“

“You’re realizing you’re past thirty and fluff reporting is for twenty-four-year-old news models.”

“Exactly.”

“That’s a problem.”

“No, it’s a challenge.”

“Anji, what you’re talking about is starting back at square one and reinventing yourself. No, actually you’re starting at square negative one because you’re already known as a fashion and lifestyles reporter—meaning you have all the journalistic heft of a British tabloid. It’s going to be a stretch, and at my age, I don’t stretch.”

Anderson searched for words. This was unraveling fast.

“Honey, you’re too old to intern as a serious journalist. Unless you’re a proven hard news reporter at thirty, you’re not going to be a hard news reporter.”

Anderson bit her lip gently. Performed in front of the right man, that used to solve a lot of problems. She realized that Christiane Amanpour probably didn’t bite her lip.

“Unfortunately, major networks are consolidating news production in Atlanta, and laying off in most markets. I could try to get you a spot on a cosmetics infomercial casting in L.A.”

Tears flowed down Anderson’s cheeks.

Sebeck was already staring at the ceiling when his alarm clock sounded. He switched it off by touch and kept staring at the ceiling. He’d gotten in late last night. Even so, he hadn’t slept. He kept turning the case over in his mind. That’s what he’d taken to calling it: The Case.

The FBI had taken over. They were forming a temporary task force with local law enforcement, but the Feds were in charge. Agents were photocopying files and interrogating suspects when Sebeck left at two A.M. Decker was some sort of workaholic.

Sebeck explored his sense of loss. The Case no longer belonged to him. Why did it bother him so much? He was afraid he knew the answer: he felt truly alive only when something horrible was happening. That was the dirty secret behind every promotion he had ever received.

He’d miscast himself in the role of authority figure. A decision made one afternoon fifteen years ago. He had had to grow up fast, back then—after the baby—but he sometimes wondered if he wasn’t just pretending. If he wasn’t simply acting the way he thought he should act. The way others around him did. He didn’t even know who he’d be without this role. Pete Sebeck was just an idea—a collection of responsibilities with a mailing address.

He tried to recall the last time he actually felt something. The last time he felt alive. That inevitably led to thoughts of her. Memories of the trip to Grand Cayman. He tried to remember the smell of her hair. He wondered where she was right now, and if he’d ever see her again. She didn’t need a damned thing from him. Maybe that’s what he loved most about her.

Sebeck’s cell phone sounded from the nightstand, scattering his thoughts. He glanced over at his wife’s side of the bed. She roused slightly. He grabbed the handset and sat up. “Sebeck.”

“Detective Sebeck?”

“Yeah. Who’s—”

“This is Special Agent Boerner, FBI. I just sent an e-mail to your home address. The agent in charge wants a response before you’re in this morning.” Someone yelled in the background. Boerner clicked off without saying goodbye.

“Hello?” Sebeck stared in irritation at the handset. Rude asshole. He glanced at the clock: 6:32 A.M.

His wife sat up on the other side of the bed and stretched in one of her full-length nightgowns.

“Laura, I have to jump in the shower first. I’ve got a full day ahead.”

“Fine, Pete.”

“I won’t be long. Go back to sleep.”

Sebeck ran through his ablutions in fifteen minutes, dressed, and tied his tie on the way downstairs. He ducked into the kitchen.

His son, Chris, sat reading the morning paper. The kid was getting big—muscular big. Sixteen. Almost the age Sebeck was when he and Laura conceived the boy. Had it really been sixteen years? “Why don’t you get a shovel, Chris?”

Chris had a bulging mouthful of cereal. The boy grabbed at his dad’s suit jacket as he walked past. Chris flipped the paper over to reveal the front page. There was a color picture of Sebeck over the headline: “Internet Killings Spark Federal Investigation.” Mantz was also in the picture to his left. Sebeck stopped short and picked up the page, reading slowly as he sank down into a seat at the table.

Chris chewed his way back to speech. “L.A. Times . That’s big.”

Sebeck just kept reading.

Laura walked into the kitchen.

Sebeck glanced up. “Did you see this?”

She looked down at the page. “Not a great picture of Nathan.” She went over to the stove to make tea.