Act of Betrayal by Edna Buchanan Page A

ended the air was radiant, with the only sign of the fast-moving storm the flower petals, leaves, torn branches, and water strewn in its wake.
    I could feel my hair curling in the sultry heat. I drove home for a quick pit stop, parked the T-Bird, and got out. A stranger waited, seated on my doorstep. A boy, slim, blond, about twelve or thirteen, shifting nervously. He looked up, his blue eyes a shade darker than the short-sleeved cotton shirt he wore with twill trousers and sneakers. I swallowed, my mouth suddenly gone dry.
    â€œBritt?” He leaped eagerly to his feet, gangly and long-legged. “Were you looking for me?”
    I stared, mouth open.
    He squinted suspiciously. “You know who I am, don’t you?”
    â€œOf course,” I said weakly, mind racing.
    â€œShe said you wouldn’t forget. You promised my grandmother you’d show me around the News and take me out on some stories with you. Well, here I am!”
    He gave me the once-over with the incipient lechery of a would-be Groucho Marx. “Va va voom!” he said, stepping boldly forward to shake my hand. “Awesome. Real baaaad. I’m Seth.”
    â€œSeth?”
    An Instamatic camera hung from a leather strap around his neck and a reporter’s notebook jutted out of his back pocket. Three Pilot Explorer pens were clipped to his shirt pocket. He fished out his card.
    â€œSeth Goldstein,” he said, handing it over. “Assistant city editor of the Eastside Junior High School Gazette in Hopewell, New Jersey.”
    â€œOf course I didn’t forget,” I lied, and began to breathe again. “I was simply startled because you look so much like somebody I just wrote about.” What was I thinking when I made this promise? What was I drinking? Manischewitz. At a Seder, at the Goldsteins’ during Passover. A conversation began to come back to me. Smart as a whip, high IQ, a would-be journalist. Seth.
    â€œSaw it. Today’s paper. MISSING BOY A MYSTERY . Grandma sends me all your stories. We hang them on the bulletin board in our newsroom,” he said, at my elbow as I inserted my key into the lock. Showing no signs of going away, he followed me inside, trailing behind me like a puppy. He declined my offer of a soft-boiled egg but wolfed three pieces of raisin toast and drank the last of my coffee.
    Despite my warnings that it was a slow Sunday on the police beat and my suggestion that he might rather go to the beach, his enthusiasm knew no bounds.
    â€œHow often does a future journalist get the chance to go one-on-one and pick the brain of a Green Eyeshade Award winner for best deadline reporting?” he demanded, showing off that he had done his homework. “Why do you think I wanted to spend the last two weeks of my summer vacation with my grandparents?” He rolled his eyes. “This is my chance to see action with an ace street reporter for a big-city newspaper.”
    â€œThink we’ll go to the morgue?” he asked eagerly as we drove to the office.
    â€œOnly if it’s feet first.”
    One of the perks of working weekends is the nearly empty newsroom. Reaction to my story should have started coming in by now. I punched my personal code number into the phone, then, accompanied by Seth, all eyes, ears, and questions, went to the wire room where my messages were printing out. And printing out, and printing out. My heart swelled as the list lengthened.
    I tore them off the machine, eagerly scanning the list, willing the solution to Charles Randolphs disappearance to be somewhere among these forty-eight calls.
    One from my mother. I’d call her later. The Randolphs; perhaps they’d heard some news. Their line was busy twice. The third try was successful. Randolph answered, and Cassie picked up an extension. Surprised that I worked Sundays, they were grateful for the story and said their phone had been ringing nonstop since 6 A.M . No new information, just former