Dateline: Atlantis by Lynn Voedisch

in a simple pair of khakis and fine-gauge silk sweater, she fluffs up her disobedient hair, opting for the wild and natural look, and walks over to the phone. She dials the Star and asks for Wright and then encounters the usual cat-and-mouse game with Sonia, who’s busy guarding her fortress. So, she switches gears and asks for Barney’s secretary Bernice, a sweet-tempered old woman who should be teaching needlepoint rather than taming raging bulls at newspaper offices. Bernice does the trick. The connection switches over, and with a click, Wright is on the other line.
    â€œAre you serious about quitting?” he blares.
    â€œI guess not. I’m on staff if you want me. But I’m calling about something else.”
    â€œWhat else, for God’s sake? I can’t take anymore else. We’re sitting on the hottest story of the year—of the millennium.”
    â€œThe Times knows something.”
    The static softens the air, as Amaryllis imagines Wright combing his luxurious gray hair back into place with one hand.
    â€œHow did you figure that out?” he says finally, a gentle lilt in his voice. This was his confidential tone, designed to bring secrets into the open.
    â€œDid you read Lucas’ missing-person story?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œRead the final line.”
    A slight sound of newsprint rustles in the background. Then with a thump of a newspaper hitting on a desk, Wright is back on the line.
    â€œSo?”
    â€œSo, Sandy would not finish a routine cop-shop story like that. Heck, that story wouldn’t make page three if Lucas hadn’t done some work for them, too. They’re trying to smoke us out. Find out what we know. And you better believe they’ve seen those Mexican papers. They’ve seen the international news about the water-diversion project’s bombing.”
    Wright resets into commander mode and orders her to come in and have a conference with Phil Hagren, the guy handling the paper’s police beat.
    #
    â€œThis case is going nowhere, Amy. They know someone higher up planned this thing.” Hagren had been a private investigator for twelve years before deciding to hang up his gun and try something less life-threatening. But one look at Hagren’s puffy eyes tells the story—there isn’t any “less stress” at the Star. There are behind-the-scenes crime stories people still can’t extract from him. He knows the cops the way Linux buffs know Microsoft—with care and from a cordial distance.
    â€œSo are we on a watch list, Garret and I?” She knows plenty of journalists who were deemed threatening enough to be put on the FBI’s list of suspicious persons. She never thought she’d do anything to deserve this dubious honor, but there never is a way of knowing who’s being watched and who they don’t think is worth the trouble.
    Hagren shoots a baleful gaze across his overflowing desk and shrugs. “Who knows? The spooks,” he gestures toward downtown. “They don’t like reporters, period. Snooping in other countries? They don’t like that a lot.”
    â€œBut what we found would hardly affect foreign policy,” she protests.
    â€œMaybe they don’t know that yet—the Feds, intelligence. But I’ll tell you what,” he pulls her around the desk with one gentle hand. “They don’t make American citizens disappear over stuff like this.” A shot of adrenaline shoots through her nervous system as he continues. “So the missing-person case, that presents a problem for the P.D. They’re supposed to keep a lid on it, but this doesn’t fit the usual criminal pattern. People are asking questions. And Wright’s putting on pressure.”
    Amaryllis takes in Hagren’s hangdog eyes and rumpled shirt.
    â€œOn you, too?” she murmurs.
    â€œOf course, on me. And with you trying to quit, for God’s sake, Amy, the pressure cooker