Right from the Gecko by Cynthia Baxter Page A

race.
    Behind the receptionist’s desk was a small office. While the door was closed, the top half of its front walls were made of frosted glass, enabling me to make out the silhouette of the person sitting inside. According to the plaque on the door, inscribed with R ICHARD C ARRERA, M ANAGING E DITOR , that silhouette belonged to Marnie’s boss.
    To the right was a large narrow space that stretched to the back of the building, with fake-wood paneling, well-worn gray wall-to-wall carpeting, and, at the very end, a small kitchen. It was furnished with four metal desks, each one outfitted with a computer. Two were pushed up against the wall, while the other two faced the windows that ran along the side of the building.
    The only desk that was occupied was one of the two that offered a first-rate view of the parking lot. I decided the man sitting at it was most likely a reporter, since his desk was a sea of paper. Even from where I stood, I could see that most of the sheets were covered with neatly printed text and not-so-neat handwritten red scribbles. Whether those were his markings or the editor’s, I couldn’t say.
    The man, probably in his thirties, was clearly someone who put a lot of effort into his appearance. He wore a crisp white shirt with wrinkle-free beige pants, and his dark hair looked carefully styled. He stood in sharp contrast to most of the other young men I’d seen in Hawaii, who looked as if they were no more likely to own an iron than they were to own a snowblower. Even though his attention was fixed on his computer screen and all I got were occasional glimpses of his profile, he struck me as unusually good-looking.
    I figured that one of the other desks must have belonged to Marnie. Not the front desk on the left, since I surmised that one belonged to the newspaper’s photographer. More than a dozen photographs that had been torn out of the newspaper were tacked haphazardly on the bulletin board above the desk. His best work, I figured, displayed either to inspire him or to impress the rest of the staff.
    As for the desk next to the photographer’s, it was meticulously neat, with stacks of perfectly aligned papers and a row of pens carefully lined up. The papers and personal photographs tacked onto the bulletin board above it had clearly been arranged with care.
    There was no way that one was Marnie’s. Hers had to have been the desk next to the reporter’s, which, at the moment, was completely bare except for a lone pencil mug and a few stray paper clips scattered about. The sight of it made my heart wrench.
    I focused my attention back on the receptionist, just in time to hear her instruct her caller, “Okay, send us a fax with the details like the time and place and the correct spellings of everyone’s names. I’ll make sure it gets into the next edition…. Just write
Attention: Karen Nelson
on top to make sure I get it. Have a great day.”
    As she hung up, she looked at me and smiled. “Sorry about the wait. What can I do for you?”
    â€œI wondered if I could have a word with Mr. Carrera.”
    â€œI’ll see if he’s available. Is he expecting you?”
    â€œNot exactly.” I hesitated. “My name is Jessica Popper. I’d like to speak to him about Marnie Burton.”
    â€œBut you don’t have an appointment?”
    â€œNo.” I stood straighter, hoping to give the impression I actually belonged there.
    â€œDoes he know you?”
    This time, I held my chin up a bit higher. “No.”
    She just nodded. “Hold on. I’ll see if he’s free.” She disappeared into the office behind her desk for a few seconds. I had just about braced myself for rejection when she reappeared and said, “Go right in.”
    â€œThanks.” I took a deep breath as I made my way toward the frosted glass–enclosed space, surprised at how easily I’d gotten in to see Marnie’s boss.