Obviously I was going to do this with an audience whether I wanted to or not. So, I told him about the weird caller and the mechanical voice and the threat on my life. Though even as I keyed my pin into the system a second time, replaying the message for the boss, I realize how silly the whole thing was. We were a tabloid. It would have been surprising if people didn’t hate us. Ninety-nine percent chance it was just some idiot blowing off steam.

Unfortunately, Felix didn’t bet odds.

“I don’t like this,” he said, replaying the message a second time. “When did this come in?”

“Last night. The time stamp says eleven thirty.”

“Were you here last night?”

“No. At home.”

“Alone?”

“My aunt was in the other room.”

“Any idea what story this guy is referring to?”

I threw my hands up in the air. “Are you kidding? I’ve reamed dozens of celebs this week alone.”

“Any of the articles nasty?”

I shot him a look.

“Right,” he said. “Stupid question. You check the caller ID?”

“Restricted number.”

“Maybe you can trace the call?” Allie piped up.

I nodded. Reluctantly. “Maybe,” I hedged. Techno genius I was not. However, considering our editor in chief’s pockets were tighter than Joan Rivers’s last facelift, our phone system was hardly state of the art. I made a mental note to look into it.

“In the meantime,” Felix continued, “I don’t feel good about you being out there alone today.”

“‘Out there?’” I asked.

“Let’s keep to the desk for now, okay, Bender?”

“Fabulous.”

“Was that sarcasm?” he asked.

“Damned straight.” And before he could say it, I added, “I know, I know. Swear Pig.”

The first thing I did when I left Felix was visit Cece, our accounts receivable/human resources/office manager lady. As her title hinted, anything that didn’t directly end up in the newspaper fell under her fortysomething, sensible-shoe-wearing, über-organized territory. Her desk was in the corner near the elevator and constantly cluttered with beanie babies.

“Hey, Cece,” I said, popping my head around her partition.

“Yes?” she asked, not even looking up from the spreadsheet she was typing.

“I need a favor. Last night, eleven thirty, a call came in. I need to know who made it.”

Her forehead furrowed. “Well, I know our program keeps track of all outgoing calls.” She paused, then sent me a wan smile as she added, “Felix likes to know who’s using up our long-distance minutes.”

“Of course.”

“But, other than a time stamp, I don’t think there’s a way to record the incoming calls.”

Drat. I chewed the inside of my cheeks, rapping my fingernails on the side of her partition. “What about the phone company? They must have a record, right?” Cece nodded. “Most likely.”

“Who’s our provider?”