She managed to get past him without him seeing her come in. Seated at a raised chair at his work area, his head swaying to some inaudible beat from his earbuds, his fingers flying over his keyboard, his back was to her.

Thank God.

Next to Gerry, in her own cubicle, Jeanette Flannery was sipping from a Diet Coke and giggling as she talked into a headset that was buried in her spiky blond hair. She was in her usual uniform of jeans split at the knees, black long-sleeved T-shirt, and tunic-length sweater. Today the sweater was an olive color. Jeanette wasn’t a reporter, but a proofreader and techie who helped Gerry and kept her ear to the ground for local gossip.

Charity slipped past her as well and headed to the far corner of the massive room, where the ceilings were so high Charity believed barn owls could roost there.

Earl wasn’t in his office, the one glass-walled area, filled by a massive credenza and an expansive L-shaped secretary’s desk straight out of the sixties. The desk was a mess of papers, coffee cups, pencils and tablets, two oversized computer screens, and Earl’s iPhone. Gathering dust on the credenza behind him sat an ancient Royal manual typewriter, handed down to him by his grandfather.

As far as Charity knew, no one had pressed one of its keys in decades.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Earl as he walked along the short hallway that connected to the back exit and restrooms. Tucking in his shirt, he looked up and saw her waiting.

“Something up?” he asked.

No smile.

These days, Earl rarely grinned. What was left of his graying hair was slightly more salt than pepper, his eyes dark, almost black, his face gaunt, his body that of a long-distance runner despite the fact that he was over sixty.

No reason to beat around the bush. As they walked into his office, she said, “I’ve been doing research on the Cahill story. Background information on James Cahill.”

He rounded the massive desk, sat down, waving her into one of the side chairs. “I thought Seamus was on that.”

“It’s not sports, Earl.”

“So.”

“You and I both know he’s not all that into it. If the story doesn’t involve salary caps or yards carried or runs batted in, Seamus doesn’t give a rat’s ass.”

Earl lifted his coffee cup from his desk, then, seeing it was empty, set it down again. “Last I heard he was all over it.”

“Depends on what you mean by ‘all over.’ ”

“Watch it, Spritz,” he cautioned, putting on a pair of half-glasses and glancing at one of the computer monitors. “Your claws are showing.”

“That’s a sexist remark, you know.”

“Don’t know what you mean. Take it up with HR.”