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And as she stepped into theGazette office, ready to write up some of her notes, she saw that a visitor was in Dan’s office. It was a man she’d never seen before, but then that wasn’t so unusual. Dan knew pretty much everyone who was anyone and a lot of someones who were no ones, so he was bound to know people Odelia didn’t.

She popped her head into his office. The aged editor was puffing from a nice cigar and sipping from what looked like a glass of port, his white beard waggling happily and his short frame relaxing on the wingback chair he’d installed in his office for when he needed a think.

His guest was a stocky man with a shiny round face and an equally shiny bald dome. He looked like a cartoon of a Wall Street banker, complete with stubby cigar and beady little eyes.

“Hey, there, Odelia,” said Dan jovially. His cheeks were red and this was obviously not his first glass of port. “I want you to meet an old friend of mine. This is Olaf Brettin. Olaf runs theDaily Inquirer. Just about the nastiest tabloid on the East Coast.”

“Notthe nastiest,” said the tabloid editor good-naturedly.

“No, theNational Star got you licked in that department.”

“TheNational Star got us licked in every department,” said Brettin. “Not just nastiness but political clout, too. Not to mention circulation, of course.” He didn’t seem bothered by this fact too much, though, judging from his indulgent smile.

“That will probably all change now that Dickerson is dead,” said Dan.

“I don’t think so,” said Brettin. “Except maybe for the political thing. TheStar’s owners never liked the direction Dickerson took the paper. They’ll probably hire an editor who’ll return to its core business: digging up dirt on celebrities and exposing scandals.”

“Did you know Dickerson well, Mr. Brettin?” asked Odelia.

“We met occasionally. Dinner parties, galas, conferences, industry events, that sort of thing. We didn’t socialize, though. We weren’t exactly chummy.” His face sagged. “Dick Dickerson had a ruthless streak, Miss Poole. I know you’ll probably say that we were like peas in a pod—publishing the same sort of tabloid muck—but I never set out to damage anyone’s reputation or even use blackmail to further my own ends.”

“And he did.”

“And he did,” Brettin confirmed.

“It probably got him killed, too,” said Dan. “People will only take so much abuse.”

“Did he ever try to damage your reputation?” asked Odelia.

Brettin pursed his lips.“Oh, he tried. There was a time our publications were neck and neck, and he used his full barrage of dirty trickery on me. But then he pulled ahead of theDaily Inquirer and he stopped bothering. Didn’t think I was worth the trouble.”

Dan’s eyes were gleaming. “Odelia works with the police, Olaf. So you probably should be careful what you tell her.”

“You work with the police?” asked Brettin, surprised.

“Occasionally,” she said. “My uncle is Chief of Police.”

“And her boyfriend is a detective,” Dan added, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “So if you confess now, you wouldn’t merely give me the biggest scoop in my career, Odelia would probably bring out the handcuffs and arrest you on the spot—isn’t that right, Odelia?”

“I’m not a cop, Dan,” she said. “I’m not allowed to arrest anyone, I’m afraid.”

“I didn’t kill Dickerson, if that’s what you think, Miss Poole,” said Brettin. “There was no love lost between us but what we had was a professional enmity, not a personal one. Besides, it’s not as if losing an editor is going to cost theNational Star its readership. A new editor will come in and take over. The Gantrys won’t kill the goose that lays the golden eggs.”

“Have they asked you to be the new editor by any chance?” asked Odelia.

“Oh, she’s smart,” Dan said cheekily. “Watch what you say now, Brettin.”

“You trained her well,” said Brettin indulgently. “No, Miss Poole. They haven’t asked me. And even if they did, I would turn them down. I like my position at theDaily Inquirer. That tabloid is my life and I wouldn’t trade running it for anything in the world.”

Odelia started to leave. She had her own articles to write. And she was sure Chase or one of her uncle’s officers would interview Brettin soon enough anyway, asking him about his alibi and stuff like that. But then she thought of something. “Does the picture of a rose mean anything to you, Mr. Brettin?”

“A rose?”

“There was a picture of a rose left in Dickerson’s safe. Left there as a message, I presume.”

He shook his head slowly.“I’m sorry. That doesn’t ring a bell, Miss Poole.”

She gave him a smile.“Thanks. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Brettin.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” the tabloid editor said graciously.

Chapter 35

“Brutus was awfully quiet, Max,” said Dooley.

I’d noticed the same thing, and it worried me. “Milo must have been filling his head with nonsense again,” I said.

“What kind of nonsense?”

“Nonsense about me, probably. And maybe Harriet.”

“What about me? What nonsense would Milo say about me?”