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had better-quality security technology than the station. The black-and-white image of a woman carrying a child and my bouquet resembled those grainy shots of bank-robbery suspects that seldom get identified.
    So the mystery woman remained a mystery.
    I wasn’t even sure if she was the actual author of my note or merely handling the delivery duties. She appeared to be in hermidtwenties, had a dark pageboy haircut, and was dressed in an upscale sweater and jeans. She carried the flowers in one arm, a toddler in another. I couldn’t be sure whether the child was a boy or girl.
    I made three copies of the image, leaving one at each station entrance, with instructions to call me if she returned. I pinned the last one on the bulletin board over my desk. I supposed it was possible we’d met. But she seemed a stranger, with no obvious reason to want to creep me out. Though she certainly appeared to bear a grudge against Sam.
    Retrieving the note from my wastebasket, I smoothed the paper and pinned it next to her photo.
“Thanks Alot, Riley, Give Everyone The Disturbing Information Regarding That Bad Ass Gossip.”
Clearly, she wanted to send me a message—not an overt threat, but not best wishes, either. I was certainly curious about what “disturbing information” she was referring to. She must have calculated the note would be more likely, or perhaps faster, to reach me via flowers than the post office. Or maybe she just liked creating a scene.
    I inhaled the blooms, but the fragrance was not overwhelming. Seasonal, they might have come from the remains of a home garden or backyard. Dried milkweed pods teased me with dreams of orange and black butterflies traveling south.
    I carried the vase toward Noreen’s office. My motive? Twofold: I no longer wanted to look at them, as the sender’s intention seemed dubious; and regifting fresh flowers appeared a prime boss suck-up move for a reporter with a suddenly shaky platform.
    â€œThey’re beautiful.” Noreen stretched her hand to fondle a red-colored berry on a twig. “But I can’t imagine what either of us is celebrating. Especially not you.”
    My news director seemed to have settled down; at least the morals clause of my contract wasn’t dribbling from her lips. Sowhile Noreen was in a semisympathetic mood, I started whining about how Sam’s order for protection was going to interfere with my life—professionally as well as socially.
    â€œJust stay away from the guy,” Noreen said. “Then you won’t have any problems.”
    â€œLook at it from my point of view,” I said. “Our newsrooms are less than a mile apart. How am I supposed to know where the jerk is going to show up? I’m going to have to give up the turkey special at Peter’s Grill. I’m not going to be able to check criminal records at the cop shop.”
    Then I thought of the worst scenario of all. “What if we both show up at the same news event? Am I supposed to leave?”
    That possibility got Noreen’s attention. I could tell by the suddenly stern management look in her eyes I’d have been better off keeping the rumination to myself.
    â€œDon’t worry,” I reassured her. “Benny’s going to fix this. A thousand feet is unreasonable; maybe he can change it to a hundred feet.”
    I flashed my news leader an optimistic thumbs-up and raced back to my office to call my attorney and plead for results. Benny didn’t pick up, so I left him an urgent message saying, “We need to talk.”
    â€œI hate ‘Piercing Eyes,’” I muttered to myself, slamming down the phone.
    I tried thinking of an out-of-town story that would take my mind off the gossip columnist and take my body away from any chance of violating the order for protection. But all that came to mind was Mexico.

CHAPTER 7
    Soon after, word hit the newsroom that the royal family of Saudi Arabia, including