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Counting a crowd of homogenous nude women was like counting a floor full of ball bearings, except fun. I had correctly banked on the assumption that Miranda would not see it as fun.
    “All right. I’ll let you guys have that one. Here’s a question, Deb. Why now?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean if you’re really concerned about the monk seal, wouldn’t it have been smarter to stage the protest three years ago, before the construction crew got started?”
    “Come on,” I griped.
    “No, it’s okay,” Deb replied, trying hard not to get flummoxed. “Three years ago, I was just a freshman. I didn’t have the organizational muscle to do an operation like this. Now that I’m here, I’m hoping this demonstration will at least slap a scarlet ‘A’  on the whole franchise. I want these corporations to, you know, think twice before they infringe on the rights of indigenous species.”
    “I see. So you’re punishing Fairmont by showing them your trim, naked bodies.”
    “We’re just...we had to resort to this to get your attention. We just want the world to know what Fairmont did to those seals.”
    “Aren’t you afraid you’re just giving them free publicity? I mean Fairmont, not the seals.”
    “Well...no. I mean it’s bad publicity. Corporations are really vain. They—”
    “Who paid for all your travel costs?”
    “Uh, Scott. Through an anonymous donor.”
    Denny looked to me. I waved him on. Keep filming. It’s not like this was live.
    “And you have no guesses as to who the donor is.”
    “I have no idea. And I wouldn’t want to speculate.”
    “But you know Scott’s a publicist, right?”
    “Miranda...”
    “Yes,” said Deb. “Why? What are you getting at?”
    “Nothing. I just think it’s odd that an anonymous donor would need a publicist. You don’t have any idea who’s behind this?”
    “Objection. Asked and answered.”
    That was me. With a devilish smirk, Miranda continued. “Okay, Deb. Hypothetically—”
    “All right. Stop.” Me again. That was enough. It was obvious Miranda wouldn’t let the issue drop.
    “Scott, would you butt out? I’m conducting an interview.”
    “No, you’re digging for information you know you won’t be able to use. What’s the point? Just stick to the facts.”
    She let out a flustered laugh. “Facts?! What facts? I don’t see any facts! Hey, what about the fact that you’re working for Fairmont? No. Shit. That’s only speculation. Sorry.”
    Daunted, Deb turned to me. “What is she talking about?”
    “Forget it. She’s just trying to get a rise out of you.”
    And succeeding. “Is it true?”
    “It’s not, Deb, I swear to you. I’m not working for Fairmont. They’re not paying me a dime.”
    “Not directly, anyway,” Miranda added. “Scott usually works through the big PR agencies. He’s a freelance flack. A media mercenary. Ronin.”
    “Hey, Miranda. How’s Jim?”
    “Cheating on me.”
    Thought so. In my book, the definition of “prick” is someone who’s both dumb enough and mean enough to screw around on an investigative reporter. Jim certainly fit the description. What do you expect? He’s a producer for Dateline NBC .
    Of course, in Deb’s book, the definition of “prick” was now me. Shame, really. She had worked so hard to dodge the hints. Now she was painted into a corner. With wet eyes, she threw me an expletive and disappeared into the sea of flesh.
    Denny filmed her telegenic backside, then shut off the camera. “Well, that was dramatic. What now?”
    “Now we look for Amber LaPierre. She’ll give us some good quotes.” I turned to Miranda. “Care to meet the number two girl?”
    She shook her head at me in wonder. “You’re not even mad at me.”
    I shrugged. “You know my motto: don’t get even, get over it.”
    “That always drove Gracie nuts, you know. That she could never get you mad.”
    “Yeah, well, she found a way. Sorry about Jim, incidentally.”
    “I don’t want to talk