Weecho was at the computer, picking at some Indian takeout and going through the crash pictures again when Juna dropped the bomb. 

“You know this Alex Alexey?” 

“Who?” 

She was curled up with Wanda in an old bean bag chair, thumbing through the issue of Cover Magazine that had Nina Galleon on the front. 

“Publisher of Cover. He’s in a picture here with Nina.” 

Call Alex… Nina’s last words. 

Weecho jumped over there and Juna handed him the magazine opened to a spread of party pictures on the CoverAge page. One showed a dapper, silver-haired man smiling over cocktails with a familiar beautiful woman. The caption said, Cover publisher Alex Alexey with Cover cover model Nina Galleon. 

A piece of the puzzle, maybe a big one, looking him in the face. 

                                                #          #          # 

Later that night, Weecho got up by himself, went over and sat by the window, looked for a long time out at the bridge, the lights, the river, thinking how to play this.  

Juna asleep over there on the mattress was putting herself in a bad place next day. 

He had to get them better situated, get some substance, some leverage, to work this Lynch thing out with.      

Should be do-able, right? Right. 

                                                #          #          # 

Emer Lynch was sitting in the dark at his desk, the computer screen he was staring at casting a glow on the large snake coiled in his lap, on the Rottweiler bitch at his side. 

He was watching a replay from the pet store’s security camera, the screen showing Juna grabbing a handful of treats from the bag by the puppy pen, sticking them in her pocket. 

“We got a hot little hand in our pants, guys.” 

                                                #         #         # 

Next morning they went down to the subway together, Juna heading out to Broad Channel and the new job, Weecho to Cover Magazine’s midtown offices. 

“Why don’t you wait till tomorrow?” he said. “I can go out there and keep myself busy shooting bird pictures or something. Keep close by in case.” 

“Nothing’s going to happen first day. I’ll be fine.” 

They stopped at the top of the ramp to the A train. 

“You’ve got your key.” He’d given her his spare. “I’ll try to have the other mattress there when you get home.” Home? 

“If he pays me,” Juna said, “I’ll pick something up for dinner. Good luck.” 

Weecho reached to his pocket to give her some money, but she was already gone. She had a MetroCard he’d bought for her yesterday, but what about lunch? He watched her go down the ramp till she disappeared in the crowd. She’d taken care of herself all this time without him, but still he felt like a cheapskate when he turned for the stairs to the Number 4 train.  

He came up out of the subway at 59th Street, inspected his reflection in one of the Bloomingdale’s windows, walked west a couple of blocks, midtown crowded, everybody serious with their briefcases and Starbucks cups, then went south a block to a glass and stone building that had COVERCOM  in brass letters across the front. He pushed through one of the revolving doors, crossed the lobby to the security desk, the guard in his official blazer giving him a look when he said who he wanted to see.   

“He expecting you?” 

“He is.” 

“Your name, sir?” 

“Weecho.” 

That got another look. The guard checked his clipboard, tried to look unimpressed when he found Weecho written there. Handed him a pen to sign in and nodded toward the elevators. 

“Forty-fourth floor.” 

“Thank you.” 

The guard reached for his phone as Weecho went over and pushed Up. 

Last night before he’d finally turned in he’d gone on Cover Magazine’s website and looked at what kind of address format the staff used for their emails – first name and last with a dot in between. He sent one to Alex.Alexey and embedded a shot from the crash. Said he had more pictures, said he’d like to meet with Mr. Alexey whenever it was convenient for him. When Weecho got up and checked his emails, there was already an answer, asking him to come in first thing.  

The doors opened on forty-four – and there Alexey was. He’d come out to meet Weecho, which Weecho thought was classy. If the man was surprised to see someone at least thirty years younger than he was, he didn’t show it. Weecho had worn his best for the occasion, sport jacket he got from a client shoot, Calvin shirt and slacks. 

“Hello, Weecho,” Alexey said, holding out his hand, Weecho shaking it. 

“Mr. Alexey…” 

“Everyone calls me Alex, please.” 

He was every bit as dapper as his picture in the magazine – tailored suit, loafers polished just so, perfect knot in his tie. He walked Weecho over to an attractive woman sitting behind a desk. 

“This is my assistant, Kristine,” Alexey said. “She gave me the heads-up on your email. She doesn’t sleep, so she saw it first thing.” 

Kristine smiled. “Welcome to Cover.” 

“Thank you.” Weecho shook her extended hand, and then followed Alexey through the double doors into his office.   

He’d been in magazine offices before, working with art directors and such, but he’d never seen anything like this. There was a view of the city and Central Park that Alexey could have charged admission for. Furniture enough to fill a hotel lobby. But what really did it for him was Alexey’s work area – his personal work area – a trio of the latest pro Macs sitting on what looked like an acre of white layout surface. Half a dozen flat screens lit with fashion spreads in progress. This was a real working office, fancy as it was, and it looked like Alexey was a hands-on honcho. 

He saw Weecho eyeing a beat-up old Nikon film camera sitting like a paper weight on top of a pile of proofs. “I was an army photographer, my IDF service.” 

Weecho looking unsure what IDF was. 

“Israeli Defense Force,” Alexey said. “The camera and I are relics.” 

There was a silver coffee service with two cups sitting on the layout surface. Alexey picked up the pot. “Will you join me?” 

“Thank you.” 

Alexey poured a cup, handed it to Weecho. “Help yourself to cream and sugar.” 

“Black is fine.” 

Alexey poured himself a cup. “So what have you got?” 

Weecho took a sip and put down the cup. “Can I use one of your Macs?” 

“Please do.”  

Weecho sat down in front of a screen that had a model’s face on it, color against a plain white backdrop. He stared at the photograph. 

“Something wrong?” Alexey said. 

“Can I try something here? I’ll save it as a separate file.” 

“Be my guest,” Alexey said, leaning over and watching. 

The picture was already in Photoshop. Weecho made a duplicate layer and desaturated the top layer so it was black and white. Bumped up the contrast so the blacks were more intense and the model’s skin pure white. Then he did some things with the Median filter and the Smudge tool to make the picture look like a black and white drawing. Erased the eyes and lips on the top layer so the blue eyes and red lips of the bottom layer showed through. Compressed the two layers into one. Total time, a minute and change. 

If he did say so himself, it really popped, a stark black and white line drawing of the model with those color lips and eyes. 

“Old concept,” Weecho said, “but I think it might work here.” 

“I like it.” Alexey said. “Credentials established.” 

Weecho saved the image and cleared the screen, took out the flash drive he’d brought with him. Slipped it into the Mac’s USB port and opened the pictures of the crash. 

“They’re in order,” he said, “so you can see the sequence of how it happened.” 

“These are the ones you kept from the police.” 

“So you know about that.” 

“Oh, yes.” 

Weecho highlighted each picture, stopping at the shot of Nina Galleon pinned in the wreckage. “When I tried to get her out, she called your name. ‘Call Alex’ she said. It wasn’t till last night I made the connection it could be you.” 

Alexey leaned in closer, full focus. 

“When the car exploded,” Weecho said, “I got knocked out. When I came to, it was too late.” 

Alexey nodded. “I’m sure you did what you could.” 

Weecho pointed to the picture, which included Lynch. “The guy with the laptop there – we know who he is.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“And where.” 

Alexey turned. Stared. Who is this kid? 

“Where is where?” he said. 

Weecho looked at him. “I’ll tell you if you tell me what’s going on.” 

Alexey held the look – then straightened up. Waved his hand toward a pair of couches. “Bring your coffee over here.”