'Friends can hold the ladder steady； make it easier。' Touched； Joe nodded。
'Just remember；' Dewey said。
'Thanks。'
Dewey stepped back； and the doors closed。 The elevator rose； taking Joe with it。
The third floor was largely devoted to the newsroom； which had been subdivided into a maze of somewhat claustrophobic modular workstations； so that the entire space could not be seen at once。
Every workstation had a puter； telephone； ergonomic chair； and other fundamentals of the trade。
This was very similar to the much larger newsroom at the Times。 The only differences were that the furniture and the reconfigurable walls at the Times were newer and more stylish than those at the Post； the environment there was no doubt purged of the asbestos and formaldehyde that lent the air here its special astringent quality； and even on a Saturday afternoon the Times would be busier per square foot of floor space than the Post was now。
Twice over the years； Joe had been offered a job at the Times； but he had declined。 Although the Gray Lady； as the petition was known in some circles； was a great newspaper； it was also the ad…fat voice of the status quo。 He believed he'd be allowed and encouraged to do better and more aggressive reporting at the Post； which was like an asylum at times； but also heavy on ballsy attitude and gonzo style； with a reputation for never treating a politician's handout as real news and for assuming that every public official was either corrupt or inpetent； sex…crazed or power mad。
A few years ago； after the Northridge earthquake； seismologists had discovered unsuspected links between a fault that ran under the heart of L。A。 and one that lay beneath a series of munities in the San Fernando Valley。 A joke swept the newsroom regarding what losses the city would suffer if one temblor destroyed the Times downtown and the Post in Sun Valley。 Without the Post； according to the joke； Angelenos wouldn't know which politicians and other public servants were stealing them blind； accepting bribes from known drug dealers； and having sex with animals。 The greater tragedy； however； would be the loss of the six…pound Sunday edition of the Times； without which no one would know what stores were conducting sales。
If the Post was as obstinate and relentless as a rat terrier crazed by the scent of rodents…which it was…it was redeemed； for Joe； by the nonpartisan nature of its fury。 Furthermore； a high percentage of its targets were at least as corrupt as it wanted to believe they were。
Also； Michelle had been a featured columnist and editorial writer for the Post。 He met her here； courted her here； and enjoyed their shared sense of being part of an underdog enterprise。 She had carried their two babies in her belly through so many days of work in this place。
Now； he found this building haunted by memories of her。 In the unlikely event that he could eventually regain emotional stability and con himself into believing life had a purpose worth the struggle； the face of that one dear ghost would rock him every time he saw it。 He would never be able to work at the Post again。
He went directly to his former workstation in the Metro section； grateful that no old friends saw him。 His place had been assigned to Randy Colway； a good man； who wouldn't feel invaded if he found Joe in his chair。
Tacked to the noteboard were photographs of Randy's wife； their nine…year…old son； Ben； and six…year…old Lisbeth。 Joe looked at them for a long moment…and then not again。
After switching on the puter； he reached into his pocket and withdrew the Department of Motor Vehicles envelope that he'd filched from the glove box of the white van at the cemetery。 It contained the validated registration card。 To his surprise； the registered owner wasn't a government body or a law…enforcement agency； it was something called Medsped； Inc。
He had not been expecting a corporate operation； for God's sake。 Wallace Blick and his trigger…happy associates in the Hawaiian shirts didn't seem entirely like cops or federal agents； but they smelled a lot more like the law than they did like any corporate executives Joe had ever encountered。
Next he accessed the Post's vast file of digitized back issues。 Included was every word of every edition the newspaper had published since its inception…minus only the cartoons； horoscopes； crossword puzzles； and the like。 Photographs were included。
He initiated a search for Medsped and found six mentions。 They were small items from the business pages。 He read them plete。
Medsped； a New Jersey corporation； had begun as an air ambulance service in several major cities。 Later it had expanded to specialize in the nationwide express delivery of emergency medical supplies； refrigerated or otherwise delicately preserved blood and tissue samples； as well as expensive and frangible scientific instruments。 The pany even undertook to carry samples of highly contagious bacteria and viruses between cooperating research laboratories in both the public and military sectors。 For these tasks； it maintained a modest fleet of aircraft and helicopters。
Helicopters。
And unmarked white vans？
Eight years ago； Medsped had been bought by Teknologik； Inc。； a Delaware Corporation with a score of wholly owned subsidiaries in the medical and puter industry。 Its puter…related holdings were all panies developing products； mostly software； for the medical and medical…research munities。
When Joe ran a search on Teknologik； he was rewarded with forty…one stories； mostly from the business pages。 The first two articles were so dry； however； so full of investment and accounting jargon； that the reward quickly began to seem like punishment。
He ordered copies of the four longest articles for review later。
While those were sliding into the printer tray； he asked for a list of stories the Post had published about the crash of Nationwide Flight 353。 A series of headlines； with acpanying dates； appeared on the screen。
Joe had to steel himself to scan this story file。 He sat for a minute or two with his eyes closed； breathing deeply； trying to conjure； in his mind's eye； an image of surf breaking on the beach at Santa Monica。
Finally； with teeth clenched so tightly that his jaw muscles twitched continuously； he called up story after story； scanning the contents。 He wanted the one that； as a sidebar； would provide him with a plete passenger manifest。
He skipped quickly past photographs of the crash scene； which revealed debris chopped into such small chunks and tangled in such surreal shapes that the baffled eye could not begin to reconstruct the aircraft from its ruins。 In the bleak dawn caught by these pictures； through the gray drizzle that had begun to fall about two hours after the disaster； National Transportation Safety Board investigators in biologically secure bodysuits with visored hoods prowled the blasted meadow。 Looming in the background were scorched trees； gnarled black limbs clawing at the low sky。
He searched for and found the name of the NTSB Go…Team leader in charge of the investigation…Barbara Christman…and the fourteen specialists working under her。
A couple of the articles included photos of some of the crew and passengers。 Not all of the three hundred and thirty souls aboard was pictured。 The tendency was to focus on those victims who were Southern Californians returning home rather than on Easterners who had been ing to visit。 Being part of the Post family； Michelle and the girls were prominently featured。
Eight months ago； upon moving into the apartment； in reaction to a morbid and obsessive preoccupation with family albums and loose snapshots； Joe had packed all the photos in a large cardboard box； reasoning that rubbing a wound retarded healing。
He had taped the box shut and put it at the back of his only closet。
Now； in the course of his scanning； when their faces appeared on the screen； he was unable to breathe； though he had thought he would be prepared。 Michelle's publicity shot； taken by one of the Post's staff photographers； captured her beauty but not her tenderness； not her intelligence； not her cha