"That was two years ago," he said. "She wasn't suicidal when I knew her."

"I'm not sure she would have announced it, particularly to a sensitive guy like you. How did she sound when you talked to her last week?"

"How'd you know I talked to her?"

"You left a trail of phone messages. What did she want?"

"She had some questions about an old Finance project. I don't think it would pertain to anything you're doing now."

His voice was taking on that arch, staffy quality that really got under my skin. It was a good thing I'd known him since he was a baby analyst. "Matt, if you don't want to tell me what she wanted, say so, but don't give me that secret Finance handshake bullshit."

The clacking keys went silent. "Why do you need to know? Are you thinking she was murdered?"

"I've got some problem employees here, and I think Ellen was building a case to get rid of at least one of them. If she was, I'd like to finish what she was doing."

"Hold on." I heard him get up and close his office door. "That's not why she called," he said when he was back, "but I'll tell you anyway. She was looking for an old schedule, something from our task force days."

"The Nor'easter Acquisition Task Force?"

"Yeah. We worked on it together. She wanted the schedule of purchase price adjustments."

I opened a drawer, found a pad of paper, and started taking notes. "What's a purchase price adjustment?"

"Adjustments to the price Majestic paid to buy Nor'easter."

"What's special about them?"

"Nothing. They're just expenses that are incurred as part of the deal, so they get charged against the purchase price instead of normal operations. That's why you keep them separate."

"What are some examples?"

"Lawyers. You have to have lawyers to negotiate and draft documents for the transaction, and they charge a fee for that. Accountants, consultants, anyone we hire for due diligence. We wouldn't purchase their services if we weren't doing the deal, so their fee gets charged to the deal."

"That doesn't sound particularly relevant to the ramp in Boston."

"I told you."

"There's a schedule of these charges?"

"Yeah. Ellen maintained it when she was on the task force. She didn't have a copy of it anymore, so she called me."

"What does it look like?"

"It's nothing but a spreadsheet. Down one side you've got the payee and the nature of the expense if it's not obvious. Down the other you've got the dollar amount."

"Why would she be interested in something like that two years after the fact?"

"I haven't got a clue."

"You don't know, or you're not telling me?"

"She wouldn't say. I told her where to find it and that was it."

"Which is where?

"Archives. All the merger files have been archived for about a year now."

"Can you send a copy of that schedule to me?"

"I'd have to sign it out, and I don't think I want my name on anything having to do with Ellen Shepard. That whole subject is taboo around here right now. We're not even supposed to be thinking about it, much less talking about it. I could get into trouble."

"Come on, Matt. How many times did I bail you out in the past? Don't you remember that time when you were working on that appropriations request for San Francisco and you needed that information right away and I was the one who went back out to the airport that night to get it-"

He groaned. "Look, I don't know what you're doing up there, but if I get you this thing, you have to keep my name out of it."

"Your sterling reputation is safe with me."

My second line lit up and flashed several times before I remembered Molly wasn't out there to pick it up. Then my beeper went off. I checked the number.

"There's something going on here, Matt. Operations is beeping me. Would you just send a copy of everything Ellen asked for?"

"Yep. But we never had this conversation."

"If you say so, Matt."

Kevin was talking the instant I punched the second line. "You'd better get down here," he said. "We've got a problem."

I walked down the corridor past the door labeled men's locker room. The second door had no designation, just two flat globs of hardened putty where the ready room sign might have been at one time. I could hear masculine voices inside.

For as many years as I'd worked in the field, it still wasn't easy for me to walk into a ready room. Some airports were better than others, but for the most part, the ramp was dominated by men and the ready room was where they congregated to do what men in packs do. I took a moment to gather myself, then pushed through the door.

There were eight guys in there, all in various stages of readiness-eating, reading the newspaper, playing cards. One was sleeping. All conversation ceased abruptly with my arrival, leaving an old color TV set to provide the soundtrack. I felt as if I was trespassing in the boys' secret clubhouse.

"Gentlemen," I said, concentrating on keeping my voice strong and steady, which wasn't easy, the way they were staring. "I haven't had a chance to meet most of you. I'm Alex Shanahan, the new general manager, and I'm looking for the assignment crew chief."

Most of them went back to what they'd been doing. A few stared with a bored expression that was probably reserved just for management. Since it was an evening shift, most of the men were on the younger side, some just out of high school. They had that pale, hardened look of kids who had grown up in the dark spaces of big cities. I had no friends in this room.

I was really wishing I'd worn a skirt with pockets because I couldn't decide what to do with my hands. That I was even aware of my hands was a bad sign. "Let me ask you again-"

"He ain't here." The voice floated up from the other side of a La-Z-Boy recliner.

I walked around and found a man with a dark, curly beard, a bald head, and a prodigious belly. He seemed right at home reclining in front of a TV.

"Do you know where he is?"

"Could be anywhere."

"I guess that means he could be in here."

"He's not in here."

He tapped his fingers on the cracked Naugahyde armrest. I searched the concrete walls. "Why isn't the assignment sheet for this shift posted?"

The response came from behind me, and it was a voice I recognized. "Because everybody on my shift knows their job." Big Pete leaned against the wall next to what appeared to be an inside entrance to the men's locker room. He must have just come in, because if he'd been back there the whole time, I would have felt his presence.

"Someone doesn't know their job," I said. "We have a Majestic Express flight that's been in for twenty minutes. No one met the trip, the bags are still onboard, and the passengers are down in claim waiting."

"There's no one in here who's on the clock," he said without even so much as a perfunctory check around the room. "One of us goes out there, you're going to pay double-time. Your shift supervisor would know that. Or Danny."

Dan was at a meeting off the field, and my shift supervisor was stuck with a customer down at the freight house-probably the forwarder with the lobsters, or without the lobsters, as the case may be-but I saw no reason to explain all that. "I think you and I can resolve this."

"We could," he said, "but as you can see, I'm not on the clock yet." He was dressed in street clothes and completely relaxed, a man in full command of his environment. We were on his turf now.

"If the contract says double-time, then I'll pay double-time. And I will also take the name of the ramper who didn't cover the flight."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man at the far end of the room stand and pull on his jacket. "I'm on the clock." he said. "I'll work it?"