“No, sir, don’t worry. I’m fine.”

“Stay fine or I might have Alonzo write your byline for a week or two.”

Perry actually paled. “Would you put up his Einstein photo under the byline?”

Bennett laughed. “You know the score with the fans, Perry, it’s always what have you done for me lately? Now get out of here and think fresh and new and exciting thoughts.”

She gave him a salute, turned on her heel, and walked back toward her cubicle, considering running through her Rolodex for anyone she could bribe, threaten, or cajole.

Alonzo called out as she passed his desk, “Hey, Perry, you need to see the graffiti in the men’s room. At first I thought it was a joke, from some sicko like Walt, but it’s not funny. You need to see it.”

Graffiti about her in the men’s room? Here at the Post? That would be pretty outrageous, even from Walt, though he’d already threatened to steal her Harley and run off to Mexico with it. But Walt worked for ESPN, and he couldn’t walk through this huge room without sirens going off, without people bringing out fire extinguishers. So, no, it couldn’t be Walt. At the dead-serious look on Alonzo’s face, she turned and walked straight into the men’s room. Only one guy there, Potwin from the crime desk, and thank heaven he was through with his business and washing his hands. Good to see a guy washing his hands. She ignored him and looked at the block letters written in red Magic Marker above one of the urinals:

YOU’RE NEXT, PERRY. BUTT OUT.

What kind of graffiti was that? The threat was obvious, no mystery there, but back off of what, exactly? The Tebow story? That was silly, no one would get his nose out of joint that much, and besides, the feel of it wasn’t like a beer tossed in her face or a threat to pull her tonsils out through her ear. No, this was scary; it made the hair stand up on the back of her neck. Was it about her mom? But why a freaking message left for her in the men’s room about her mom?

Potwin strolled over as he wiped his hands on a paper towel. He looked at the message. “You must have written a really good story to merit this little gem. The guy’s rancor made it all the way to the men’s room. Good job, Black.” He started to stroll out, whistling, but then he stopped, turned slowly. “It’s got a strange feel to it, Perry. You want I should talk to some of my detective buddies at Metro?”

And here she’d turned him down for a dinner date three months before. “Thanks, Tommy, but I’ll take care of it.”

He cocked his head to one side. “I’m sorry about all the trouble your mom’s been having.” He gave her a small wave and left.

Alone again, she looked closely at the words and felt a punch of fear. No way was this about her Tebow story.

But she’d hardly stuck her oar in at all about her mom. She surfed a wave of cold anger and wanted to strike out, but at whom? Someone was trying to keep her out of her mom’s business? Yeah, right, like this moronic message on a men’s room wall would do that. Why, then?

Her cell rang, an old-fashioned ringtone that made everyone under thirty look her way.

“Yo, Perry. My boss wants to speak to you. Only you this time, you by yourself, without your mom.”

It was Davis. “Why on earth would Agent Savich want to see me again? I told him everything I knew this morning. I’m on salary here, Davis, I got things to do, a dozen calls to make, scoops to, well, scoop, a byline to write. Unlike you, I’m in a cutthroat business. Have him call me.” Then she realized she really needed to see him.

“Wait, I’ll be there. You’re not going to believe what’s happened.”

She said nothing more and had the pleasure of listening to his indrawn breath and a lovely sputter. “What? Are you all right? Come on, Perry, what happened?”

“Tell you when I see you.”

She’d gotten him. Even with the threat of the graffiti stuck in her throat, she smiled briefly.

“All right, get your butt to the Hoover Building now. Third floor—everyone knows where the CAU unit is.” And the jerk hung up on her.

Perry shrugged into her leather jacket, slipped her cell into her pocket, and said to Leon, her assistant, and also Alonzo’s assistant, “Gotta go. Back in an hour,” and she was out of there.

Forty-five minutes later, she was sitting in Special Agent Dillon Savich’s office in the CAU on the third floor of the Hoover Building.

“—and it was block-printed in big red Magic Marker. That’s it, all that was written. Why would someone come into the men’s room on my floor in the Washington Post building and write nonsense like that?”