She smirked. 'You wish. How's the speech coming?'
'Done, except for a final polish. The Wiz will amaze this Halloween' He gestured at the tray. `So who gets those?'
'Simon is in his office giving an interview to Andrew Wren of The New York Times. That's Andrew Wren, the investigative reporter'
`Oh? What's he investigating?'
`Well, sweetie, that` the sixty–four–thousand–dollar question, isn't it?' She motioned with her head. `Out of my way, I have places to go:
He stepped obediently aside, letting her pass. She glanced back at him over her shoulder. `I booked dinner at Umberto's for six. Meet you in your office at five–thirty sharp' She gave him a wink.
He watched her walk down the hall toward Simon's office. He was no longer thinking about the homeless and abused, about Ray and Carole, about his past and its memories, about anything but her. It was like that with Stef. It had been like that from the moment they met. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He loved her so much it hurt. But the hurt was pleasurable. The hurt was sweet. The way she made him feel was a mystery he did not ever want to solve.
`I'll be there; he said softly.
He had to admit, his new life was pretty good. He went back to his office smiling.
CHAPTER 7
Andrew Wren stood looking out the window of the Wiz's corner office at the derelicts occupying space in Occidental Park across the way. They slouched on benches, slept curled up in old blankets in tree wells, and huddled on the low steps and curbing that differentiated the various concrete and flagstone levels of the open space. They drank from bottles concealed in paper sacks, exchanged tokens and pennies, and stared into space. Tourists and shoppers gave them a wide berth. Almost no one looked at them. A pair of cops on bicycles surveyed the scene with wary eyes, then moved over to speak to a man staggering out of a doorway leading to a card shop. Pale afternoon sunlight peeked through masses of cumulous clouds an their way to distant places.
Wren turned away. Simon Lawrence was seated at his desk, talking on the phone to the mayor about Wednesday evening's festivities apt die Seattle Art Museum, The mayor was making the official announcement of the dedication an behalf of the city. An abandoned apartment building just across the. street had been purchased by the city and was being donated to Fresh Start to provide additional housing for homeless women and children. Donations had been pledged that would cover needed renovations to the interior. The mane,, would bring the building up to code and provide sleeping rooms, a kitchen, dining roam, and administrative offices for staff and volunteers, Persuading the city to dedicate the building and land had taken the better part of two years. Raising the money necessary to make the dedication meaningful had taken almost as long. It was, all in all, a terrific coup.
Andrew Wren looked down at his shoes. The Wizard of Oz had done it again. But at what cost to himself and the organisations he had founded? That was the truth Wren had come all the way from New York to discover.
He was a burly, slow–moving man with a thatch of unruly, grizzled brown hair that refused to be tamed and stuck out every which way no matter what was done to it. The clothes he wore were rumpled and well used, the kind that let him be comfortable while he worked, that gave him an unintimidating, slightly shabby look. He carried a worn leather briefcase in which he kept his notepads, source logs, and whatever book he was currently reading, together with a secret stash of bagged nuts and candy that he used to sustain himself when meals were missed or forgotten in the heat of his work. He had a round, kindly face with bushy eyebrows, heavy cheeks, and he wore glasses that tended to slide down his nose when he bent forward to listen to compensate for his failing hearing. He was almost fifty, but he looked as if he could just as easily be sixty. He could have been a college professor or a favourite uncle or a writer of charming anecdotes and pithy sayings that stayed with you and made you smile when you thought back on them.
But he wasn't any of these things. His worn, familiar teddybear look was what made him so effective at what he did. He looked harmless and mildly confused, but how he looked was dangerously deceptive. Andrew Wren was a bulldog when it came to ferreting out the truth. He was relentless in getting to the bottom of things. Investigative reporting was a tough racket, and you had to be both lucky and good. Wren had always been both. He had a knack for being in the right place at the right time, for sensing when there was a story worth following up. His instincts were uncanny, and behind those kindly eyes and rumpled look was a razor–sharp mind that could peel away layers of deception and dig down to that tiny nugget of truth buried under a mound of Bullshit. Mare than one overconfident jackass had been undone by underestimating Andrew Wren.
Simon Lawrence was not likely to turn inter one of these unfortunates, however. Wren knew hire well enough to appreciate the tact that the Wiz hadn't gotten where he was by underestimating anyone.
Simon hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. `Sorry about that, Andrew, but you don't keep the mayor waiting:
Wren nodded benignly, shrugging. `I understand. Wednesday's event means a lot to you:
'Yes, but mare to the point, it means a lot to the mayor. He went out on a limb for us, persuading the council to pass a resolution dedicating the building, then selling the idea to the voters. I want to be certain that he comes out of this experience feeling good about things:
Wren walked over to the easy chair that fronted Simon's desk and sat down. Even though they had met only ante before, and that was two years ago, Simon Lawrence felt comfortable enough with Wren to call him by his first name. Wren wouldn't do anything to discourage that just yet.
°I should think just about everyone is feeling pretty good about this one, Simon: he complimented. `It's quite an accomplishment:
Simon leaned forward and put his elbows on his desk and his chin in his hands, giving Wren a thoughtful look. He was handsome in a rugged sort of way, with nicely chiselled features, thick dark hair, and startling blue eyes. When he walked, he looked like a big cat, sort of gliding from place to place, slow and graceful, never hurried, with an air of confidence about him that suggested he would not be easily be surprised. Wren placed him at a little over six feet and maybe two hundred pounds. His birth certificate, which Wren had ferreted out by searching the records in a suburb of St. Louis two years earlier in an unsuccessful attempt to learn something about his childhood, put him at forty–five years of age. He was unmarried, had no children, had no living relatives that anyone could identify, lived alone, and was the most important voice of his generation in the fight against homelessness.
His was a remarkable story. He had come to Seattle eight years ago after spending several years working for nationally based programs like Habitat for Humanity and Child Risk. He worked far the Union Gospel Mission and Treehouse, then after three years, founded Fresh Start. He began with an all–volunteer staff and an old warehouse on Jackson Street. Within a year, he had secured sufficient funding to lease the building where Fresh Start was presently housed, to hire a full–time staff of three, including Ray Hapgood, and to begin generating seed money far his next project. Pass/Go. He wrote a book on homeless women and children, entitled Street Lives. A documentary filmmaker became interested in his work and shot a feature that wan an Academy. Award. Shortly afterward, Simon was nominated for the prestigious Jefferson Award, which honours ordinary citizens who do extraordinary things in the field of community. — service. He was one of five state–wide winners, was selected as an entry for national competition, and was subsequently- a winner of the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Award.