Chapter 42

42

S ol managed to file the damned Richard Fynn interview after a continuous back-and-forth of emails and other forms of communication between her and Fionna's deputy editor at Conceit Fair , Christina Jones, who was also in charge of line editing and extreme freelance torturing.

Christina had the not-so-rare quality of reading an article and managing to unnecessarily change every single word for a synonym, in the best of cases, or every single paragraph for something that meant exactly the opposite that had been initially written, in the worst of cases. She was one of those editors who needed to prove how much their input was needed, even when it really wasn't.

Sol fought hard, trying to preserve her voice through the savage onslaught of edits and knowing when to yield—yes, they could use "wrinkled" instead of "rumpled" when referring to Fynn's clothes—and when to withstand—no, using that quote out of context would only damage Fynn's already battered image more, and it would mischaracterize him.

Fortunately, Sol had two decades of editor-negotiating experience and knew how to handle herself with more ease than when she'd first started. It was still not fun.

Christina had also been completely unmoved by Sol's request to add a couple of good quotes from that global press conference the PR team of Revengers Reunite Redo had sent Sol after her failed interview with the filmmaker. Richard sounded articulate in the press conference, and even if Sol understood they should disclaim the origin of the quotes in the article, she saw no reason not to use them. They would enrich the piece. Christina didn't agree.

Sol couldn't help but feel there was no Sol Novo left in that article when it was finally done. It read as a generic Conceit Fair piece that any other journalist could have written. Her own idiosyncrasies as an interviewer, writer, movie enthusiast, and viewer were nowhere.

She was about to head to Josie's for a much needed Pilates mat class and put everything behind her when she saw Luke's call and answered it.

"Hola. I'm on the move, heading to Josie's."

"Did Sara look nervous?" he asked.

"Sorry, what?"

"The night of the theft, when you ran into her at Charing Cross, was there anything unusual about her?" he explained. "According to the information we have, she should have already realized the script had been stolen by then. That was the whole reason for limiting the investigation to the Pilates studio."

"Perhaps she was a bit on the tense side, but I didn't think much of it," said Sol, grabbing her weekender bag and heading out the door. "She was always like that with me. She knew I was an entertainment journalist, and that can strain relationships sometimes if people think they need to avoid saying or doing anything that could end up being published. I would never do such a thing, but I understand her lack of confidence in the profession."

"So she was tense as usual?"

"Uhhh." She tried recalling that day again but couldn't. "I don't really know. I don't remember much other than what I've already told you. I'd just had a row with my editor about a story I wanted to publish. He didn't want me to pursue it because he was going to go with my idea and write it under his byline. I was furious about that and not paying attention to anything else. I'm sorry to be such an unreliable witness."

"Don't be. I am the one sorry for making you relive the whole thing. It's just, I feel there must be something we're missing. But I have to let you go now. I promise to ring in a bit and be my usual charming self."

"Looking forward to it."

…

"Check that your pelvis isn't puckering forward," commanded Josie as the four-person class was deeply engaged in a side-leg routine. Sol tried following that very specific instruction while pointing her left leg up and flexing her foot on the way down. "Find the feeling of your inner core, engage it as it helps you stabilize. For five, stretch it through. Lift and lower for six, seven, and eight, hold it through. Circles."

Sol's butt was starting to resent her decision to take the Pilates class. The series of little circles made by her elevated left ankle, which was encircled by a two-pound weight, didn't help the building pain subside.

"Sculpt your awareness. Propel your obliques," Josie went on, and Sol wondered what the hell she meant. "If you feel defined in your elongation, that keeps you from contracting. Sol, check your lines."

Sol double checked the perfect straightness of her back, her abs, her legs, and the balance of her hips. She didn't like being called out for a less-than-perfect form. She tried focusing again, even if sometimes she got lost in Josie's jargon.

"Hover over your bottom leg, make sure your hips are level," continued Josie. "Lengthen through your heels. Find the tone of your hamstring and pulse."

The class was finally over after the same painful choreography was performed with the other leg and they did a few welcome cool-down breathing exercises and stretches.

Sol was ready to get out of there and do nothing for the rest of the day—for the rest of the following two weeks, actually. She grabbed her stuff and was about to head out the door when she overheard Oliver on the phone. The annoying semi-regular had showed up at Josie's that day without his dad. And Mark was the only redeeming quality Oliver Green had.

"I could have written that script better than any of them did," Oliver said. Sol rolled her eyes. He was so full of himself. But her interest was piqued by what she heard next. " The Privateers was never a good show. I don't even understand why people liked it. Well, I guess they like all kinds of rubbish."

The dude was utterly oblivious to how obnoxious he sounded. He was disparaging one of the most popular recent shows on streaming and had the audacity to suggest he could have done a better job writing it.

She couldn't understand how someone as sensitive and nice as Mark had fathered such a pretentious troll. But as the proud auteur of a mediocre oeuvre, Richard Fynn, once told Sol: Families could be such a drag sometimes.

It suddenly all made sense. She was already on the street, outside of Josie's and about to head home when she realized what hadn't clicked for Luke in the Meshflixx case. She stopped right there and texted him.

Sol Novo: Does the name Oliver Green ring a bell? Did you check him during the Meshflixx investigation?

Sol Novo: He's Mark Green's son.

Sol Novo: I know this sounds abrupt, but I think he was at Josie's the night of the theft.

Sol Novo: I remember him now

Sol Novo: Vaguely

Sol Novo: Call me when you see this

She finished that last text when she saw Oliver leaving the Georgian building on Henrietta Street that housed Josie's on its second floor.

She happened to be almost perfectly attired for the occasion. She was wearing her trench coat on top of her black leggings and a fuchsia cropped, slim-fit, long-sleeved shirt. She wrapped the coat around her, cinched the belt at her waist, and tied it. She also donned her oversized sunglasses for maximum anonymity and followed Oliver from a distance. He seemed distracted while still talking on the phone so it shouldn't be that hard to trail him and remain unnoticed, right?

It wasn't. Oliver barely managed to drag himself one block away from Josie's at a painfully slow pace and then sat at one of the outside tables in a nearby coffee shop. Sol lingered in the distance, pretending she was waiting for someone and too absorbed in her cell phone.

She was about to leave, convinced that the whole thing had been a futile errand on her part when someone else arrived, sitting at the same table as Oliver. The person, a forty-something-year-old man with white hair and dressed all in azure, looked familiar to Sol but she couldn't place him. He could be one of her fellow entertainment reporters, a showbiz executive or other, the new stylist at her hair salon, or even a frequent guest actor in one of the dramedy procedurals she loved watching.

She stole a couple of pictures of Oliver and his companion and left, hopeful that at some point she'd be able to remember who the mystery man was. When she was around the corner and out of Oliver's sight, she sent the pictures to Luke with a new message.

Sol Novo: Followed Oliver to Grind coffee shop next to Josie's. He was meeting there with someone.

Sol Novo: Seemed familiar but not sure who he is. Do you recognize him?

Only after she'd hit send on that last text did she realize that whoever was meeting Oliver for coffee could be completely irrelevant to the case at hand. But playing at being a private investigator had been fun—and she certainly had the wardrobe for it.

…

On her way home, she picked up a call from her finally back-from-vacation accountant. Sol had almost managed to put aside her need for financial information while focusing on the Meshflixx case. Trying to keep her own name clear had seemed the most urgent.

But her money guru didn't have good news.

"Didn't your parents talk to you when you were visiting a few days ago?" the accountant asked, astonishment in her voice.

"Yes," Sol answered hesitantly.

"Well, judging by your expenses, it doesn't really look like it," the accountant said.

"What do you mean?"

"You need to stop spending as if you still have a salary and a generous chunk of money on the side, because you don't."

"I know my salary is gone, but is the rest of the cash all really gone? I thought it had just been invested."

"There's no such thing as just invested . Do we need to have the conversation about cash flow, short-term investments, and long-term investments again ?" the money guru said patiently.

"Nope." Sol didn't fully grasp the situation, but she didn't want to hear her economics expert going over tiresome terms.

"Your parents made some long-term investment decisions lately," the guru told her. "And right now the only thing you can do is wait for it to make you some money—and find some other source of income in the meantime because you're what's called cash-flow poor ."

Finding some other source of income was easier said than done. Also, she thought she had been somewhat thrifty those last few days, but apparently not enough. She didn't voice those concerns though. She instead thanked the accountant for the chat and hung up.