The Anonymous Source by A.C. Fuller Page B

about his brief interaction with Camila. He tried to form a clear picture of her standing in front of him, but couldn’t. The images of her morphed into scenes of his parents and his childhood home. He felt shaky. Why did he keep thinking about her?
    He sat up in bed and leaned against the wall. Despite the crime and corruption he covered on a daily basis, Alex always felt safe, like he lived on an invisible solidity while the world around him shook. But trying to picture Camila made him feel uncomfortable. She was amorphous, complicated, and clearly strange. She was an academic. Not his type at all.
    She might be the source he needed, but when he thought of calling her, the dread from the dream crept into his chest. “It’s fine,” he said to himself. “I’ll call her at eight.”
    He lay back down and sprawled out on the bed. “I’m fine.”

Chapter Nineteen
Saturday, September 7, 2002
    DISHES CLANGED IN Sweet Marie’s diner as Alex breathed in the smell of bacon and fresh muffins. From his seat at the counter, he saw Camila come in. She wore jeans and a silky red shirt, her bushy hair tied back in a messy ponytail. She scanned the restaurant, found him, and navigated aisles crowded with strollers. He waved at an empty stool beside him.
    “You were in my class the other day,” she said, sitting down. “You didn’t tell me you were a stalker.”
    He held out his hand. “I’m an alum. Alex Vane, New York Standard . I looked you up after I saw you in court.” Alex tried to gauge her response. He couldn’t read her. “Like I said on the phone, I’m covering the Santiago trial. Can I ask you some questions about Professor Martin?”
    “Sure, but I don’t know anything about John’s death, and I won’t be in the paper. I know how it works, and I’m only willing to be interviewed on deep background. Also, you’re buying breakfast.”
    “Deal. How well did you know him?”
    “I knew him a bit.”
    “That’s it?”
    “What do you want to hear?”
    “Well, guys like me have been trying to find his reclusive ex-girlfriend for a long time. Are you her?”
    A waiter appeared from the kitchen and asked for their orders. Camila ordered a vanilla latte, a croissant with butter, and a side of bacon. Alex ordered a six-egg-white omelet with spinach and two shots of espresso over ice.
    Camila studied him as he ordered. “Keepin’ it tight for TV?” she asked, smiling. “I get students in my classes every year who plan on putting in a few years at a paper before breaking into TV. Some have connections at a station, others land a couple big stories in print and make the transition. You’ve got that ‘I need to be seen’ look about you.”
    Alex was stunned and a little hurt.
    She continued, “You know, pretend to be a journalist when what you really want to be is an entertainer. Maybe one of those guys who pontificates about trials on a multi-box talking-heads show?” She paused. “Do I have it right?”
    “Maybe there’s something to that,” Alex said. “I’ve been looking into TV jobs, but I do have a job to do now. A reporting job. So, can I ask you about Martin?”
    The waiter put down the croissant and coffees. Camila reached for the croissant and took a bite as Alex sipped his iced espresso and turned to speak.
    Before he could, she said, “So why switch to TV?”
    “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wanting to move into the form of journalism people actually consume.”
    Camila laughed and spat out croissant flakes. “You just called TV a ‘form of journalism.’” She took a long sip of her latte. “C’mon, you wanna be famous. It’s okay, so do half the people in this city.”
    Alex raised his voice. “You seem to know a lot about me for someone who’s known me for five minutes. So let me ask you this: why hide away in academia? I saw on your bio that you were only a real journalist for about a week.”
    “Touché,” she said. She took another