"Gone with the model," Ricks added pointedly, "and all the pictures."
"Not to mention the crew," Dooney said lugubriously.
"Gone where?" I said.
Klein looked first at Dooney, and then squarely at me.
"Gone swimsuit, Jimmy. Gone."
Ricks leaned closer, his breath stinking of cloves and herring. "This lunatic has disappeared with the hottest babe in fashion and, more important, our cover shot. We want you to track him down and get it back."
"How? Kurtz doesn't know me from Ansel Adams's house cat."
"Exactly. He doesn't know you—" Ricks said.
"—and won't be expecting you," Klein added.
I felt Dooney's fatherly hand on my back. "Look, you were a hard-news guy before you came over to sports—Haiti, Somalia, Gaza. This'll be a stroll in the park for you, Jimmy, a day at the beach."