Joseph Finder - Guilty Minds

She actually seemed to blush. That I didn’t expect. “You did some Googling, too,” she said.

“I didn’t have to. I remember. You were good.”

“Still am. Just get paid better. And you’re here to threaten me, I bet. Scare me off the Claflin story. Well, you might as well stop wasting your time.”

“I never threaten. I don’t need to.”

“Not the way you look, you don’t. You don’t have to. You just glare at people and they fall in line.”

I wasn’t sure that was a compliment, but I said thanks anyway.

The beer came, in a tall plastic tumbler, along with her Diet Coke. I tipped mine toward hers. “To morbid curiosity.”

She smiled and took a sip of her Coke. “You’re very charming and very smooth. And nice-looking. In another set of circumstances, I could be swayed.”

“So you’ve moved on from the CIA’s secret prisons to pictures of Congressman Compton’s dick?”

“Less charming all the time. That’s actually not my piece, to be fair.”

“It’s trending number one, right? Over a million views already.”

“Hey, Compton’s the one who texted the picture of his dick to a Congressional page. Not us.”

“You’re just making it available to the masses.”

“We blur it out. You have to click through to see the not-safe-for-work version in all its glory. Which is not much glory, by the way.”

“What’s Hunsecker Media? Who’s Hunsecker?”

“Burt Lancaster,” she said.

“Huh? I mean the sign on the door of your office. It says ‘Hunsecker Media.’”

“Right. Like I said. It’s from an old movie called Sweet Smell of Success. Burt Lancaster plays a powerful gossip columnist, J. J. Hunsecker.”

“Now I get it.”

“Hunsecker Media is the parent company for Slander Sheet New York and Slander Sheet DC and Slander Sheet LA.”

“So are you Slander Sheet’s J. J. Hunsecker?”

“If I’ve got a good story and I’m onto the truth, sure.”

“See, that’s the problem with your Claflin piece. It’s not true.”

“Says the corporate mouthpiece.”

“It’s just like my beer and the Russkies. You’ll see I’m right.”

“Really.” She smiled again, but this time it was an unpleasant, sardonic smile. “And what, Heidi L’Amour doesn’t exist either?”

“Well, strictly speaking, you’re right, Heidi L’Amour doesn’t exist. She’s Kayla Pitts, from Tupelo, Mississippi.”

“You are an investigator.” She said it archly. “And I suppose you think Kayla is lying.”

“Most certainly. Though she’s very good at it. She’d probably fool most people. I’m sure she’s good on camera. You guys are obviously paying her a lot.”

“Nothing illegal about paying a source.”

“I’m not talking about illegal. But a big payday is a good incentive to lie.”

“And what makes you so sure she’s lying?”

“For one thing, I can tell. It’s called trusting your gut. I’ve learned to look for a thousand tiny signals and reflexes. How to read body language. People speak a whole lot when they’re silent.”

“Oh, is that right?”

“I’m sure you pay close attention to your gut instinct when you’re reporting a story.”

“I do, and my gut tells me this is for real. So do the facts.”

“Then you’ve got a problem with your gut instinct. Also, with the facts. Like the fact that she’s not familiar with certain intimate details about the justice.”

“Oh yeah?” She meant to sound sarcastic, but her curiosity was getting in the way. She couldn’t help sounding intrigued.

“Yeah.”

“And are you going to share these details with me?”

“Sure. She doesn’t know whether he’s circumcised or not.”

That silenced her for a beat. Then she laughed dismissively. “She may not want to tell you. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t know.”

“Yeah, maybe she’s just too well bred a girl to discuss such impolite topics. So you’re certain about that, huh? Certain enough to stake your entire hard-earned journalistic reputation on it?”

“I’ve got Kayla on tape, I have hotel records, and I have a horny middle-aged Supreme Court justice, separated from his wife and in need of company. And an escort paid for by Tom Wyden. Who had a case before the court, conveniently decided in his favor.” She took another sip of her Diet Coke. “It’s a huge story. And it’s going to explode. I understand why you’d like to talk me out of it. Or discourage me, or intimidate me. Or whatever. Believe me, I’ve been threatened with probably forty lawsuits and have never been sued, not once.”

“I’m not threatening you with a lawsuit. Let’s be clear about that. I’m not a lawyer and never wanted to be one.”

“I did, once upon a time.”

“I’m here to tell you there are holes in your story. Let’s take one little detail. If Kayla really saw Jeremiah Claflin on three occasions, where do you think they met?”

“The Monroe. He stayed there on three different dates.”

“Sure, because you have records from the hotel guest registry.”

She smiled, nodded.

“Which tells you that someone with a credit card in Jeremiah Claflin’s name checked into the hotel.”

“And Claflin’s driver’s license.” She took a long swig of her Diet Coke, finished it off.

Something in the back of my mind bothered me, but I couldn’t quite grab hold of it. “Sure,” I said. “But whoever they were, they never entered the room. Not one time.”

“And you know this how?”

I paused. Ordinarily I wouldn’t give away operational details like that. But this wasn’t an ordinary circumstance. She had to be convinced I was right so she’d back off the story.

“The Monroe uses software that keeps track of room keys electronically. How many keys are issued. When keys are used. Every time a hotel room is opened from the outside, the system records it. So someone posing as Claflin checked into the hotel but never, not once, entered the room.”

There was a spark of something in her eyes. “Oh, and of course a hotel’s computers can’t be tampered with, right? You’re going to have to do a lot better than that. Kayla told me about your little ruse. Tricking her into thinking she was meeting me. You people, you’ll stop at nothing.”

“I’ve only been at this a couple of hours, and already I’ve punched a serious hole in your story.”

“Look, uh, Nick, I’ve got a heap of evidence, and the best you can come up with is some easily manipulated piece of computer data? I don’t think so. You’re going to have to do better than that. This isn’t going to move my editor at all.”

“Your editor is...?”

“His name is Julian Gunn. And he’s as battle-hardened as they come. He’d laugh in my face if I brought this to him.”

“You know, I think you’re missing the real story. It’s right in front of your face.”

She was starting to look annoyed now. “And what’s that?”

“The fact that someone’s setting Jeremiah Claflin up to damage him, to discredit him. Who would do something like that? You see, I think you’re being used. The question is, by who?”

“By whom.”

“If you prefer.” I waited.

“Well, Nick Heller. Nice try. Thanks for playing.”

There didn’t seem to be much more to say, so I put down some cash and said, “Drinks on me.”

“You can expense it,” Mandy said.

The hotel that Jillian, my office manager, had booked for us was nicer than the hotels I normally stay in. When I’m traveling on my own dime, I’m partial to the kind of budget hotel that has a coffeemaker and refrigerator in the room and a waffle iron in the breakfast area off the lobby. When someone else is paying for it, though, I like to live well. I work hard for my clients; why shouldn’t I enjoy the perks? This hotel had sumptuous décor and five-hundred-thread-count bed linens. My suite had a separate living room and an ergonomic desk chair. It was a nice hotel. No in-room coffee machine, though.