Joseph Finder - Guilty Minds

“Hunsecker Media, right?”

“Right, but they’re owned by some holding company, and that’s a black box.”

“There must have been rumors, at least.”

“Plenty of rumors. But nobody knew anything. Can we get some coffee? They must have room service in this joint.”

I picked up the phone, called room service, and asked for coffee for two.

When I’d hung up, I said, “How did this story first come to you?”

“Through Julian. He gave me Kayla’s phone number.”

“And you think he was fed the story by the owners?”

She nodded. “He never said. But it wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Does he have his own sources? Does he do any reporting?”

She shook her head. “None, and no. He’s not a reporter. He’s the ‘big picture’ guy.” She waggled two fingers on each hand to make scare quotes.

“I always assumed the whole story was cooked up by someone who wanted Claflin out. For political reasons. An enemy.”

“Maybe.”

“So maybe the shadowy owners are political opponents of Claflin.”

“Maybe.”

“You don’t seem so sure.”

“Maybe politics had nothing to do with it. Maybe it was someone who didn’t like him personally.”

“Good point.”

“This story was a really big deal for Slander Sheet,” she said. “If it wasn’t for you, this story would have put us on the map.”

“And a big deal for you, personally.”

“More than you know.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s times like these that I really want a drink.”

“Happy to make you one.”

She shook her head. “I don’t drink anymore.”

“Okay.” I remembered she drank Diet Coke instead of beer at the bar a few days ago.

“It’s one in the morning and I’m still in shock, and maybe I should shut my mouth.”

“I get it. You’re on the wagon. Your drinking days are done. That have anything to do with your departure from the Post ?”

“You think they canned me because I was a lush?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Okay.”

“But what’s the real story?”

She settled back in her chair and took a deep breath.

And I waited for her to lie to me. People always lie about why they left a job. A personality conflict with my editor , I figured she’d say, or I couldn’t do the kind of pieces I wanted to . Or, I just like the tempo of the Internet better — it’s the future, right? I wondered how she was going to spin it.

“The thing is,” she said, “I actually got fired.”

“But you were a star there. I don’t understand.”

“For a while, yeah. But then I went too far. I crossed the line a couple of times.”

“Crossed the line?”

“I got too aggressive on a couple of stories. One time I was working on a story about defense contractors and bribery and the Pentagon, and I pretended to be working for a defense contractor. And I offered the deputy undersecretary of the Air Force for acquisition a bribe. All a lie, of course. But she agreed to it.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Yeah, you can’t do that at the Post . You can’t go undercover or pretend to be someone you’re not. You’re not allowed to lie. It’s a legal thing.”

I was surprised, pleasantly so. She’d got fired because she lied. And now she was telling me the truth about her having lied. I admired that. I nodded. “It’s always the lies that get you.”

“Yeah. Well. So they fired me. I guess I can’t blame them. But Slander Sheet didn’t have a problem with aggressive reporting. They didn’t care. They wanted a big name from the mainstream media, and that’s what they got.”

“You start drinking after you got fired?”

“Exactly. A lot. Starting when I got up in the morning. My mom’s an alcoholic, so it runs in the family. And I was afraid... I knew where this was going.”

There was a knock at the door. I peered through the peephole and opened the door for room service. The guy wheeled in a cart and put the tray on the dining table. I tipped him and poured coffee for both of us: black for me, cream for her.

“But I got help in time,” she went on. “I signed up with Slander Sheet, and then I joined AA. I figured a few big stories there would catapult me back into the mainstream. I was working on a couple of pieces, and then this Claflin story came along. And now look where I am. I’m washed up as a journalist. My career’s over. And it’s a little late to go to law school.”

“I’m sorry.” I hesitated — I didn’t mean to apologize for debunking Kayla’s story. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Need a researcher?”

She laughed, then I laughed. “You don’t want to work for me,” I said. “The boss is an asshole. But I wouldn’t mind taking a look at your Claflin files.”

She nodded. “Sure. At least Slander Sheet’s reputation has gone to shit. That’s some small consolation. So why do you think Kayla lied? Did someone pressure her?”

“Kayla told me she was offered a hundred thousand dollars in cash to lie about Claflin. Also they threatened to harm her sister in prison if she didn’t cooperate.”

“Christ,” she said, glancing at me, looking queasy. “She cooperated all right. She did a great job. She fooled me.”

“Is it possible the owners of Slander Sheet were behind this? That they were the ones who pressured Kayla to make this accusation, for whatever reason — and then had to cover it up?”

“It’s possible, yes. When you say ‘cover it up’...”

“Made Kayla’s death look like suicide.”

“Wow,” she said. “You mean, did they have her killed? I guess I wouldn’t rule it out. Do the police think it was a suicide?”

“The homicide detective is a novice. This may even be the first homicide he’s investigated, I don’t know. And it looks like suicide, so he convinces himself it’s suicide. His mind is locked in to the suicide theory. He’s got tunnel vision. Confirmation bias. It happens all the time, especially with inexperienced detectives.”

“What makes you think it wasn’t suicide?” she asked.

“Because I talked to her a few hours earlier. And she wasn’t suicidal. And if it was murder, that’s on me. I’m the one who promised to protect her.”

She finished her cup of coffee and avoided my eyes. “That girl was a pawn. It breaks my heart.” A pause. “So, a question. What did you want me to come over for?”

“Because I want to find out who murdered Kayla Pitts and flush them out. I need someone who can help with the Slander Sheet end of things. I want to know who the shadowy owners are. And I wondered whether I could count on your help.”

She gave a half smile. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

At a few minutes after seven I sat bolt upright in bed and remembered that Kayla’s room was going to be cleaned this morning and I didn’t want that to happen yet. No matter what the DC police wanted.

Mandy and I had talked until almost three in the morning, and I wasn’t going to last long on four hours of sleep. But I forced myself to get up. I ordered coffee from room service and opened the connecting door to Kayla’s room. It was dim: The drapes had been drawn, probably by the mobile crime techs last night, for privacy. I checked the door to the hallway, found that the Do Not Disturb sign was still hanging on the handle. Maybe the sign would have kept the housekeepers from entering the room. But maybe not; maybe the night manager’s orders would override the sign’s authority.

The room still smelled of Kayla. I could detect a very faint waft of patchouli near the rumpled bed. Her clothes were discarded on the floor nearby. I suppose I was looking for signs of struggle, but I am not a homicide detective. Then again, neither was Balakian, really.