pumpkin,” Vincent called out, already halfway down the hallway, “but there’s no Pulitzer for gossip.”
Alone in her cubicle, Lisbeth studied the empty grid on her screen, then looked down at the crumpled sheet of paper in her trash. She bent down below her desk to pull it from the garbage, and the phone rang above her. At the noise, she bolted upward, smashing the back of her head against the corner of her desk.
“Aaahh,” she yelled, rubbing her head fiercely as she reached for the phone. “Below the Fold. This is Lisbeth.”
“Hi, I . . . uh . . . I work over at the Four Seasons,” a male voice began. “Is this the place you call for—?”
“Only if it’s a good one,” Lisbeth said, still rubbing, but all too aware what he was asking. It was the deal she made with all local hotel employees. A hundred bucks for any tip she used in the column.
“Well . . . uh . . . I was serving some of President Manning’s old employees,” he said. “And . . . I don’t know if they count as celebrities, but if you’re interested . . .”
“No, I’m definitely interested.” She hit the
Record
button and scrambled for a pen. Even on her best days, there was no bigger bold name than
Manning.
“Those’re exactly the type of people we love to write about.”
17
M aybe it’d be better if we stepped outside,” O’Shea suggests, towering over me in the restaurant. He’s got a buckled nose that makes it clear he’s not afraid to take a punch. He tries to hide it with his sunglasses, but some things are hard to miss. The moment he flashed an FBI badge, people turned to stare.
“Yeah . . . that’d be great,” I reply, calmly standing from my seat and following him through the open-air walkway that leads to the pool area outside. If I plan on keeping this quiet, the last thing I need is to be spotted with the FBI in a public place.
Surrounded by palm trees on all sides, the pool is a picture of privacy—this early in the morning, all the lounge chairs are empty— but for some reason, O’Shea doesn’t slow down. It’s not until we pass one of the many oversize potted plants that I see what he’s looking at: two guys in a small wooden cabana folding towels, getting ready for the day. O’Shea keeps walking. Whatever he wants, he wants it in private.
“Listen, can you tell me where we’re—?”
“How was your trip to Malaysia?” As he asks the question, I’m staring at the back of O’Shea’s head. He doesn’t even turn around to see my reaction.
“Um . . . it was fine.”
“And the President had a good time?”
“I don’t see why he wouldn’t,” I reply, annoyed.
“Anything else of note happen?” O’Shea asks, heading down a short path that’s covered with water. A wave crashes in the distance, but it’s not until a cascade of sand fills my loafers that I realize we’re on the private beach behind the pool. Empty lounge chairs, empty lifeguard stands. The vacant beach goes on for miles.
As we pass a tiny hut that’s used for snorkeling gear rentals, a man with finely combed brown hair steps out from behind it and pats me on the back. He’s got a small nick that’s missing from the top of his left ear.
“Say hi to my partner. Micah,” O’Shea explains.
I turn back to the hotel, but thanks to the wall of palm trees, I can only make out a few terraces on the top floors of the building. Not a soul in sight. It’s at that same moment I realize Micah has slowed his pace, so he’s now slightly behind me.
“Maybe you should take a seat,” O’Shea adds, motioning to one of the lounges.
“It’ll only take a second,” Micah adds behind me.
Spinning around, I start back toward the path. “I should really get—”
“We saw the report you filed with the Service, Wes. We know who you saw in Malaysia.”
I stop right there, almost tripping in the sand. As I find my balance and turn to face them, O’Shea and Micah have the ocean at their backs. The waves pound
Alone in her cubicle, Lisbeth studied the empty grid on her screen, then looked down at the crumpled sheet of paper in her trash. She bent down below her desk to pull it from the garbage, and the phone rang above her. At the noise, she bolted upward, smashing the back of her head against the corner of her desk.
“Aaahh,” she yelled, rubbing her head fiercely as she reached for the phone. “Below the Fold. This is Lisbeth.”
“Hi, I . . . uh . . . I work over at the Four Seasons,” a male voice began. “Is this the place you call for—?”
“Only if it’s a good one,” Lisbeth said, still rubbing, but all too aware what he was asking. It was the deal she made with all local hotel employees. A hundred bucks for any tip she used in the column.
“Well . . . uh . . . I was serving some of President Manning’s old employees,” he said. “And . . . I don’t know if they count as celebrities, but if you’re interested . . .”
“No, I’m definitely interested.” She hit the
Record
button and scrambled for a pen. Even on her best days, there was no bigger bold name than
Manning.
“Those’re exactly the type of people we love to write about.”
17
M aybe it’d be better if we stepped outside,” O’Shea suggests, towering over me in the restaurant. He’s got a buckled nose that makes it clear he’s not afraid to take a punch. He tries to hide it with his sunglasses, but some things are hard to miss. The moment he flashed an FBI badge, people turned to stare.
“Yeah . . . that’d be great,” I reply, calmly standing from my seat and following him through the open-air walkway that leads to the pool area outside. If I plan on keeping this quiet, the last thing I need is to be spotted with the FBI in a public place.
Surrounded by palm trees on all sides, the pool is a picture of privacy—this early in the morning, all the lounge chairs are empty— but for some reason, O’Shea doesn’t slow down. It’s not until we pass one of the many oversize potted plants that I see what he’s looking at: two guys in a small wooden cabana folding towels, getting ready for the day. O’Shea keeps walking. Whatever he wants, he wants it in private.
“Listen, can you tell me where we’re—?”
“How was your trip to Malaysia?” As he asks the question, I’m staring at the back of O’Shea’s head. He doesn’t even turn around to see my reaction.
“Um . . . it was fine.”
“And the President had a good time?”
“I don’t see why he wouldn’t,” I reply, annoyed.
“Anything else of note happen?” O’Shea asks, heading down a short path that’s covered with water. A wave crashes in the distance, but it’s not until a cascade of sand fills my loafers that I realize we’re on the private beach behind the pool. Empty lounge chairs, empty lifeguard stands. The vacant beach goes on for miles.
As we pass a tiny hut that’s used for snorkeling gear rentals, a man with finely combed brown hair steps out from behind it and pats me on the back. He’s got a small nick that’s missing from the top of his left ear.
“Say hi to my partner. Micah,” O’Shea explains.
I turn back to the hotel, but thanks to the wall of palm trees, I can only make out a few terraces on the top floors of the building. Not a soul in sight. It’s at that same moment I realize Micah has slowed his pace, so he’s now slightly behind me.
“Maybe you should take a seat,” O’Shea adds, motioning to one of the lounges.
“It’ll only take a second,” Micah adds behind me.
Spinning around, I start back toward the path. “I should really get—”
“We saw the report you filed with the Service, Wes. We know who you saw in Malaysia.”
I stop right there, almost tripping in the sand. As I find my balance and turn to face them, O’Shea and Micah have the ocean at their backs. The waves pound
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