Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“Meeting someone,” I tell her. “Donald Johnson.”
It was the name Adrian told me to use, and I wonder if he meant it in a Miami Vice kind of way. I used to watch reruns of that with my mom when I was young and he’s certainly old enough to remember that show.
She gestures toward the back half of the room. “He said to send you over.”
Adrian Schwartz is mid-fifties, lean and tan, with the kind of careful grooming that suggests he pays a lot of attention to his appearance. He looks every bit the executive with his dark suit, crisp shirt and expertly knotted tie. There’s a glass of water in front of him that he hasn’t touched and he’s positioned himself with his back to the wall.
He watches me cross the room with an expression that I can’t immediately read—not nervous exactly, but calculated. Like a man who has prepared for this conversation and is running through his preparation as I approach.
I sit down opposite him without being invited. “Mr. Schwartz,” I say.
“Ms. Ward.” His voice is measured and educated. The voice of a man who has run a lot of high-powered meetings. “Thank you for coming.”
“You said you had information,” I say, because I didn’t come here for pleasantries.
“I do,” he says, studying me a moment. “But I’m more interested in information you might have.”
I blink at him in surprise. “What information would that be?”
He crosses his arms on the table and leans toward me. “I’d like to know exactly what type of case you’ve built against RainVest, in particular against Gavin DelRey. That will tell me exactly how helpful I might be to you.”
That request doesn’t set right. “I’m not here to share my information. You’re the one who reached out to me. You’re the one that seems to think he has important details that I’d be interested in.”
Schwartz’s gaze turns icy, his mouth curving slightly. “You’ve been busy, I’ll give you that.” He tilts his head slightly. “I expect you’ve built quite a picture.”
My pulse ticks up but I keep my expression neutral. “I’m a thorough reporter.”
“You are,” he agrees. “Which is exactly why we have a problem.”
His tone shifts—a drop in register, a slight flattening of affect—and every instinct I have sharpens simultaneously.
He said we. Not I.
“I thought you wanted to help me,” I say carefully.
His expression doesn’t change. “I want this to be resolved quickly and cleanly,” he replies flatly. “With minimal further disruption.”
“Disruption,” I repeat.
“To everyone involved.” He folds his hands on the table in a gesture so composed it’s almost theatrical. “You’ve worked very hard, Ms. Ward. And you’ve gotten further than anyone anticipated. That speaks well of your abilities.” A pause. “It speaks less well of your judgment.”
The room feels slightly different now. Same noise, same clinking silverware against plates, same blond hostess near the door. But the atmosphere has rearranged itself in the last thirty seconds and I am suddenly very aware of where the exits are.
“You’re not a whistleblower,” I say.
“No,” he agrees pleasantly.
I reach for my phone.
“I wouldn’t,” he says, still pleasant, still composed, his eyes moving briefly to somewhere past my left shoulder. I don’t turn to look but I don’t need to, to know that someone is behind me. “We’re just having a conversation and when it’s done, you can decide what to do next.” He picks up his water glass for the first time, takes a measured sip. “Right now I’d like to know what you’ve done with the evidence.”
“It’s with my editor,” I say, which is a lie. I’d never let the evidence out of my protection.
“I don’t believe that for a second,” he says, his tone almost amused. “Where’s the flash drive? I know Erik downloaded information from our server and we know he handed it to you in the garage.”
“Because you have dirty cops on the payroll,” I snap irritably.
He studies me with a patient expression, clearly knowing I’m not telling him everything. “Ms. Ward. I’m going to be direct with you. What you’ve uncovered represents a significant financial and legal liability for people who have a great deal of resources and very little patience for loose ends.” He sets the glass down. “You’ve seen what happens to loose ends.”
I visualize Erik’s body in the parking garage, still and silent under the flickering fluorescent lights.
“We’re in a public restaurant,” I say, my chin lifted with false bravado. “I doubt you’re going to eliminate me right here.”
“You are correct,” he agrees. “And you’re welcome to stay in it and call for help. Or you can stand up right now, walk out that door, and catch a ride back to your cohorts at Jameson Force Security.” He lets that sit for a moment. “But before you do, I thought you should see something.”
Schwartz slides his phone across the table and a photograph fills the screen.