If Schwartz is genuine—if he really has what he says he has—this will be the piece that makes the difference between a story that creates public pressure and a story that puts people in handcuffs.A cooperating witness at the COO level, someone with direct knowledge of DelRey’s decisions, someone who can testify to what the emails imply—that changes everything.
That’s worth one lunch in a public restaurant.That’s worth an hour of Cole not knowing where I am, and hopefully, a forgivable offense, although I’ll definitely have to answer for my temerity later.
Omar pulls up outside the restaurant at exactly two twenty-two and I tip him well.The Capitol Hill sidewalk is busy, the lunch crowd still thick enough that the street feels alive, inhabited and safe.
I stand outside for a moment, hand on my phone.I could call Cole right now and tell him where I am.I could even send a text and let him be furious about it later from a position of information rather than ignorance.My thumb hovers for a moment, but then I decide against it.I’m doing my job, same as I would without Cole as backup.I tuck my phone into my back pocket and push through the restaurant door.A hostess with a blond ponytail meets me at the entrance podium.
“Meeting someone,” I tell her.“Donald Johnson.”
It was the name Adrian told me to use, and I wonder if he meant it in aMiami Vicekind 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 saidwe.NotI.
“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.”
