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“Do you keep a personal Web log?”
I shake my head. “No time. Anyway, I do this to get paid, not because I’m a wannabe writer with a site nobody sees.”
“Are you interested in conspiracies?”
I watch his eyes for a tell. A skilled interviewer won’t let you know when he’s asked a question that’s vital to his story. This guy’s pretty good: his eyes stay steady, his mouth straight and friendly. But he stops writing, even puts down his pen. When I take notes during an interview, I try to put the pad on my leg, beneath the table and out of the view of the subject. I make continual eye contact as I make notes. It only took a few years to learn how to make notes without looking at the notebook.
Am I interested in conspiracies? How the hell does that go with Troy Hardesty’s suicide?
I say, “Only if I can prove them. I’m a professional skeptic.”
“So what did Troy tell you?” the first man says, circling around behind me. “Specifically.”
We’re back to Topic A.
“I can’t discuss that. There’s this little matter called the Constitution a
nd the Washington state shield law.” I think: Troy asked about eleven-eleven. And the prostitute screamed it. Eleven-eleven. I would sound like a nut. I keep my mouth shut.
“We’ve got an amateur lawyer here, Stu,” says the round-faced man.
“Let’s trade information,” I volunteer. “Why are you looking at Troy?”
They look at each other and stay silent.
“C’mon guys, what’s up? I keep confidences all over town. Probably some from your bosses.”
The room overtakes us with its silence. It’s not a nice sound. Nothing penetrates the walls, which means nothing can escape, either. I tamp down the paranoia. Andy Grove of Intel said only the paranoid survive and it’s a good credo in one’s professional life. But I also have a certain family history.
“We can keep you here,” Stu says.
I say, “I want to see your identification again.”
The agent starts writing again. He looks up mildly. “We’ll give you a ride back. And we’ll be in touch.”
I decide not to push it. We repeat the path back through downtown. This time I sit in the passenger front seat and the man in the leather jacket sits in the back seat. The digital clock on the dash says 8:30. I have only four-and-a-half hours before deadline. Before the SUV pulls to the curb, the man in the suit turns to face me.
“Rachel, Melinda, and Pamela,” he says, staring at me intensely. “A man who has so many compartments in his life makes me suspicious. Have a nice day.”
“Can I have your card, in case I think of anything else?”
The window rolls up and the SUV spurts away from the curb into traffic, too fast for me to get its tag number.
Chapter Five
Who.
What.
Where.
When.
Why.
The traditional news story begins with those five Ws. It’s intended to get the most critical information at the top of the article where more readers will see it. This pyramid style consigns the less important background material to further down, where it can be cut if space gets short. I’d just as soon cut mine, whether the feds are telling the truth about me or not. I’m old school: I know the first paragraph of a story is spelled l-e-d-e, to differentiate it from the l-e-a-d in an old-time, hot-type Linotype machine, and I don’t believe the journalist should become part of the story.
I make a quick stop at my loft. Nobody else has returned my calls or emails yet. You can spend a lot of hours waiting for sources to call back. I don’t have those hours now. But I think I have enough to weave tomorrow’s column. Troy’s background information is critical. Even though we agreed that I couldn’t quote him, he told me that someone is accumulating Olympic International stock and is intent on taking it over and breaking it up. When I go on the Securities and Exchange Commission’s EDGAR site, I hit pay dirt. A new 13-D filing for Olympic has been made at 9:14 a.m. Eastern time. It’s required by law if an investor acquires more than five percent of a company’s shares. In fact, 9 percent of Olympic’s shares are now held by something called Animal Spirits LLC. My adrenaline washes away all my other worries. This is big.
