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“Of course, Anton Ford. Everyone knows who you are. If you wanted to talk to me, you could have just called my office.”
I fake a chuckle.
“You wouldn’t want that. A telecommunications mogul in talks with an independent media outfit would raise some questions, wouldn’t it? It would be a headache you don’t need.”
“Oh, this is for my benefit?” Brendan scoffs.
“I’d rather not waste time going through assistants and secretaries,” I say. “Mine is very valuable. So let’s talk and I can send you on your way.”
“What about?” he asks, still looking out the windows. Does he expect the NYPD to pull us over?
“Is this about our coverage of Innovative AF? I think we’ve been very fair.”
I wouldn’t know one way or another.
“Your exploitation of Southeast Asian labor might be industry standard but it’s still a practice condemned by human rights organizations around the world,” he adds.
I suppress a grin; the line sounds practiced. Has he been waiting to get chewed out by an angry industrialist like me, ready to riposte with a snappy zinger? Does he think men like me care what he thinks?
“I don’t give a fuck about that. I’m sure your audience eats that crap up… and half of them still wait in line to buy my new phones.”
He glares at me, lips curling in a sneer.
“I’m here because I want to know what you know about Kate Atwood.”
Brendan grunts.
“Why?”
“Aren’t you her friend?”
“Was,” he says. “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but she’s gone off the deep end. She stopped taking my calls months ago. And now she’s probably in rehab somewhere.”
I lean forward, studying his expression. He should know that in an interrogation you say as little as possible. You answer the question directly. You don’t volunteer anything that hasn’t been asked. If he was hiding something, wouldn’t he have been coached on what to do in this situation?
Then again, I’m used to dealing with professionals who stay cool under pressure. Judging by the sweat dripping down his neck and the evasiveness of his eyes, Brendan Zimmerman isn’t telling me everything he knows.
“Rehab is what they’re saying on Twitter. I want to know what you think.”
“Do I look like a private detective, Mr. Ford?” he asks. “My money says they’re right — Kate’s likely drying out at some pretend-spa with other rich celebrities. If it’s not that, I don’t know what to tell you.”
“I’d like you to get in touch with her,” I say.
He laughs.
“Yeah, I’d like that too. I told you, she doesn’t take my calls. You have as good a chance at reaching her as I do.”
Oh, if he knew how wrong he is.
“Why do you even care?” Brendan asks. “Is Innovative looking to start a media wing? You think you could lure her from LPN?”
“Reporters never miss a chance at a scoop, do they?”
His laugh comes out high-pitched and unconvincing. He’s trying to change the subject. There’s definitely an element to his responses that speaks to preparation — he has a line for everything, and he denies his knowledge of Kate particularly well.
He could just be nervous because I had him grabbed off the street and he’s stuck in a car with armed men — or he could have some idea of why I’m really interested in Kate. Perhaps I’m not the first person to approach him about her? Maybe Death beat me to the punch.
“The reason I care is that I’m fond of her. If you haven’t heard, we’re sort of dating. It’s nothing really official, but she’s been avoiding my calls too, ever since her run-in with those terrorists. I’m worried about her. I’d like to help her, if she needs or wants it.”
