Find the truth wherever it hides.
Laura Taninger glanced at the motto as she walked into the office building. Years ago, her grandfather had arranged for his words to be engraved in stone and placed over the arched entrance to the granite and steel building that housed Taninger Enterprises. Walking under the motto every day reminded Laura of passing through the gateway of a temple she had toured in an ancient city. JT's words reminded her of why she was there—why they all were there, she and the staff who came through that doorway each day.
The cool air inside brought her relief from the oppressive August heat. Was the weather in Washington, DC, more stifling than usual this summer, she wondered, or was it the heated politics of the town that tested her stamina? She wondered if her meeting later that day with a whistleblower in a key agency would turn up the political heat—and form storm clouds over those in power.
Laura greeted the security guard at the reception desk and glanced at the wall behind him, where a large metallic sign with block letters announced the building's owner and resident: Taninger Enterprises. Under the sign, two rows of photographs displayed the corporation's executive management. Laura had always thought of that wall as her family album. Her late grandfather, Julius Taninger, the founder, and her father, Clark Taninger, the chief executive officer, were featured on the top row. Her sister Irene, brother Billie, and she were shown on the second row. There was room next to her portrait for her younger sister, Kate, now attending a local college, who would join the family business and become part of the executive management after graduation.
Laura took the elevator to the television newsroom of Taninger News and walked past the electronic blur of studio sets, cameras, lighting tracks, and workstations wallpapered with monitors. She smiled at the staff members who noticed her arrival and greeted her with a hurried wave or a quick, "Hi, Laura," as they performed the daily miracle of ferreting out the news and broadcasting it across the country and the world. The small local newspaper business that Julius Taninger had founded seventy years ago had now grown into a corporation consisting of a major television news network, an online news service, and a still-vibrant national print newspaper, with sister companies in sports and entertainment.
Laura entered her office and opened the blinds so that she could see the newsroom from the expansive window on one of the walls. Even though she was president of the news division of Taninger Enterprises, like JT, she kept her office adjacent to the cyclone of the newsroom, rather than in the distant calm of the executive offices on the top floor. Her office, like her home—and her life, in general—contained only a few essentials. A desk, a couple of chairs, a couch, and a coffee table were the only furniture. A map, a calendar, a clock, and two rows of television monitors occupied much of the wall space. Only one wall had the distinction of holding just a single item, a large poster of her on the set of her prime-time television program, Just the Truth. In the poster, the show's flamboyant logo, the initials JT, shone in the background. Two years ago, when her grandfather had died, she created Just the Truth, which she envisioned as a mixture of breaking news and commentary. As a tribute to the past and a promise for the future, she had taken Julius Taninger's lifelong attachment to the truth, as well as his iconic initials, and repurposed them in the show's name and logo.
That morning, like many others, she tossed her purse under her desk and her suit jacket across a chair, then sat at her computer to check her email. She glanced at the clock. It was almost time for the weekly executive meeting of Taninger Enterprises, held every Friday.
She looked comfortable and poised in her expensive business clothes, as though her job as president of Taninger News fit her as well as the clothes matching it. Her silk blouse over soft breasts and her above-the-knee skirt over shapely legs defined the boundary where fashion and business meet. At twenty-nine, she displayed an intriguing mix of intelligence and beauty that gave her the look of someone who could be brilliant at work, lighthearted at play, and seductive with a man she wanted.
Laura scanned her computer monitor, her auburn hair falling to her shoulders, its shiny tendrils like a mirror catching every light. Her brown eyes—large, direct, inquisitive, thoughtful—dominated her face. The simplicity of her makeup was like the openness of her expression, giving those who knew her the sense that they were seeing the real person without pretensions. She seemed ready to smile if the occasion arose; otherwise, her face remained neutral, neither smiling nor pouting, but quietly assessing the world.
"Laura, we did it!"
A man with a broad smile and an energetic voice entered her open door. It was her producer, Tom Shiner, wearing his headphones around his neck like a doctor with a stethoscope. He waved a printed article at her.
Tom said, "Stone Media Research has a story out today on our ratings. Just the Truth is now number one in television news!" He read from the article, "'In just two years, Laura Taninger has taken her prime-time program from an experimental start-up to the most-watched news show in the country.'"
He tossed the article on her desk.
She skimmed it.
"This is really great, Tom!"
They paused to smile at each other in a shared victory.
She rose to go, and took the article, saying, "I'll bring this to my meeting!"
Five people sat around the oval conference table. The plush carpeting, leather swivel chairs, and wood paneling gave the conference room a formal setting, but the similar facial features of the attendees gave it the air of a family gathering. The closed door provided the executives of Taninger Enterprises with seclusion from the outside world, while television screens on the walls and laptop computers at their places gave them instant access to information from around the globe.
At the head of the table, Clark Taninger faced his four children. They sat in their usual places, with Irene and Billie on one side, Laura and Kate on the other. Planning to join the family business after graduation, the youngest Taninger, Kate, came to as many of the executive meetings as she could while attending college.
Clark nodded to his administrative assistant, Caroline Davis, as she entered, took her place next to him, and opened her laptop computer, ready to take notes. He preferred her minutes of these meetings to a verbatim audio recording. After years of working with him, the efficient, discreet Caroline knew what to note and what to leave unofficial in the sometimes heated debates among these family members who were also business associates.
When everyone was seated, Clark began, saying, "Friday, August 18th, the executive management meeting of Taninger Enterprises will come to order."
His custom-tailored suit and gold cuff links gave him the air of a diplomat while he studied columns of numbers on his computer screen with the attention of a businessman. He looked up from his monitor to announce, "Taninger Enterprises is doing very well!"
The others smiled.
Although he was announcing good news, Clark looked tentative. His smile was modest, as if he could reverse himself and frown on a moment's notice. His peppery gray hair mirrored his ambivalence, as if a contest between black and white strands had ended in a stalemate. At fifty-nine, his face still looked young, although a furrow on his brow kept deepening with the years, giving him a questioning look, as though the world had changed and was confusing to him.
"Okay, Irene, let's hear from you first."
He turned to his first born, the president of Taninger Entertainment.
At age thirty-six, Irene Taninger looked as glamorous as the celebrities that dominated the newscasts, reality shows, and other programming on her network. A short-sleeved, figure-hugging satin blouse with the top buttons open, blond hair pulled back in a stylish braided bun, large earrings ornamenting her perfectly made-up face, and glasses sloping down her sculptured nose defined Irene as a woman in the entertainment business. Her long red fingernails tapped her keyboard to bring up a screen.
"This year, Taninger Entertainment will get a big, new contract. We'll be broadcasting the Pinnacle Awards."
"Excellent!" said Clark.
"Here's the letter from Pinnacle's CEO, Mort Bennett." She read from the document on her screen, "'Dear Irene: We at Pinnacle are delighted to be partnering with Taninger Entertainment this year to bring the industry's most vaunted motion picture awards to our growing television audience.'"
"Congratulations!" said Laura.
"Good job, sis," added Billie.
"We're set to sign the contract at a formal signing ceremony that'll be a big media event. And there's more," she teased.
"What's that?" asked her father.
"Ken Martin will open the program," Irene said and paused for their reactions.
Kenneth Martin was the president of the United States.
"Wow!" exclaimed her youngest sister, Kate.
"He'll be there live. The sponsors, ads, and money are rolling in. Viewership will set a new record for Taninger Entertainment."
"How'd you swing that?" asked Billie.
"I figured that the president could reach his voters through the event, which would be important to him in this reelection year. And Pinnacle's CEO . . . well, I know he's wanted to get in tight with the president since the proposed Fairness Tax on Movie Theaters has been under consideration in Congress. This tax would raise ticket prices and have a huge negative effect on the movie industry, so Mort Bennett has been trying to get the president to say he'd veto the bill if it passed through Congress and ended up on his desk. When I told Mort my plan for Ken to appear live at the Awards Ceremony, he jumped at the chance for face-time with the president to lobby him about the bill in a friendly setting," she boasted. "That's how I enticed Mort to sign on with me, and I reeled Ken in."
"Now we need to get President Martin to sit down for an interview with Laura," suggested Kate.
"Wouldn't that be nice," said Laura. "I've made numerous requests, but so far I haven't heard back from his office."
"I don't think he likes Laura," said Kate, smiling as though she were delivering her sister a compliment.
"I rather think Ken prefers me!" Irene boasted.
Ignoring their quips, Clark said, "That's very good news, Irene. Now, let's move on."
Clark turned to his son, the president of Taninger Sports. The Sports division of Taninger Enterprises owned a professional football team, the DC Slammers.
"Billie, what've you got?"
At thirty-four, Billie looked like a sports figure himself, with gym-tightened muscles and stylishly messy, light-brown hair. An open shirt, loosened tie, and rolled up sleeves with no jacket gave him the look of a hands-on executive, impatient with meetings that took him away from his work.
"In less than five weeks, the DC Slammers will be playing their home opener in our new stadium."
"How's it coming?" asked Clark.
"We're ahead of schedule. Ticket sales are through the roof, and with the increased seating capacity of the new venue, we're on target for a record year in sales."
"And the inspections, are they in order?"
"No problem. I've got good relations with the local and federal regulators. We're in compliance with everything they've thrown at us. In fact, we're at the cutting edge for professional football stadiums, with bells and whistles that exceed environmental and public safety rules."
"That's big news!" said Irene.
The others smiled approvingly.
"In two weeks, the old stadium will be imploded. I set up a huge media event to cover it. That'll generate fantastic publicity."
"We're all looking forward to the home opener," said Clark.
The others nodded.
"Now, Laura?"
"I just got some news."
"Let's have it," said Billie.
In a sudden flash, Laura thought of the years she had spent learning the business—covering assignments, reporting on them, writing scripts, choosing graphics, selecting stories to put on the air, shooting segments, editing them. She thought of the past two years of grinding work to develop her own show—of battling the skeptics and critics, of gathering a top-notch team, of being on the vanguard of news reporting, of building an audience that trusted the clear facts and straight-talking commentary she offered. Those years at Taninger News congealed into a lump in her throat that made her pause a moment before she could talk.
"Just the Truth is now the number one news program in the country!"
She sent the article around the table.
"That's great, Laura," said Clark.
"Very nice!" Irene added.
"Good work," said Billie.
"Laura, you did it!" Kate gave her older sister a hug. Then she turned to the others. "And you all told her it would never work!"
Like a miniature canine that barks at the big breeds daring to approach its turf, Kate, the youngest and most outspoken of the children, was unaware of differences of scale when it came to defending things that mattered to her. Ten years ago, when Laura was nineteen and Kate was only nine, their mother had died, and Laura, the sibling closest to Kate in age and temperament, became a surrogate mother. The two sisters were not only uncanny look-alikes—both brunette, with similar features and tall, lean figures—but they were also alike in how they thought and reacted to things. Hence, a bond developed between them, sometimes to the exclusion of the other family members.
"Katie, dear, you needn't reprimand us. I dare say we're all glad Laura's show worked out," said Clark. "On the other hand, it is edgy. We want to keep building Laura's fan base without having her stir up the entire world."
"Maybe the world needs stirring up," Kate persisted.
Laura looked at Kate, amused. She reached over, as she did when Kate was a child, to brush back strands of her sister's hair that had fallen over one eye.
"And what's your news," Clark asked Kate, "now that you're about to start your junior year in college?"
Although Kate was not yet a voting member of the company—her stock was being held in trust for her until she reached her twenty-first birthday—she showed great interest in the business.
"This year I'll be editor-in-chief of the Collier Voice."
"The third Taninger to be editor-in-chief of Collier University's oldest campus newspaper, after Laura and me!" Clark smiled. "So, tell me, does your interest in newspapers mean you'll want to join Laura at Taninger News after you graduate?"
"Maybe I'll take your job, Daddy. Won't you be retiring by then?"
"Don't get your hopes up!"
Irene and Billie laughed, but only halfheartedly, wary that Kate may have meant what she said. Laura laughed wholeheartedly, hoping Kate did mean it.
Clark turned to his laptop, calling up screens of data.
"The numbers look good," he said. He rolled his chair back, folded his hands behind his head, and looked contentedly at his brood.
"I have to tell you," Clark went on, "I had my doubts about JT's will. I was afraid it would put us at each other's throats. We've had our rough spots," he glanced at Laura, "but it's worked out pretty well."
Laura remembered the day they had sat in a lawyer's office hearing the surprising terms of Julius Taninger's will. JT had left equal shares of Taninger Enterprises to each of them so that each heir owned a fifth of the privately held corporation.
Clark smiled at his four children.
"Yes, JT's plan has worked, at least so far—"
His mobile phone rang in his pocket with the special tone he used for only the most important calls, which he handled personally.
"Yes?" he answered. "Hi, Darcy. What can I do for you? . . . Oh, really? . . . I see . . . Yes, of course, Darcy. I'll take care of it. Don't you worry, now."
He hung up and faced the others.
"That was Darcy Egan."
The others waited, with a hint of concern on their faces. The caller was the chief advisor to President Ken Martin.
"Laura, what's this about you trying to stir up trouble at the Bureau of Elections?"
"I'm trying to get information."
The faces of the others were blank, except for Kate.
"Don't any of you watch Laura's show?" she asked. "Laura's covering a hot story about the Bureau of Elections. She's trying to track down money they're spending in implementing the new Voter Fairness Act. She has some suspicions about that. Right, Laura?"
Laura nodded.
"I may not be the only one," Laura said. "This afternoon I'm meeting with a source involved with the project."
"Who?" Clark asked with a sharp voice.
"A high-level person. That's all I'll say."
"Hey, that's the president's signature program," Irene warned. "You don't want to poke your nose into that."
"Don't I?" Laura asked.
"Laura looked at the Bureau of Elections' posted list of contractors that were paid to design and implement the new voting system we're going to have. But the list was incomplete," Kate explained. "See, I watch Laura's show!"
"The list of contractors and expenditures that the Bureau of Elections posted doesn't add up with what the Department of the Budget shows Elections is spending," Laura added.
"Don't you have better things to do than weave through agency budgets and try to stir up problems for Ken?" asked Irene.
"There's a $400 million line item—money that the Department of the Budget shows the Bureau of Elections is paying out, but Elections hasn't accounted for it, and Budget lists the item only as 'Other,' without a recipient," said Laura, "so there's a mystery about what that money is for and who's getting it."
"It's chump change," said Irene.
"Who cares, besides just a few policy wonks?" Billie added.
"Is anyone else covering this so-called story?" Clark asked. "Who in the media thinks this is important?"
"I do," said Laura.
"Why should Taninger News be the only media outlet sticking its neck out to fence with the administration?" asked Clark. "We don't want to seem antagonistic to the president."
"She's always attacking him," Irene complained to her father.
"But I defended him when his political opponents spread nasty stories about his tax returns, stories that turned out to be false. I was the first one to find out the truth and report it. Remember that?"
"It's not just the way you report on Ken," Irene continued as if she hadn't heard Laura's response. "It's your show in general. Why are your stories such downers?"
She paused for a reply but received none.
"You need more uplift," Irene said. "You need entertainment spots on Just the Truth."
"And sports coverage too," said Billie.
"We mustn't be too suspicious, Laura," Clark warned. "We don't want to appear to be against this new voting system, do we? People will think we're against voting rights."
"But we're not against disclosure, are we?" Laura countered. "By law, these agencies have to disclose the money they spend and where it goes. I've contacted them with my questions—and been ignored. That raises my suspicions."
"I'm sure they have better things to do than cater to you," said Irene.
"But I'm the press. Do you think the administration shouldn't have to answer to the press?"
"You've always been against Ken's Voter Fairness Act!" Irene charged.
"I have," Laura replied.
"Now that it's passed, can't you accept it and go on to other things?"
"No."
"Why not, Laura?" her father asked. "You remember how the media smeared us as being against the poor, the minorities, the immigrants, the disabled, the elderly, the needy—all because you attacked that law."
"I said the Voter Fairness Act was a ploy to make people feel as if they were victims of a terrible injustice, and Ken Martin was their savior. It was a ploy to drum up votes for the president and his party. I stand by that."
"It was a law to protect everyone's right to vote, to make it easier for the disadvantaged, to make sure everybody's vote counted," Irene said.
"Then why are they hiding a big expenditure of the program from public scrutiny?"
Looking bored with the meeting, Billie, who avoided politics, checked his phone for messages.
Clark looked irritated.
"Your whistleblower may be nothing more than a disgruntled insider looking for attention," Clark said. "It wouldn't be the first time somebody played the media for fools."
He pointed a finger at Laura.
"I don't want any more calls about you from Darcy. Watch your step."
That afternoon Laura stood on the curb outside the Taninger building, the mid-August sun burning her face. Steam rose from the hot pavement to wilt her clothes. The cab she hailed pulled up, and a burst of cool air greeted her as she entered. When she gave the driver the address, he turned around to face her, eyeing her expensive clothes.
"Sure you wanna go there?"
"I'm sure," Laura said.
She was headed to a place called Bailey's, an eatery in a neighborhood—and a world—removed from the stately buildings, expensive shops, and trendy restaurants around Taninger Enterprises.
She followed the instructions of the man she was to meet: Leave the cameras and crew behind. Arrive in a cab, and pay the driver in cash. Two years ago, when the Voter Fairness Act had passed, she had interviewed the man she was to meet. He was a leading member of the team tasked with its implementation. At that time, her interview with him was on the record; this time, he wanted secrecy.
She watched as the view outside her cab window changed. The iconic monuments, classic buildings, landscaped thoroughfares, and tourist-packed museums faded behind her, replaced by meager stores with walk-up flats, parking lots with makeshift signs, sidewalks strewn with trash bags, and empty lots bound by chain-link fences to keep the squatters out.
The driver's radio, tuned to an all-news station, droned back to the passenger compartment. She listened absently.
"I'm Diane Harris with National Report."
Music played, and a cheerful voice came through the airwaves.
"Our segment today is on the new voting system that's being developed by the Bureau of Elections. Earlier today we caught up with the man who's supervising the project, the assistant director of the Bureau of Elections, James Spenser."
Laura's attention piqued. James Spenser was the informant whom she was traveling to meet.
The radio host continued her introduction, "Following the Voter Fairness Act that was passed two years ago, our nation is getting a complete overhaul of its voting practices with a new national voting system that guarantees a fair and honest election for everyone. Isn't that right, Mr. Spenser?"
"That's the idea. A completely new electronic voting system will be ready to roll out in time for the November elections," said Spenser.
"I love the name you gave it: SafeVote. It inspires such confidence!" Diane Harris sounded as if she were nearly swooning. "Describe SafeVote for us, Mr. Spenser . . . "
Laura snickered at the name: SafeVote. She remembered how President Ken Martin had chosen to revamp voting in America as the key issue of his first term. The president and his surrogates launched a campaign to correct what they claimed was a grave danger threatening the country. Citizens were being denied the right to vote, they charged. Many of the states had requirements that a person prove citizenship or show official identification before voting, which the new law's proponents said discriminated against the underprivileged. Moreover, the new law's supporters claimed that most of the states had voting machines that were outdated and could be hacked, and state coffers lacked sufficient funds to update them. There were also instances of voter fraud, which the advocates of revamping the system claimed could only be rectified by the federal government's intervention. These claims of injustice, inaccuracy, and fraud were widely publicized by the president's party, the groups that supported him, and sympathetic reporters.
Whether the problem was alleged to be discriminatory state laws, outdated voting equipment, or outright voter fraud, the solution proposed by the president and his surrogates was always the same. The voting system needed a thorough makeover. It needed a massive influx of funds and good intentions that only the federal government could provide.
Before anyone realized, the tempest generated by the interested parties had funneled into a crisis. The public was swept up into its vortex. Demands intensified for the federal government to step in to ensure the modernization, uniformity, and integrity of the voting process. The Voter Fairness Act was created, and the president's party successfully pushed its passage through Congress.
The Voter Fairness Act gave the federal government the power to develop a single new system to replace the multiplicity of voting systems used by the individual states. Going forward, the individual states would be able to program the new system to enter the candidates and tally the votes for local and state-wide elections, maintaining control of those contests. However, it would now be the federal government that would program the system and tally the votes for elections to national office, beginning with the upcoming presidential election, then in subsequent years expanding to include the contests for the House and Senate, which for the time being remained under state control.
There were those who had misgivings about the new measure, but they were harshly criticized by the bill's advocates. The critics were accused of being anti-suffrage, bigoted, unenlightened, and part of the privileged class—the Got-ins, as they were called—who were unconcerned about those who were disenfranchised—the Left-outs.
Opponents of the bill questioned the legitimacy of giving the federal government control over voting when the Constitution clearly gave that power to the individual states. But there were many precedents in other areas—from schools, to housing, to healthcare, to buildings, to energy, etc.—where the federal government had stepped in to oversee areas previously left to the states and the people. In so many cases Congress had passed laws and issued rules to the states, had given them funding to comply with the rules, and had withheld funds if they failed to comply that many in Congress had seen nothing wrong with granting yet another power of the states to the federal government. With the advocates of the new bill relentless and the opposition put on the defensive and ineffectual, the Voter Fairness Act passed.
A group of concerned citizens challenged the new statute in court, but the judges, hesitant to undermine a law passed by Congress, put their stamp of approval on it.
"Americans can now rest assured that our elections are fair and honest, thanks to SafeVote," Diane Harris told her radio audience. "Isn't that correct, Mr. Spenser?"
"That's the idea."
Was it her imagination that Spenser sounded half-hearted? Laura wondered. From private conversations with him, she knew he had his doubts.
"Thank you very much for talking with us today on National Report."
The program's theme music returned as the segment concluded.
Laura pulled up a map on her phone's screen. She saw that the cab was now only a few blocks from her destination.
She wondered if Spenser trusted her enough to speak candidly. He had not contacted her directly but had been discreetly passed on to her by another journalist who had declined to pursue the story. Spenser had reluctantly agreed to speak to Laura.
On the phone a few days ago, he had shared his misgivings about her, saying, "I hear so many crazy things about you—the attacks on you by other newscasters, by the president's party, by my own boss. I don't know what to believe. They say you want to skewer the president to boost your ratings."
"They could skewer me in a minute if they put my suspicions to rest," she replied. "Why do they attack me instead of answering my questions about matters they're required by law to make public?"
"Look, if I talk to you, I could be risking my career and possibly committing a crime."
Laura couldn't deny that. There were laws to protect informants, but there were also laws to punish those who revealed internal information harmful to their agencies—and there were too many partisan players in the system to try to dissuade Spenser of the danger he sensed.
"I'm not sticking my neck out so that you can boost your ratings. I work for the administration, and I have a certain loyalty to it."
"What about working for the truth? Do you have a loyalty to that?"
She sensed in his pause that he was wondering whether he could trust her.
She went on, "I don't pursue stories in order to get ratings. I get ratings because I pursue stories—important ones. And the name of my show tells you what I look for." When he still didn't reply, she continued, "It's a pretty big deal that for the first time in our history, the federal government is taking control of the voting process for the presidential election. Don't you think the Feds—the people you work for—should be absolutely transparent and ensure that no suspicions are raised about their activities?"
"We wouldn't be having this conversation if I didn't."
"What do you know, Mr. Spenser?"
"First, tell me what you know."
For what seemed like minutes, she heard only his breathing over the phone. She decided not to press him when he was hesitant.
"Okay, I'll go first," she said.
She described the story she was investigating on how the Bureau of Elections was using the money allocated to it for implementing SafeVote.
"I discovered that the Bureau of Elections received $400 million that can't be traced. It's not included in their list of contractors and fees. For the way the government spends money, that may seem like a small amount, but for some of us, the unaccountability raises suspicions. I want to know who is receiving that $400 million, and what work is being done with that money."
"I may have information on that, Laura," he said.
She noticed his softer tone and use of her first name. Perhaps he was willing to trust her.
"What do you have, James?"
Again, there was silence.
"James?"
"Our agency finished the programming for SafeVote. As a final step, the program was tested for accuracy and security by a reputable outside company. It passed inspection and was certified."
"So what's the problem?"
"Sandra said another company is going to be brought in to do some last-minute programming, what she called updates and patches."
"Sandra Frank, the director of the Bureau of Elections? Your boss?"
"That's right. I thought it was odd to be planning more work on the program because the final check on everything had been done. No modifications are allowed after that, or else the program has to have another certification. I asked Sandra about that, and she said there won't be another certification."
"Did she say why?"
"She said the changes will be minor. But it's against the law to modify the program after it's been certified. I asked her who will be doing the modifications, and she brushed me off. She said the whole matter was trivial, and she would handle it. I also asked if this extra programming was her idea, and she said no, but she wouldn't say who was behind it."
"Does that mean someone above Sandra is ordering this work?"
"It could be. Sandra's a good soldier; she follows orders from higher-ups. When I looked at the records, there was no mention of this work, no line item for anyone to come in at this point to do any updates and patches."
"Do you think the $400 million that's unaccounted for will be going to the subcontractor doing these modifications?"
"Could be."
"Can you find out the name of the company and let me know?"
"I can ask questions and check around, but . . . " he trailed off, hesitating. "Sandra's been looking at me funny these days. I wonder if they think I could be . . . disloyal. Outliers tend to be watched closely here. I wonder if they . . . "
He sighed.
She waited for him to continue, feeling a quiet battle going on inside him.
Finally, he said, "Okay. I'll meet you on Friday and let you know what I find out."
Did James Spenser learn anything new? she wondered, as the cab turned onto a side street. An awning over the door of an old brick building bore the name Bailey's. Next to the restaurant was a parking lot that was less than half full at that midafternoon hour, too late for lunch and too early for dinner.
The driver left Laura in front of the restaurant and drove away. She looked incongruous in that setting, a businesswoman wearing a costly skirt and blouse, with a white linen suit jacket tossed over her arm, in front of what looked like a tavern with a restaurant tossed in as an afterthought. She looked inside a large bay window to see a sparse number of customers sitting on bar stools, amid a dirty tile floor and unkempt shelves where liquor bottles, glasses, and menus had been haphazardly placed. Sports banners papered the walls, and television monitors hung from overhead. About to open the door, she was startled by a loud noise that sounded like a gunshot. The sound seemed to be coming from the parking lot.
She hurried toward the lot. She saw the back of a man as he ran to the far end of the lot, jumped over the fence, and disappeared onto the street behind the restaurant. She heard a moan and saw what looked like blood trickling along the ground from between two of the parked cars. She walked toward it and saw its source. By the side of a parked car, she saw a man's body lying face up on the pavement with blood pouring over the front of his shirt.
"James!" she cried, her voice coarse with horror.
She crouched down to help him, to cover the gash on his chest with her suit jacket to stop the bleeding. The white fabric quickly turned red.
Two employees came out of the restaurant's side door, heading to the dumpster with bags of trash. As they gazed in horror at the blood-soaked scene, their bags suddenly dropped.
One of them pulled out a phone and called for an ambulance.
"I'll get the manager," the other said and ran back into the restaurant.
"Laura . . . " Spenser's face was twisted in pain. His head rolled, eyes half closed. He had bruises on his face and his clothes were rumpled, showing signs of a fight. His pants pocket was ripped. Had his wallet been stolen?
"James!" she gasped. "Who did this?"
"Don't know."
"Why would someone do this?"
"Don't know."
"James, hang in. Help is coming. Hang in, now!"
He grabbed the collar of her blouse to pull her closer.
"F . . . Fox . . . " He wheezed, struggling with every breath. His voice was barely a whisper.
"What? Fox? Fix? What did you say?"
"Fox," he whispered.
His eyes shut, and his head fell to the side.
"James . . . James!"
There was no reply.