Okay, V., consider this file extremely private and incredibly confidential. This is why I’m not texting you this information. If you have a place where you keep supersecret information—stuff so secret you don’t even tell me about it—put the contents of this entire folder in there. RIGHT NOW.
This is because I’m about to admit to a crime.
First, my justification for the crime, then the crime itself.
I went home yesterday thinking a lot about Roz Cline. The woman who was about to become my new best friend. Her sudden death…her murder…hit home in a way I wasn’t expecting. I didn’t want it to be for nothing. She deserves better than that.
But the truth is, she’s just a bit player in the murder of the century. And the people on the other side—whoever they may be—aren’t playing fair. So why should we? This, then, is the motive for my crime. (Crimes, actually.)
Now to the means and opportunity for said crime(s).
I know you like to tease me about my tortured dating life. And it is tortured. But it used to be tortured with a purpose. Since I’m in a confessing mood, and since this document will never see the light of day (right, V.?), I’ll admit that when I was a tabloid reporter, I preferred to date useful individuals.
“Useful” meaning in a lowly position yet connected to the halls of power. (It didn’t hurt if they were a little hot too.)
A few years ago, before I came to work for you, one of my useful dates was a guy named Prentiss Walsh. A bit of a smacked ass, to be honest, but ambitious. He’ll probably be mayor someday. And he just so happens to be the executive assistant of Charles Castrina, divorce attorney to the Philadelphia stars.
Well, last night I called Prentiss. He was very happy to hear from me. He suggested I go to his place. I told him I was a little tipsy and happened to be at a bar right around the corner from his office. He told me he’d be right over. I told him I’d have another drink while I waited. He told me to have two. I had nothing stronger than a club soda with lime.
Well, hellos led to flirtations, which led to more drinks (whiskey for him; club soda masquerading as gin and tonic for me), which led to my bold suggestion that we raid his boss’s high-end liquor cabinet. I mean, it was just around the corner, and I knew Prentiss had the pass card and keys…
I know what you’re going to say, and believe me, I already said those things to myself. But remember what I told you about the other side not playing fair?
Anyway, this wasn’t a long shot; I know a few things about Prentiss. For one, he has a larcenous streak, so the idea of getting hammered on Chuck Castrina’s expensive scotch while possibly making out with a former reporter on Castrina’s ten-thousand-dollar Chesterfield leather sofa…well, this would be too great a temptation to resist. And the other thing about Prentiss? He’s pretty much a lightweight. We made it to the sofa…and that was it before he passed out.
I helped myself to the file cabinet. The keys were on Prentiss’s ring.
I found Francine Hughes’s file.
And V., let me tell you, I wish I’d had a few drinks before opening that folder of horrors.
I scanned everything and dropped it into this folder. Take a look for yourself. Just be warned—it is entirely awful.