The story of Whitfield's possible ties to the woman suspected in the Goodfellowe heist traveled like wildfire. Who would’ve thought that a small paper like the Chronicle would carry such clout? But that’s how it worked. One paper carried an item and ten others picked it up. Within days, the other papers would put out their own version of the story, too. The first reference appeared the next day in the Tattler, our main competitor. Geraldyn hit the story high and hard in her weekly column:
“What big shot is under the loop in a query into the three-year-old disappearance of beautiful Esther Todd? Word on the street is that he and the young pianist had an ‘affaire d'amour.’ But Mr. Tax Man isn’t talking. Come on, Mr. Tax Man. Share your secret. People want to know.”
Whitfield's fans were furious—they were burning up the newspaper’s switchboard, calling me every name in the book—but his enemies were eating it up.
Everyone was excited. Everyone, except Sam, that is. He kept his emotions in check. I could guess what he was thinking. He was still waiting for the return cannon fire. He called me into his office and told me that for the time being, I was on safe ground.
“The papers’ sales numbers are up.”
“So, as always, money talks,” I said.
“Yeah, all else walks.”
Then he asked me what I had as a follow-up story. Did I have anything?
“Anything at all?”
I had thought about showing him Esther’s letter, but I’d promised Ruth I’d only use it if I had to. I trusted Sam, trusted his sense of ethics, but given the letter’s content, I felt that showing it even to him, unless absolutely necessary, would’ve been a betrayal of Ruth’s trust.
“I’ve got a meeting with Whitfield,” I said.
He was shocked and pleased. “So he’s willing to talk?”
As soon as I’d come in that morning, I’d had the switchboard connect me to Hilda. I didn’t even have to prompt her. She said Whitfield had gotten a call from his higher-ups in D.C.
“They didn’t want to know details of the mess. They just said he’d better clean it up.”
Fifteen minutes later, my phone rang again and I had a feeling I knew who it was. Even the ring sounded angry. I grabbed up the receiver and heard a male voice, tight with fury.
“You have a hell of a lot of nerve,” he said.
I glanced around the newsroom to make sure no one was watching and lowered my voice.
“Hello to you, too, Mr. Whitfield.”
“How dare you!”
He sounded just like Canfield.
“You had every opportunity to comment,” I said. “I even included the few words you did say.”
“You twisted them. Made them sound mocking and callous.”
“I wrote it straight. It was what you said, the way you said it.”
“I demand an opportunity to set the record straight.”
“Of course. When?”
“In two hours. My office.”
“I’ll be there.”