“How can you say that? Maybe that’s exactly what we’re missing…”
“What, some hidden code that says, At the end of the first term, fake Boyle’s death and let him come back years later in Malaysia? C’mon, be real. There’s no secret message hidden in a Washington Post crossword puzzle.”
“So where does that leave us?” Dreidel asks.
“Stuck,” a female voice announces from the corner.
Spinning around, I almost swallow my tongue. Lisbeth enters quieter than a cat, her eyes searching the room to make sure we’re alone. The girl’s not dumb. She knows what happens if this gets out.
“This is a private conversation,” Dreidel insists.
“I can help you,” she offers. In her hand is a cell phone. I glance down at her purse and spot another. Son of a—
“Did you record us!? Is that why you left?” Dreidel explodes, already in lawyer mode as he hops out of his seat. “It’s illegal in Florida without consent!”
“I didn’t record you…”
“Then you can’t prove anything — without a record, it’s all just—”
“It could still be in the crossword… Merc… short for mercenary…” she begins, staring down at her left palm. Her voice never speeds up, always a perfect, unsettling calm. “A mercenary who knew to leave Boyle alive…” She turns her palm counterclockwise as she reads. “Now you’re reaching. I can keep going if you want. I haven’t even gotten to my wrist yet.”
“You tricked us,” I say, frozen at the table.
She stops at the accusation. “No, that’s not— I was just trying to see why you were lying to me.”
“So you do that by lying to us?”
“That wasn’t what I—” She cuts herself off and looks down, weighing the moment. This is harder than she thought. “Listen, I’m… I’m sorry, okay? But I’m serious… I can work with you on this.”
“Work with us? No, no no!” Dreidel shouts.
“You don’t understand…”
“Actually, I’m pretty damn fluent at this stuff — and the last thing I need right now is more time with you, listening to your bullshit! I have a no comment on all this, and anything you print, I’ll not only deny, but I’ll sue your ass back to whatever crappy high school newspaper taught you that damn phone trick in the first place!”
“Yeah, I’m sure a public lawsuit will really help your state election campaign,” Lisbeth says calmly.
“Don’t you dare bring that into— Dammit!” Dreidel screams, spinning around and slamming both fists against the welcoming table.
Still standing in the doorway, Lisbeth should be wearing a smile so wide, there’d be canary feathers dangling from her lips. Instead, she rubs the back of her neck as her front teeth click anxiously. I wore that same look when I walked in on one of the many fights between the President and First Lady. It’s like walking in on someone having sex. An initial thrill, followed instantly by the hollow dread that in a world of infinite possibilities, physical and temporal happenstance have conspired to place you at the regrettable, unreturnable moment that currently passes for your life.
Lisbeth takes a step back, bumping into the door. Then she takes a step forward. “I really can help you,” she says.
“Whattya mean?” I ask, standing up.
“Wes, don’t,” Dreidel moans. “This is stupid. We already—”
“I can get you information,” Lisbeth continues. “The newspaper… our contacts—”
“Contacts?” Dreidel asks. “We have the President’s Rolodex.”
“But you can’t call them,” Lisbeth shoots back. “And neither can Wes — not without tipping someone off.”
“That’s not true,” Dreidel argues.
“Really? So no one’ll raise an eyebrow when Manning’s two former aides start dissecting his old assassination attempt? No one’ll tattle to the President when you start sniffing around Boyle’s old life?”
We’re both speechless. Dreidel stops pacing. I brush some imaginary dirt from the table. If the President found out…
Lisbeth watches us carefully. Her freckles shift as her eyes narrow. She reads social cues for a living. “You don’t even trust Manning, do you?” she asks.
“You can’t print that,” Dreidel threatens.
Lisbeth’s mouth falls open, shocked by the answer. “You’re serious…”
It takes me a second to process what just happened. I look to Lisbeth, then back to Dreidel. I don’t believe it. She was bluffing.
“Don’t you dare print it,” Dreidel adds. “We didn’t say that.”
“I know… I’m not printing it… I just — you guys really punched the hornet’s nest on this, didn’t you?”
Dreidel’s done answering questions. He storms at her, jabbing a finger at her face. “You have no proof of anything! And the fact that—”
“Can you really help us?” I call out from the table.
Turning to me, she doesn’t hesitate. “Absolutely.”
“Wes, don’t be stupid…”
“How?” I ask her.
Dreidel turns my way. “Wait… you’re actually listening to her?”
“By being the one person no one can ever trace back to you,” Lisbeth explains, stepping around Dreidel and heading toward me. “You make a phone call, people’ll know something’s up. Same with Dreidel. But if I make it, I’m just a crackpot reporter sniffing for story and hoping to be the next Woodward and Bernstein.”
“So why help us?” I ask.
“To be the next Woodward and Bernstein.” Through her designer eyeglasses, she studies me with dark green eyes — and never once glances down at my cheek. “I want the story,” she adds. “When it’s all over… when all the secrets are out, and the book deals are falling into place, I just want to be the one to write it up.”
“And if we tell you to go screw yourself?”
“I break it now, and the news vans start lining up outside your apartment, feeding your lives to the cable news grinder. Lying to all of America… a giant cover-up… They’ll eat you like Cheerios. And even if you get the truth out there, your lives’ll be like picked-over bones.”
“So that’s it?” Dreidel asks, rushing back and tapping his knuckle on the table. “You threaten us, and we’re supposed to just comply? How do we know you won’t break it tomorrow morning just to get the quick kill?”
“Because only a moron goes for the quick kill,” Lisbeth says as she sits on the edge of the table. “You know how it works: I run this tomorrow and I’ll get a nice pat on the head that’ll last a total of twenty-four hours, at which point the Times and the Washington Post will grab my football, fly a dozen reporters down here, and dance it all the way to the end zone. At least my way, you’re in control. You get your answers; I get my story. If you’re innocent, you’ve got nothing to fear.”
I look up from my seat. At the edge of the table, Lisbeth’s right leg swings slightly. She knows she’s got a point.
“And we can trust you on that?” I ask. “You’ll stay quiet until it’s over?”
Her leg stops swinging. “Wes, the only reason you know Woodward and Bernstein is because they had the ending… not just the first hit. Only a fool wouldn’t stick with you till we get all the answers.”
I’ve been burned by reporters. I don’t like reporters. And I certainly don’t like Lisbeth. But as I glance over at Dreidel, who’s finally fallen silent, it’s clear we’re out of options. If we don’t work with her, she’ll take this whole shitstorm public and unleash it in a way that we’ll never be able to take back. If we do work with her, at least we buy some time to figure out what’s really going on. I give another look to Dreidel. From the way he pinches the bridge of his nose, we’ve already stepped on the land mine. The only question now is, how long until we hear the big—?