A Knight Of The Word

There was a soft knock, the door opened, and Stefanie Winslow walked in carrying the lattes Simon had sent her to purchase from the coffee shop at Elliott Bay Book Company. Both men stared to rise, bur she motioned them back into their seats. “Stay where you are, gentlemen, you probably need all your energy for the Interview. I’ll just set these an the desk and be on my way.”


She gave Wren a dazzling smile, and he wished instantly that he was younger and cooler and even then he would probably need to be a cross between Harrison Ford and Bill Gates to have a chance with this woman. Stefanie Winslow was beautiful, but she was exotic as well, a combination that made her unforgettable. She was tall and slim with jet-black hair that curled down to her shoulders, cut “back from her face and ears in a sweep so that it shimmered like satin in sunlight, Her skin was a strange smoky colour, suggesting that she was of mixed ancestry, the product of more than one culture, more than one people. Startling emerald eyes dominated an oval face with tiny, perfect features. She moved in a graceful, willowy way that accentuated her long limbs and neck and stunning shape. She seemed oblivious to how she looked and comfortable within herself, radiating a relaxed confidence that had both an infectious and unsettling effect on the people around her. Andrew Wren would have made the journey to Seattle just to see her in the flesh for ten seconds.

She set the lattes before them and started for the door. “Simon, I’m going to finish with the SAM arrangements, then I’m out of here. John has your speech all done except for a once-over, so we’re going out for a long, quiet, intimate dinner. See you tomorrow.”

“Bye,” Stef Simon waved her out.

“Nice seeing you, Mr. Wren,” she called back.

The door closed behind her with a soft click. Wren shook his head. “Shouldn’t she be a model or an actress or something? What sort of hold do you have over her, Simon”

Simon Lawrence shrugged. “Will you be staying for the dedication on Wednesday, Andrew, or do you have to get right back?”

Wren reached for his latte and took a long sip. “No, I’m staying until Thursday. The dedication is part of what I came for. It’s central to the article I’m writing.”

Simon nodded. “Excellent. Now what’s the other part, if you don’t mind my asking? Everything we’ve talked about has been covered in the newspapers already — ad nauseam, I might add. The New York Times didn’t send its top investigative reporter to interview me for a return, did it? What’s up, Andrew?”

Wren shrugged, trying to appear casual in making the gesture. “Well, part of it is the dedication. I’m doing a piece on corporate and governmental involvement — or the lack thereof in the social problems of urban America. God knows, there’s little enough to write about that’s positive, and your programs are bright lights in a moldy shadowy panorama of neglect and disinterest. You’ve actually done something where others have just talked about it-and what you’ve done works.”

“But?”

“But in the last month or so the paper has received a series of anonymous phone calls and letters suggesting that there are financial improprieties in your programs that need to be investigated. So my editor ordered me to follow it up, and here I am.”

Simon Lawrence nodded, his face expressionless. “Financial improprieties. I see.”

He studied Wren. “You must have done some work on this already. Have you found anything?”

Wren shook his head. “Not a thing.”

“You won’t, either. The charge is ridiculous.” Simon sipped at his latte and sighed. “But what else would I say, right? So to set your mind at ease, Andrew, and to demonstrate that I have nothing to hide, I’ll let you have a look at our books. I don’t often do this, you understand, but in this case I’ll make an exception. You already know, I expect, that we have accountants and lawyers and a board of directors to make certain that everything we do is above reproach. We’re a high-profile operation with important donors. We don’t take chances with our image.”

“I know that,” Wren demurred, looking vaguely embarrassed to deflect the implied criticism. “But I appreciate your letting me see for myself.

“The books will show you what comes in and what goes out, everything but the names of the donors. You aren’t asking for those, are you, Andrew?”

“No, no.” Wren shook his head quickly. “It’s what happens to the money after it comes in that concerns me. I just want to be certain that when I write my article extolling the virtues of Fresh Start and Pass/Go and Toto the Wonder Wizard, I won’t be shown up as an idiot later on.” He tacked on a sheepish smile.

Simon Lawrence gave him a cool look. “An idiot? Not you, Andrew. Not likely. Besides, if there’s something crooked going on, I want to know about it, too.”

He stood up. “Finish your latte. I’ll have Jenny Parent, our bookkeeper, bring up the records. You can sit here and look them over to your heart’s content.” He glanced down at his watch. “I’ve got a meeting with some people downtown at five, but you can stay as long as you like. I’ll catch up with you in the morning, and you can give me your report then. Fair enough?”