As he goes back to pointing to something on the screen and scaring the bejeezus out of one of our baby-faced interns, I make a quick detour to Toby’s desk.
“Mochaccino delivery,” I say, plonking the large cup on his desk. “Consider this partial payment for the illegal activities you’ve committed on my behalf so far, as well as the ones you’re likely to commit today.”
He picks up the cup and takes a sip. “God, I’m cheap, but never let it be said that I’m easy. Unless your sister asks. Then you can tell her I’m a complete slut.”
“Tate!”
I jump as Derek yells from his office doorway.
I smile at Toby. “Gotta go. If I don’t make it out of there, I want to be cremated and stuck into one of those containers that sprouts into a tree.”
“No problem. It’s totally cool if I plant you in a dog park, right?”
I flip him a sneaky bird behind my back as I hurry into Derek’s office and close the door behind me.
“Morning, boss.” I give him a sweet smile and place a Grande Latte in front of him. “Six sugars, just how you like it.”
He squints at me. “Why are you sucking up to me? Have you fucked up this Mister Romance thing already?”
“Not at all. I just thought you might like some coffee.”
“You’re not fooling me, Tate. You’re not that nice.”
“Sure I am. I bought one for Toby, too.”
“Toby’s your friend. I’m not. So, cut the bullshit and tell me where we’re at. Do you have his client list yet?”
“Well, no, but –”
“What about his identity? What’s his background?”
“Actually, it’s been kind of hard to nail him down as far as –”
“Do you at least have a physical description? He must be quite the stud to have all these women creaming themselves.”
“Ahhh, I haven’t quite seen him yet, but I think he may be blond.”
He slams down his coffee so hard, a glob of foam ejaculates onto his desk. “Christ, Tate, have you made any progress in the four days since I’ve seen you? What the hell have you been doing?”
I grit my teeth and tell my temper to stand down. “Derek, it’s not exactly easy to get to this guy. He’s like a ghost. But the good news is, after some long days of surveillance and many dead ends, I managed to have a conversation with him on the phone yesterday.”
“To arrange an interview? Thank fuck. I was beginning to think you were completely incompetent. When is it? I’ll line up a photographer.”
“Well, he hasn’t agreed to the interview yet, but I’m confident he will. I just need to talk him into it.”
Derek stares at me for a few moments, and his expression tells me he’s about three seconds away from forgetting about the whole thing and firing me out of a cannon straight into the Hudson River.
I take evasive maneuvers. “Derek, listen. This entire situation is delicate and needs to be finessed. There are a lot of high-profile clients he’s trying to protect. The guy’s nervous. If I go in all guns blazing he’ll disappear, and we’ll never get the story. I just need some time. This isn’t something I can deliver overnight.”
“Is it something you can deliver at all?”
“Of course.”
He opens his desk drawer and pulls out a pack of nicotine gum before shoving some in his mouth and chewing loudly as he studies me. “You have twenty-four hours to secure an interview, or I’m telling payroll you don’t work here anymore. Got it?”
“Absolutely. I’ll have something by the end of the day and let you know as soon as it’s locked down.”
“You do that. Now, get the fuck out.” He pulls his tablet in front of him and shoos me with his hand.
I leave his office feeling like a death row inmate whose date of execution has been merely delayed.
I pull out my phone and send a text to the number from which Max called me yesterday.
<Have you made a decision yet about allowing me to interview you? Can we meet?>
I sit and watch the screen, half expecting it to light up with a failure to deliver status. To my surprise, I quickly get a reply.
<No.>
Okay, so at least I can communicate with him. That’s a start.
<Is that your answer about the interview? Or do you mean you haven’t decided yet?>
After I press send, the dots at the bottom of the screen blink long enough that I suspect he’s writing an essay as to why he can’t talk to me, but when his response comes, it’s simply <Yes.>
I let out a frustrated noise.
<Yes your answer is no? Or yes you’ve made a decision?>
More blinking dots, then:
<Miss Tate, for a woman who makes her living communicating through the written word, you know how to set up an impressive string of ambiguities.>
I growl in frustration and dial his number. He doesn’t pick up. Instead, another text arrives.
<What are you doing?>
<Calling you. We need to talk.>
<No, we don’t. I’m busy. Plus, I have another day before I need to give you my decision.>
<Things have changed. Please call me, so I can explain.>
<No.>
I try the number again. Voicemail.
<Please, Max. It won’t take long. Just pick up.>
I call again. After three rings, he answers with a distinct edge of annoyance in his voice.
“Miss Tate, I’d like to tell you that it’s a pleasure to talk to you again, but that would be a lie. I’m busy. What’s with the urgency?”
“My boss is pressuring me for progress on the story. Please, can we just meet and talk? I’d rather get the truth from you than have to start chasing down your clients. I already know about Marla Massey. It’s only a question of time before I find the rest.”
He’s silent for a few beats then says, “So, you think starting our conversation with a threat is going to help your case?”
“It wasn’t a threat. It was a fact.”
“Yes, a fact in which you threaten to expose me, with or without my cooperation.”
“You say potato, I say potahto.”
He swears under his breath. “If this is your attitude, why would I help you? I think your claim of wanting the truth is bullshit.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you’re not interested in finding out the real story. You want a scandal, and you’ll do everything in your power to get it, whether you talk to me or not.”
“That’s a little unfair, considering you barely know me.”
“I know that you probably sold this story to your boss as a juicy exposé that will cause enough of a stir to win new readers and keep advertisers happy. You no doubt told him you’re going to expose me and the seedy underbelly of New York’s social elite. Isn’t that the truth?”
It annoys me that his assessment of the situation is mostly accurate. “That’s a pretty dim view of my character, Max. All I want is the full story. I’m a journalist, after all.”
“Are you? Journalists have standards. They’re supposed to be impartial observers who report the facts and let the public make up their own minds. You’re coming into this with strong preconceived ideas of who I am and what I do, and I doubt anything I have to say is going to convince you otherwise.”