The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [119]
“And you.”
“And you,” he said as Lisbeth stepped into the waiting elevator and hit the button for the second floor. “You know the job: You have to piss on people to be read. So please make my month and at least tell me you were smart enough to get it on tape.”
As the doors slid shut and the elevator started to rise, Lisbeth leaned against the brass railing, her head tilting back against the Formica wall. Letting the day’s events wash over her, she lifted her head and lightly tapped it back against the wall. Tap, tap, tap. Over and over against the wall.
“C’mon, you did get it on tape, right?” Vincent asked.
Opening her purse, Lisbeth pulled out the miniature cassette tape that held the last part of their conversations. Sure, she’d handed Wes the recorder, but it didn’t take much for her to palm the cassette while he was ranting. Of course, now—no, not just now. Even as she was doing it—so damn instinctively—another part of her brain was watching in disbelief. Every reporter needs instinct. But not when it overwhelms ideals.
“Last time, Lisbeth—yes tape or no tape?”
The elevator pinged on the second floor, and Lisbeth stared at her open palm, rubbing her thumb against the tiny cassette. “Sorry, Vincent,” she said, tucking it back in her purse. “I tried to stop him, but Wes tossed it overboard.”
“Overboard. Really?”
“Really.”
As she left the elevator and followed the hallway around to the left, there was a long pause on the line. Even longer than the one before.
“Where are you right now?” Vincent asked coldly.
“Right behind you,” Lisbeth said into her phone.
Through an open door up the gray-carpeted hallway, Vincent stopped pacing in his office and spun around to face her. Still holding the phone to his ear, he licked his salt-and-pepper mustache. “It’s four o’clock. I need tomorrow’s column. Now.”
“You’ll have it, but . . . the way things were left with Wes, I still think we should take another day before we push a story that’s—”
“Do what you want, Lisbeth. You always do anyway.”
With a swing of his arm, Vincent slammed his door shut, unleashing a thunderclap that echoed in front of her and through her cell phone. As her fellow employees turned to stare, Lisbeth trudged to her cubicle just across the hall. Collapsing in her seat, she flicked on her computer, where a nearly empty three-column grid filled the screen. On the corner of her desk, a crumpled sheet of paper held all the vital info about young Alexander John’s recent victory in the ultra-competitive world of high school art. This late in the day, there was no escaping the inevitable.
Flattening the crumpled paper with the heel of her hand, she reread the details and instinctively punched in the code for her voice mail.
“You have seven new messages,” the robotic female voice announced through her speakerphone. The first five were from local maître d’s hoping to get some free press for their restaurants by ratting out who was eating lunch with whom. The sixth was a follow-up call on Alexander John’s art award. And the last . . .
“Hi . . . er . . . this message is for Lisbeth,” a soft female voice began. “My name’s . . .”
The woman paused, causing Lisbeth to sit up straight. The best tips always came from people who didn’t want to identify themselves.
“My name’s . . . Violet,” she finally said.
Fake name, Lisbeth decided. Even better.
“I just . . . I was reading your column today, and when I saw his name, my stomach just . . . it’s not right, okay? I know he’s powerful . . .”
Lisbeth mentally ran through every mention in today’s column. The First Lady . . . Manning . . . does she mean Manning?
“. . . it’s just not right, okay? Not after what he did.” She’s careful how she puts the knife in. She knows to punch, but not too hard. “Anyway, if you can give me a call . . .”
Furiously scribbling the number, Lisbeth flipped open her cell phone and immediately started dialing. Her ears flushed red as it rang.
C’mon . . . pick up, pick up, pick up, pick