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By Root 1756 0

ago, a woman identifying herself only as Iris cold-called Lisbeth on the office’s main line. From the shakiness in Iris’s voice, Lisbeth could hear the tears. And from the hesitation . . . she knew what fear sounded like. For twenty minutes, Iris told her the story: about how, years ago, she used to do Thai massages at a local bathhouse . . . that it was there she first met the man she called Byron . . . and the thrill of secretly dating one of Palm Beach’s most powerful men. But what got Lisbeth’s attention was Iris’s graphic detail of how, on a number of occasions, he lashed out physically, eventually breaking her collarbone and jaw. For Lisbeth, that was a story that mattered. And that was what the letters on her wall were there for. But when she asked for Byron’s real name—and Iris’s, for that matter—the line went dead.

“She was yanking your ya-ya,” Vincent said.

“Maybe she was scared.”

“Or maybe she just wanted some attention.”

“Or maybe she’s now married, and therefore terrified her husband will dump her the instant he finds out his lovely wife used to be a bathhouse girl. Think, Vincent. Sources only stay quiet when they have something to lose.”

“Y’mean like their job? Or their career? Or their supposedly well read gossip column?”

Lisbeth stabbed him with a cold, piercing stare. Vincent stabbed her right back.

“Six,” he said as he turned to leave. “Six letters in the stack.”

“I don’t care if it’s one.”

“Yes, you do. You’re a great writer but a terrible liar, sweetie.”

For once, Lisbeth stayed silent.

“By the way,” Vincent added, “if a publicist calls for some art award for the John family . . . don’t be such a snob. Think Page Six. Good bold names are good bold names.”

“But if the story’s crap—”

“I hate to break it to you, pumpkin,” Vincent called out, already halfway down the hallway, “but there’s no Pulitzer for gossip.”

Alone in her cubicle, Lisbeth studied the empty grid on her screen, then looked down at the crumpled sheet of paper in her trash. She bent down below her desk to pull it from the garbage, and the phone rang above her. At the noise, she bolted upward, smashing the back of her head against the corner of her desk.

“Aaahh,” she yelled, rubbing her head fiercely as she reached for the phone. “Below the Fold. This is Lisbeth.”

“Hi, I . . . uh . . . I work over at the Four Seasons,” a male voice began. “Is this the place you call for—?”

“Only if it’s a good one,” Lisbeth said, still rubbing, but all too aware what he was asking. It was the deal she made with all local hotel employees. A hundred bucks for any tip she used in the column.

“Well . . . uh . . . I was serving some of President Manning’s old employees,” he said. “And . . . I don’t know if they count as celebrities, but if you’re interested . . .”

“No, I’m definitely interested.” She hit the Record button and scrambled for a pen. Even on her best days, there was no bigger bold name than Manning. “Those’re exactly the type of people we love to write about.”

17

Maybe it’d be better if we stepped outside,” O’Shea suggests, towering over me in the restaurant. He’s got a buckled nose that makes it clear he’s not afraid to take a punch. He tries to hide it with his sunglasses, but some things are hard to miss. The moment he flashed an FBI badge, people turned to stare.

“Yeah . . . that’d be great,” I reply, calmly standing from my seat and following him through the open-air walkway that leads to the pool area outside. If I plan on keeping this quiet, the last thing I need is to be spotted with the FBI in a public place.

Surrounded by palm trees on all sides, the pool is a picture of privacy—this early in the morning, all the lounge chairs are empty— but for some reason, O’Shea doesn’t slow down. It’s not until we pass one of the many oversize potted plants that I see what he’s looking at: two guys in a small wooden cabana folding towels, getting ready for the day. O’Shea keeps walking. Whatever he wants, he wants it in private.

“Listen, can you tell me where we’re—?”

“How was your trip to Malaysia?” As he asks the question,