Chapter 47
FORTY-SEVEN
Reese wondered why she had quit her boring and meaningless job at the Newark News to take one even more so at Delco Pharmaceutical.
Nothing of absolutely any interest had happened since her hallway encounter with Chatterton.
Until Markson popped his head into the copy room on Friday and said, “Excuse me, Reese. Can I see you in my office, please? I need some copies made.”
“Alright, give me a second.” She had piles of collated reports stacked precariously on every table and surface in the room. This could have been an email, honestly.
Delco hadn’t heard of the concept of a paperless society. Everything was sent via email, then reinforced in hard copy.
Deciding there was nothing she could do with the mess in the next second, she sighed and followed Markson down the hall to his office. He hovered at the door until she was in, then shut the door and locked it.
Not cool. Trying to keep the edge out of her voice, she said, “What did you need, Mr. Markson?”
“I know who you are,” he said, taking a step in her direction.
Stan Markson was normally a very average-looking guy, but with that strange gleam in his eye and sweat stains in the armpits of his white dress shirt, he veered into alarming. Scary. Reese took a step back and felt around on his desk for a paperweight to lob at him if necessary.
She said lightly, not wanting him to smell her fear, “Of course you know who I am. I’m Reese, the woman who gets paid to hand you coffee.”
“You’re Agent Knight’s girlfriend. I recognize you from that night in the Holiday Inn parking lot.”
“Oh, uh…” This was better. Maybe. If Markson didn’t plan to murder her and toss her out with the trash, Knight would when he found out Markson knew who she was.
“You’re really an undercover agent, aren’t you?”
Well, that was kind of a cool thought. Special Agent Hampton, going undercover. She was tempted to lie for about a split second, then sanity returned. “No, I’m not. I’m really Knight’s…girlfriend.” She about swallowed her tongue on the word.
Markson looked distracted by that. “I thought he was married.”
“He’s divorced.”
“He looks like the married type. Not your type at all.”
Like this goof knew what her type was. It made sense to just explain they had a casual relationship, or even to just let the topic drop. It didn’t matter what Stan Markson, Delco informant, thought about her love life.
That’s what she should have done. Instead she said, “What do you mean? We’re perfect for each other. Knight is sooo happy with me. Happy, happy, happy.”
Oh, my God. She sounded perky.
“Well, he seems like a nice guy. He’s been real honest and fair with me, I always thought. That’s why I was worried that maybe the FBI wasn’t telling me everything, and you were an agent. ”
“No, I’m not an agent, I promise.” But she was a reporter, and she sniffed exclusive interview.
“But I am a journalist, Mr. Markson. This job here at Delco is a cover, just not for the Bureau. I’m doing my own journalistic investigation side by side with the FBI, so that when indictments are handed out, the public will know the whole story. ”
Markson wiped a bead of sweat off his forehead, glancing around nervously like he expected Chatterton to beam into his office. “I never thought about the story going public. This will all come out, won’t it? Everyone is going to know I was the informant.”
“I think the FBI will try to keep that quiet initially, but yes, eventually Delco will know it’s you.
But I think, in order to protect your best interests, you should grant me an exclusive interview with you.
We’ll hit the public right away with your story, how you wanted to save average Americans hundreds of dollars, how you wanted to stop corporate theft.
We’ve got to spin you as the hero that you are right up front, Stan. ”
Reese wondered if using his first name was pushing too hard, but she didn’t have much time here.
Markson already looked ready to throw himself out the window.
And she meant every word. Someone needed to look out for this guy and make sure he didn’t end up losing his career and his reputation when the whole case blew open.
“I don’t know. I really hadn’t thought about what would happen afterward.” Stan sank into the camel colored leather chair in front of his desk. “Oh, damn. This has gone so much farther than I ever intended.”
Reese felt sorry for him. Here he was, trying to do the right thing, and he might very well get squashed in the process. “Think about the interview, Stan. Go home, talk it over with your wife, and let me know. I want to help you.”
She reached onto his desk and took one of his business cards from the little gold case.
Scribbling her name and phone number on the back, she handed it to him.
“I’m going to be here at Delco until the investigation is over, and I’m going on the New Zealand trip.
Let me know if you ever need to talk about anything.
I can do and say whatever I want, unlike the FBI agents, who have rules to follow. ”
Even if she had rules, she probably wouldn’t follow them, but she knew how Knight was skating on thin ice with his boss. She knew he wouldn’t be able to go to bat for Markson if need be.
“Okay, I’ll think about it.” Markson took the card and stared at her, his pale gray eyes searching.
“You know, this company is going to be rocked to its very foundation if we get the evidence in New Zealand. There are all kinds of illegal activities going on. The price-fixing is just the beginning.”
“So I shouldn’t invest in the 40IK plan?”
Markson gave a nervous laugh. “Not if you want your money to stay your money.”
Watching the agony on his face, Reese felt bad for him.
She put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Hey, for what it’s worth, you’re doing the right thing. That takes guts.”
“Or stupidity.” He dragged his hand across his face.
“Stupidity is wearing these shoes.” She bent her knee and stuck a spiked heel in his face. “You’re being courageous.”
With another pat on his shoulder, she headed for the door. “Now, I’ve got to get back or Jennifer will have a cow. Think about the interview and let me know, okay?”
Markson sat motionless in the chair. “Thanks,” he said absently, waving at her as she unlocked the door.
When she got back to the copy room, her perfectly collated piles of papers were tossed on a table in a massive jumble and Amber, the twenty-year-old intern, smiled at her.
“I moved your stuff. I hope I didn’t mess anything up.”
Forget the New York Times byline. Reese wanted a freaking Pulitzer Prize after all this hassle.
But first she had to collate.