Chapter 8 #2
“Which senior vice president?” There were five.
“Pick one. They’re breeding.” He grabbed the toast when it popped out, locked his gaze on me and licked right across the center of it before he buttered it.
Not reacting required every ounce of discipline. “Anything from the memorial?”
“Nothing useful.” His smile disappeared.
We’d spent a good chunk of the evening listening, watching, and learning. Flint had taken notes and I didn’t doubt that he hadn’t run some searches after I went to bed.
I had. Granted, it had been via my phone, but I’d done some research. “Three board members reacted to the interim VP.”
Flint nodded. “I saw.”
I took another bite of toast as I turned over the reactions in my head. The attorney stopped writing. The CFO tightened up like he’d sucked on a lemon and Creighton? He’d looked at both of them. Blaming them? Giving them a silent order?
Corporate politics annoyed me.
He leaned against the counter as he took a bite of his eggs. “Which means?”
“Could mean the phrase caught them off guard.” I brainstormed.
“Could mean they hate the interim guy.” His counter had as much validity.
“Everyone hates the interim guy.” I grinned. That was the problem when you were interim. You were there long enough to be annoying but not so long you had to kiss anyone’s ass. There was a certain amount of freedom in that role.
“Then they’re in good company.”
I stared at my food as I took another bite of toast. Guy understood where the future of this company was heading.
An ordinary sentence. So why react to it? Were they unhappy with it? Or with him? Guy Reardon had never been my favorite, but he did know what he was talking about.
“What did you hear after?” Flint asked.
“Fragments. Federal investigation. Files. Something about an audit.” I made a face on the last sentence. That had snagged my attention but there had been no follow-up. Did they mean The Auditor? Or an actual audit? “And one man told another he was glad Guy never woke up.”
Flint’s posture changed. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure what I heard.”
“Who said it?” He’d gone from casual breakfast to the journalist he’d been long before he took over the news director job.
Head tilted back, I closed my eyes so I could review what I’d seen. “I didn’t know him. Mid-fifties. Gray suit. Red tie. Expensive watch. He was near the bar with another executive.”
“That describes half the room.”
“The watch was a Vacheron Constantin.” At his raised eyebrows, I shrugged. “I notice things.”
“Apparently.”
“He wore it on his right wrist. Wedding ring, left hand. Recent tan line where a second ring or bracelet used to be. He kept touching the empty spot.”
Flint studied me for a beat. “You take a picture?”
“No.” The angle had been wrong and the only way to snap one with my phone would have alerted the man in question.
“No one was wearing name badges.” He grimaced. “That leaves us with an expensive watch.”
“We have a face. I’ll know him when I see him again.”
He nodded. No skepticism. No demand that I justify my memory.
The memorial had produced reactions, names, and questions. It had confirmed that people in Meridian Media Group weren’t all that happy with Guy. He wasn’t the type to make friends.
It had not explained why he was dead. And it had not explained the phone call.
You’re closer than the FBI.
You finally stopped looking at the bodies.
I had replayed the words until they had become mantra instead of meaning.
Flint watched me as he took another long drink of his coffee. After, he said, “You’re doing it again.”
“Hmm?” I was moving the eggs around on the plate, eating them more because I needed the fuel than out of any desire.
“Checking out.”
I flicked a look toward him. “I’m sitting right here.”
“Physically.” He pointed his fork at me as though saying, yes I can see you, but you’re not here in the room.
Then he waited. I hated that he knew waiting worked.
“The call,” I said.
His expression sharpened. “I figured.”
“He said we stopped looking at the bodies.”
“Not we.”
I looked at him.
“He said you.”
I repeated the phrase. “‘You finally stopped looking at the bodies’.”
“Exactly.”
I picked up the toast. “You remembered the wording.” Was I surprised? Not really. Was I impressed? Maybe.
“So did you,” he countered. His eggs were gone and he was spearing the slices of fruit like they offended him.
“That’s different.”
“How?” He paused to just stare at me.
“I’m obsessive.” I wrinkled my nose. “Remember?”
“So am I. I just dress it up in management responsibilities.”
I twisted to glance toward his living room. A whiteboard stood against the far wall beside one of the tall windows.
It was larger than the one in our improvised newsroom war room. Not a cheap office board mounted with brackets, but a heavy rolling unit with glass panels on both sides. Half of it was covered in faded notes written in Flint’s blocky handwriting.
Dates.
Initials.
Place names.
Arrows.
At the top corner, in black marker, were the words:
ASSUMPTIONS ARE EVIDENCE YOU INVENTED YOURSELF.
Sliding off the stool, I left the last half of the toast on my plate then I walked toward it.
Behind me, Flint said, “Breakfast.”
“I’m thinking.”
“You can think and chew.” So bossy.
“I can, but neither receives my full attention.” I stopped in front of the board.
“That explains Netflix.” The smartass comment amused me, but I pushed it aside for now.
The faded notes appeared unrelated to our case. Sarajevo. Mosul. Dakar. A list of names under a heading marked SOURCES. Several dates had been circled and crossed out.
Old investigations.
Old wars.
Old failures, perhaps.
“You keep a whiteboard at home?” I asked. “Not judging. Some people like to collect art.”
He snorted. “I collect suspicions and questions. They’re cheaper.”
I touched one corner of the board, careful not to smear anything. “You erased half of it?”
“I needed space.”
“For us?”