Guilty Minds

I sat down on the other side of the booth. “How could you tell?”

“You’re too old to be a college student, and you’re not nerdy enough to work on the Hill. Also, you look like a guy who can kick ass.”

“Not at all. I’m a pacifist. I prefer to mediate.”

“Well, you look like someone who could have been in the Special Forces. Or some kind of soldier, ten pounds ago.”

I had no doubt that Kayla Pitts had already told her about me. But I played along. “You did some Googling.”

She laughed. She had a great, throaty laugh. “You barely exist on Google. You don’t even have a website.”

“I don’t need one.”

“Well, la-di-dah. I had to do a hell of a lot more than Google.”

“And yet you’re still willing to meet me.”

“Morbid curiosity.”

A waitress came by with a pad.

“Another Diet Coke,” Mandy said.

The waitress turned to me.

“I’ll have a Natty Boh.”

When the waitress left, Mandy said, “Natty Boh, huh?”

I shrugged. That was localese for National Bohemian beer, which I knew they served here on tap. “Russian owned, by the way,” I said.

“No, actually, it’s owned by Pabst.”

“Right. And Pabst is owned by a Russian oligarch now.”

“Well, who knew?” She shrugged, conceding the point. I had a feeling she didn’t like being wrong. “So you’re almost a local boy, aren’t you?”

“I spent some formative years in DC.”

“Working for some supersecret unit of Defense intelligence. I know.”

“Everything in the Pentagon is classified. Lunch menus in the cafeteria are classified. You must know that.”

“ ‘Classified’ is just a red flag to me.” She smiled. “And after the Pentagon you went private, working for Jay Stoddard.”

I nodded.

“Working for big companies and politicians and the rich and powerful.”

“Largely. But not always.”

“Not a lot of people know about you. But the ones who do had mostly good things to say.”

“Clearly you didn’t talk to everybody.”

“So Gideon Parnell hired an investigator. That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.”

“Why’s that?”

“If my story weren’t totally solid, they wouldn’t bother to put someone like you on it.”

“Not at all. Most people are afraid of Slander Sheet. A lie this outrageous, you take it seriously. You do what you can to make sure it dies a proper death.”

“I think Gideon hired you for clean-up duty.”

“I don’t do that.”

“Come on. You’re an attack dog for the rich and powerful.”

“Not exclusively.”

“Only the rich and the powerful can afford you.”

I didn’t want to tell her that I took this job because I believed the story was a lie, and I could see where this conversation was going, so I took a detour. Decided to try my best to defang her. “You did some great work at the Post.”

“You have no idea what kind of work I did,” she said with a grin.

“Not true. You did that major series on the out-of-control secrecy in the US government a few years back. That was huge. What’d you say, like almost a million people hold top-secret security clearances? More than the entire population of Washington, DC?”

She shrugged. “Right.”

“And you were also the first one to write about the CIA’s secret prisons overseas-that was a big deal, too, that piece. And the one about the abuses at Walter Reed.”

She actually seemed to blush. That I didn’t expect. “You did some Googling, too,” she said.

“I didn’t have to. I remember. You were good.”

“Still am. Just get paid better. And you’re here to threaten me, I bet. Scare me off the Claflin story. Well, you might as well stop wasting your time.”

“I never threaten. I don’t need to.”

“Not the way you look, you don’t. You don’t have to. You just glare at people and they fall in line.”

I wasn’t sure that was a compliment, but I said thanks anyway.

The beer came, in a tall plastic tumbler, along with her Diet Coke. I tipped mine toward hers. “To morbid curiosity.”

She smiled and took a sip of her Coke. “You’re very charming and very smooth. And nice-looking. In another set of circumstances, I could be swayed.”

“So you’ve moved on from the CIA’s secret prisons to pictures of Congressman Compton’s dick?”

“Less charming all the time. That’s actually not my piece, to be fair.”

“It’s trending number one, right? Over a million views already.”

“Hey, Compton’s the one who texted the picture of his dick to a Congressional page. Not us.”

“You’re just making it available to the masses.”

“We blur it out. You have to click through to see the not-safe-for-work version in all its glory. Which is not much glory, by the way.”

“What’s Hunsecker Media? Who’s Hunsecker?”

“Burt Lancaster,” she said.

“Huh? I mean the sign on the door of your office. It says ‘Hunsecker Media.’”

“Right. Like I said. It’s from an old movie called Sweet Smell of Success. Burt Lancaster plays a powerful gossip columnist, J. J. Hunsecker.”

“Now I get it.”

“Hunsecker Media is the parent company for Slander Sheet New York and Slander Sheet DC and Slander Sheet LA.”

“So are you Slander Sheet’s J. J. Hunsecker?”

“If I’ve got a good story and I’m onto the truth, sure.”

“See, that’s the problem with your Claflin piece. It’s not true.”

“Says the corporate mouthpiece.”