Guilty Minds

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” I said. “What the hell do you want?”

“Excuse me?”

“Either you or your people are covering up the death of a twenty-two-year-old girl. Whether you ordered it or not, it’s going to come back to bite you.”

Mandy stared at me. I could almost see the cartoon thought bubble above her head: So much for going in at a slant.

“I don’t know what on earth you’re referring to.” She seemed genuinely baffled.

“There was a call girl named Kayla Pitts, who was-”

“That poor girl killed herself!”

“I’m afraid not. Your people killed her because they were afraid she’d start telling the truth about the Claflin story.”

“My… people? What in God’s name-?”

“We know you hired the Centurions to eliminate a threat.”

“Oh, do you? I know who the Centurions are, and no, I certainly didn’t hire them.”

“Then someone did.”

She put out her hands, palms up, arms wide. “Well, then, you crashed the wrong party, because I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“You wanted to bring down Jeremiah Claflin by any means necessary.”

She pointed an index finger at me. “Oh, now, please. That’s an exaggeration. Did I want to bring Claflin down? Hell, yes! Guilty as charged!” She gave a long sigh. “Do you mind if we sit down? I’ve been on my feet for three hours. No, not on those chairs. I don’t have enough padding on my butt.” She waved toward a grouping of overstuffed lounge chairs in front of a tall fireplace.

We walked over there, waited for her to sit, and then I sat closest to her, because my instinct told me she was one of those women who just prefers men. My instinct on this was rarely wrong.

She shifted in her chair until she was facing me, and only me.

Now she spoke more quietly. “That girl-the little trollop Heidi or whatever her name was-how do you know it wasn’t a suicide?”

“I have sources inside the police.” That was about as close to the truth as I wanted to give her.

“But why in the world-who?-I don’t understand.”

I answered her question with a question. “How did you first get the Claflin story?” I already knew the answer to that question, but I wanted to see if she knew, too.

“I own the website; I don’t run it. I didn’t get it. Julian Gunn told me about it. The prostitute contacted”-she turned to look at Mandy, seeming surprised she was still there-“you! Right?”

“That’s right,” Mandy said.

“We didn’t search it out. It came to us. You didn’t make it up, right?”

Mandy said, “Right.”

“You didn’t know it was fake when you wrote the story, right?”

“Right.”

Satisfied, Ellen Wiley turned back to me. “You think I wanted Slander Sheet to run a story that would only end up making us look ridiculous? I mostly keep my hands off. I’m not an editor. I let Julian do his thing. Oh, sure, Julian knows certain stories make my heart beat faster. He caters to my sweet tooth. He knows I like making mischief.”

“Mischief,” I repeated. “Is that what Slander Sheet is?”

“When I was a little girl and my mother put me in these perfect little dresses and pinafores, the first thing I’d do was run outside and roll in the dirt, or play in the barn. I always loved getting messy and dirty and it drove my mother right up the wall. That’s why I had to buy Slander Sheet. Make a little mess. But you think if I knew the story was cooked up I’d let Julian run it?”

“If it forced Claflin off the court.”

She laughed, a deep laugh that came from her chest. “Oh ho, is that what you think? Honey, let me tell you something. I won’t deny I despise that man, Claflin. Ever since that ridiculous lawsuit in the nineties, with all those attorneys general going after the tobacco companies. When he was on the sixth circuit US Court of Appeals. Claflin’s one of those prim-and-proper types who like to tell people what vices they’re allowed to have. The nanny state and all.”

“Then again, the lung cancer thing is kind of a bummer.”

She laughed, and this time it was the coquettish laugh of a sixteen-year-old debutante. “The fact is, people do die from lung cancer, and you know what? It gets you pretty quick. Eight months or so. After you’ve lived a useful life, too-in your sixties or seventies. Smokers die ten years earlier than nonsmokers. That’s ten years we all save on social security and Medicare and pensions. You want to know why our social security system is in such dire straits? It’s that people are giving up smoking.”

“Oh yeah?” I said.

“It’s all this fanaticism. I say, make your choices, live your life. Now, I don’t smoke. That’s a decision I made. Maybe you do smoke. That’s a decision you make.”

“So that’s why you own Slander Sheet-to advance the cause of smoking?”