“Okay. Paulie, you want to start with your end?” She passed Paulette the file.
“Yeah.” Paulie grimaced as she opened the file and launched into her explanation. “In a nutshell, they’re laundries for dirty money. There’s enough of a pattern to it that if I was a DA in California I’d be picking up the phone to the local FBI office.”
“That’s why I figured you’d want to know,” Miriam explained. “This is a big deal, Joe. I think we’ve got enough to pin a money-laundering rap on a couple of really big corporations and make it stick. But last November you were talking to some folks at Proteome, and I figured you might want to refer this to Legal and make sure you’re fire- walled before this hits the fan.”
“Well. That’s very interesting.” Joe smiled back at her. “Is that your file on this story?”
“Yeah,” said Paulette.
“Would you mind leaving it with me?” he asked. He cleared his throat. “I’m kind of embarrassed,” he said, shrugging a small-boy shrug. The defensive set of his shoulders backed his words. “Look, I’m going to have to read this myself. Obviously, the scope for mistakes is-” he shrugged.
Suddenly Miriam had a sinking feeling: It’s going to be bad. She racked her brains for clues. Is he going to try to bury us?
Joe shook his head. “Look, I’d like to start by saying that this isn’t about anything you’ve done,” he added hurriedly. “It’s just that we’ve got an investment to protect and I need to work out how to do so.”
“Before we break the story.” Miriam forced another, broader, smile. “It was all in the public record,” she added. “If we don’t break it, one of our competitors will.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Joe said smoothly. “Listen, I’ll get back to you in an hour or so. If you leave this with me for now, I just need to go and talk to someone in Legal so we can sort out how to respond. Then I’ll let you know how we’re going to handle it.”
“Oh, okay then,” said Paulette acceptingly.
Miriam let her expression freeze in a fixed grin. Oh shit, she thought as she stood up. “Thanks for giving us your time,” she said.
“Let yourselves out,” Joe said tersely, already turning the first page.
Out in the corridor, Paulette turned to Miriam. “Didn’t that go well” she insisted.
Miriam took a deep breath. “Paulie.”
“Yeah?”
Her knees felt weak. “Something’s wrong.”
“What?” Paulette looked concerned.
“Elevator.” She hit the “call” button and waited in silence, trying to still the butterflies in her stomach. It arrived, and she waited for the doors to close behind them before she continued. “I may just have made a bad mistake.”
“ ‘Mistake?’” Paulette looked puzzled. “You don’t think-”
“He didn’t say anything about publishing,” Miriam said slowly. “Not one word. What were the other names on that list of small investors? The ones you didn’t check?”
“The list? He’s got-” Paulette frowned.
“Was Somerville Investments one of them?”
“ Somerville? Could be. Why? Who are they?”
“Because that’s-” Miriam pointed a finger at the roof and circled. She watched Paulette’s eyes grow round.
“I’m thinking about magazine returns from the newsstand side of the business, Paulie. Don’t you know we’ve got low returns by industry standards? And people buy magazines for cash.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry, Paulie.”
When they got back to Miriam’s cubicle, a uniformed security guard and a suit from Human Resources were already waiting for them.
“Paulette Milan? Miriam Beckstein?” said the man from HR. He checked a notepad carefully.
“Yes?” Miriam asked cautiously. “What’s up?”
“Would you please follow me? Both of you?”
He turned and headed for the stairwell down to the main entrance. Miriam glanced around and saw the security guard pull a brief expression of discomfort. “Go on, ma’am.”
“Go on,” echoed Paulette from her left shoulder, her face white.
This can’t be happening, Miriam thought woodenly. She felt her feet carrying her toward the staircase and down, toward the glass doors at the front.
“Cards, please,” said the man from Human Resources. He held out his hand impatiently. Miriam passed him her card reluctantly: Paulette followed suit.
He cleared his throat and looked them over superciliously. “I’ve been told to tell you that The Industry Weatherman won’t be pressing charges,” he said. “We’ll clear your cubicles and forward your personal items and your final paycheck to your addresses of record. But you’re no longer allowed on the premises.” The security guard took up a position behind him, blocking the staircase. “Please leave.”
“What’s going on?” Paulette demanded, her voice rising toward a squeak.
“You’re both being terminated,” the HR man said impassively. “Misappropriation of company resources; specifically, sending personal e-mail on company time and looking at pornographic Web sites.”
“ ‘Pornographic-’” Miriam felt herself going faint with fury. She took half a step toward the HR man and barely noticed Paulette grabbing her sleeve.
“It’s not worth it, Miriam,” Paulie warned her. “We both know it isn’t true.” She glared at the HR man. “You work for Somerville Investments, don’t you?”
He nodded incuriously. “Please leave. Now.”
Miriam forced herself to smile. “Better brush up your resume,” she said shakily and turned toward the exit.
Two-thirds of her life ago, when she was eleven, Miriam had been stung by a hornet. It had been a bad one: Her arm had swollen up like a balloon, red and sore and painful to touch, and the sting itself had hurt like crazy. But the worst thing of all was the sense of moral indignation and outrage. Miriam-aged-eleven had been minding her own business, playing in the park with her skateboard-she’d been a tomboy back then, and some would say she still was-and she hadn’t done anything to provoke the angry yellow-and-black insect. It just flew at her, wings whining angrily, landed, and before she could shake it off it stung her.
She’d howled.
This time she was older and much more self-sufficient-college, pre-med, and her failed marriage to Ben had given her a grounding in self-sufficiency-so she managed to say good-bye to an equally shocked Paulie and make it into her car before she broke down. And the tears came silently-this time. It was raining in the car park, but she couldn’t tell whether there was more water inside or outside. They weren’t tears of pain: They were tears of anger. That bastard-
For a moment, Miriam fantasized about storming back in through the fire door at the side of the building, going up to Joe Dixon’s office, and pushing him out of the big picture window. It made her feel better to think about that, but after a few minutes she reluctantly concluded that it wouldn’t solve anything. Joe had the file. He had her computer-and Paulie’s-and a moment’s thought told her that those machines would be being wiped right now. Doubtless, server logs showing her peeking at porn on the job would be being fabricated. She’d spoken to some geeks at a dot-com startup once who explained just how easy it was if you wanted to get someone dismissed. “Shit,” she mumbled to herself and sniffed. “I’ll have to get another job. Shouldn’t be too hard, even without a reference.”
Still, she was badly shaken. Journalists didn’t get fired for exposing money-laundering scams; that was in the rules somewhere. Wasn’t it? In fact, it was completely crazy. She blinked away the remaining angry tears. I need to go see Iris, she decided. Tomorrow would be soon enough to start looking for a new job. Or to figure out a way to break the story herself, if she was going to try and do it freelance. Today she needed a shoulder to cry on-and a sanity check. And if there was one person who could provide both, it was her adoptive mother.
Iris Beckstein lived alone in her old house near Lowell Park. Miriam felt obscurely guilty about visiting her during daytime working hours. Iris never tried to mother her, being content to wander around and see to her own quiet hobbies most of the time since Morris had died. But Miriam also felt guilty about not visiting Iris more often. Iris
