you?”
“Me? No. I’m like the village gossip.”
“Good. But, you know, I’m not normally chatty like this. If we were in a bar right now, I’d be trying to decide whether to take my hat off to you or punch you in the face.”
“Well, given you’re not wearing a hat, I’m glad we’re where we are.”
“Nothing personal. Just I’ve got a funny feeling you’re in the same line of work as me.”
“I doubt that very much.”
“How so?”
“Bit of a coincidence, both of us ending up here, if we were.”
“I don’t agree. You follow the same story, you end up in the same place. You’re bound to.”
“You’re following a story? You’re a reporter?”
“Like you’re not. And forget about following. You’re not following. You’re stealing. My exclusive. And somehow getting further with it than me. You asshole. You must be very good.”
“Listen, don’t worry. A reporter is the last thing I am. Journalists and me-we’re like oil and water.”
“Really? I’m offended now. What’s wrong with reporters? Everyone should mix with us.”
“Nothing’s wrong. But let’s just say we don’t really seek publicity, where I work.”
“Where do you work?”
“My office is in London. I do a lot of telecoms consultancy. For the government. Tend to be a bit secretive, some of those guys.”
“Sounds interesting. That why you’re in New York?”
“See? That’s why we don’t mix. Can’t help yourself, can you?”
“Sorry. But my problem is, if you were lying, that’s exactly the sort of thing you’d say.”
“Good point. Maybe next time we meet I’ll be picking up the Pulitzer and you’ll be on table Z, crying into your Chardonnay.”
“You know about the Chardonnay? Now I’m really suspicious.”
“Yeah-I was there last year, at the ceremony. Hiding behind the curtains, deciding which big scoop to steal.”
“Then you would never have got mine. I never talk about a story until it’s published. Except to my editor. It brings bad luck.”
“It brought bad luck anyway. I’m guessing it was your story that got you in trouble?”
“So it would seem.”
“What happened?”
“Two guys-the same two that got you-set up a meeting. In a parking lot. Said they had information for me. Then they pulled guns. Put me in the trunk of their car. Drove me out here. It was horrible. I nearly puked.”
“Any idea where we are?”
“Not really. But it’s quiet. And from the length of the drive I’d guess maybe Connecticut? Upstate New York?”
“When did they grab you?”
“Three days ago.”
“Been here all that time?”
“Apart from trips upstairs, to the bathroom.”
“Will anyone have missed you? Raised the alarm?”
“No.”
“What about your editor?”
“Haven’t got one yet. I pitched it to everyone. No one bit.”
“So you’re working it on your own, anyway?”
“Yeah. Pretty stupid, huh?”
“No. I like that. It shows commitment. But what were you stirring up that’s worth all this trouble?”
“You really don’t know?”
“Wouldn’t waste my time asking if I did.”
“Could take a while.”
“Doesn’t look like we’re going anywhere.”
“OK then. It basically started as a social justice piece. I got details of all the homicides in Manhattan over the last twelve months. It was a long list, so I broke it down by clear-up rate. Then I looked at the NYPD’s results. I wanted to see how much is based on the victim’s background.”
“What did you find? Anything conclusive?”
“Oh, yeah. No doubt about it. Institutionalized discrimination, from one end of the city to the other.”
“Based on what?”
“It’s like this. If a Wall Street guy gets hit, the police go hell-for-leather. The killer’s as good as caught before the knot gets tied on the toe tag. But if it’s a bum, the detectives go straight to the paperwork. Kick it down to Open Unsolved.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. They even have their own code for it. ‘NHI’-No Human Involved.”
“It wasn’t like that last night. I found a bum’s body and the NYPD were all over me like a rash.”
“That was different. The way I heard it, there was something a bit special about the victim.”
“How did you hear that? I thought you were locked up in here?”
“I overheard the guys talking, before they went to pick you up.”
“How did they know?”
“I just heard them talking,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “So is it true? The victim was an FBI agent?”
“Yes, he was,” I said. “But they only found that out later. The NYPD didn’t know at the time.”
“See, this federal thing is confusing me. I looked into all the organized groups that could possibly enjoy killing bums. Or benefit from it. Gangs, property developers, white supremacists, psychos, other bums, you name it. And the bureau didn’t factor in once.”
“So?”
“So what am I missing? I’ve got a lot riding on this story. If there’s a huge hole in it, I need to know.”
“There’s no hole. The feds aren’t involved in your story.”
“But their guy was disguised as a bum. He was killed in Manhattan. That’s a coincidence?”
“Why not? It’s a big city. Must be dozens of investigations going on, all the time.”
“What were they looking at, then, the guys you spoke to?”
“Don’t know,” I said. After all, she was still a reporter. “They kept their cards pretty close. But it was clear they were only looking at things that happened outside the city.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then thank goodness,” she said, turning her back to the dividing wall and sinking to the floor. “I thought I’d missed something. If all this was for nothing…”
I shifted around the corner so I was sitting nearer to her. We ended up almost back to back, our right shoulders separated by the mesh. Her thick black hair was spilling through into my cage. Some of it was touching my arm. She twisted her head to look at me and a strand tickled my cheek. It smelled of coconut.
“What’s your name?” I said. “I want to look out for your byline.”
She smiled.
“Julianne,” she said. “Julianne Morgan. You?”
“David Trevellyan.”
“David, can I ask you something? I’m curious.”
“Sure.”
“About the FBI. Did they give you a hard time?”
“Not especially.”
“Why did they pull you in, then?”
“The NYPD had a tip from a bogus eyewitness. It threw them off the scent for a while.”
