Fast Track. Fern MichaelsЧитать онлайн книгу.
the hell would buy the Post?” Ted asked, ignoring Fields’s comments.
“Someone who doesn’t like the owners of the paper. Someone with money to burn. Some asshole, would be my opinion. Like I said, if it’s for real, it explains Sullivan’s pissy attitude. He’s been down on everyone. He wants news! What the hell are we supposed to do when there isn’t any news going on?”
“He told me to get creative,” Ted said.
“I saw some suits going into his office two days ago. Never saw them around the paper before. Five bucks says Sullivan knows. Call him, Ted,” Espinosa said.
“It’s almost eight thirty. You want me to call him at home?”
“Well, yeah, if that’s where he is. You’ll get a feel for whether he’s telling you the truth or not.”
Ted’s stomach muscles curled themselves into a hard knot as he punched in the numbers of Liam Sullivan’s home phone. The EIC answered, his voice cold and angry-sounding. He hated to be called at home unless some politician bit the dust in his paramour’s arms. “This better be good, Robinson.”
Ted didn’t mince any words. “How come you didn’t tell any of us the paper is being sold? What, we come in one day and turn around and walk out when the new owners tell us our services are no longer needed? Is that the way it’s going to go down? Dirty pool, Sullivan.” He hated how choked up his voice sounded.
The sudden silence on the other end of the phone bothered Ted. “It would help if you’d say something here, Mr. Sullivan.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sullivan snarled. “Have you been drinking, Robinson?”
“No, I haven’t been drinking. Jack Emery, you know District Attorney Jack Emery, well he just told me he heard the news at noon today. Turn on the news, your secret is out. I expected more from you, Liam. Now what the hell are we supposed to do?”
“What did I tell you to do today, Robinson? This crap was not what I had in mind. Didn’t I tell you to go out there and find some news? Aren’t you supposed to be working on that and the ‘Where are they now?’ series you conned me into agreeing to? Stop bothering me with this nonsense.”
Ted snapped his cell phone shut. “He acted a little too…angry. I think he knows something.”
“Ha! I told you. Now what?” Espinosa demanded.
“I’m splitting, guys. My car’s on the next block. Call me if things change,” Tick Fields said as he veered off to the right. Both reporters ignored him.
“What should we do, Joe?” Ted asked.
Espinosa shrugged. “What can we do? If you’re looking for some instant gratification, we can go home and hit the phones. We can start with all our snitches and see whose ears have picked up what. I have a few favors I can call in. You must have a few yourself, Ted. Worst-case scenario, we turn on the news and wait to see if anyone is talking. What’s your gut saying after you talked to Sullivan?”
Ted shrugged. “He sounded surprised and angry. Surprised that I knew? I’m not sure. The thing that bothers me the most is Emery saying Maggie bailed because she knew what was going down. I could see Maggie doing that. She always knew everything before it happened. I never could quite figure out how she did that, but damn, she was always on the money.”
Espinosa stepped to the curb and hailed a cab. “Call me if you hear anything. I’ll do the same.” Ted nodded as he walked along. He did some of his best thinking when he was walking. Or pretending to jog. Or running. His feet picked up some speed, then he was running so fast he could barely catch his breath.
Sometimes life just plain sucked.
Ted was almost to his apartment when he remembered he hadn’t cleared out Maggie’s things. Gasping for breath, he waited for his heartbeat to return to normal. Suddenly, his head jerked upright. If Maggie knew about the possible sale of the paper and was getting out, why didn’t she take her belongings to her new job? Assuming there was a new job in the offing. It wasn’t computing. Still, if he didn’t pick up Maggie’s belongings, his ass would be grass with Sullivan.
With that thought hanging over his head, Ted whirled around and walked to the corner, where he hailed a cab. He gave the driver the address of the Post’s apartment. When they arrived, he asked the cabbie to wait, the meter ticking.
Ted jammed things any old way into Maggie’s suitcases. It took him three trips to load up the cab.
When all was said and done, Ted had his old girlfriend’s belongings stored away in the spare room and was out $70. He made a note to put it on his expense account.
He was so tired he felt like he was going to fall asleep on his feet, but he couldn’t give in to the tiredness. He had phone calls to make. Lots and lots of phone calls.
Each call required a different story to the person on the other end of the line. On his ninth call to a senator’s aide his eyeballs popped to attention. “Yeah, yeah, I heard something about that earlier this evening,” the aide said.
“Who told you?” Ted all but snarled.
“Nobody told me. I just overheard a conversation. About an hour ago, as a matter of fact. I thought about you when I heard it, then it just blew out of my mind. You want me to ask around?”
Did he want to perpetuate what he was convinced was a Jack Emery rumor? Not really. “Sure,” he said.
Ted bit down on his lower lip. Truth or fiction? He looked at his watch. Five minutes until the eleven o’clock news came on. He used up the five minutes by making a quick trip to the bathroom, where he scared his cats half to death as he barreled into the small bathroom, and then popped a beer from his kitchen on the way back to the living room. If Emery was right, and the media had hold of the story, the possible sale of the Post would be the lead for the late-night news.
Ted settled himself in his ratty old Barcalounger, kicked up the footrest, and leaned back, the ice-cold beer in his hand. Feeling like a little kid, he crossed the fingers on his left hand.
Ted ogled the attractive blonde with the flawless skin and expertly made-up eyes and lips. Very kissable. Bedroom eyes. Even so, she couldn’t hold a candle to Maggie Spritzer. He listened as the anchor, Sylvia-something-or-other, welcomed all the viewers who stayed up late enough to watch her. Then she moved with expertise to the news at hand.
“While we can’t confirm the news I’m about to share with you at this late hour, it is rumored that the Post is going on the auction block. We’re told—again, this has not been confirmed—that secret negotiations have been under way for the past two months.” Ted groaned at the news as Sylvia-something-or-other moved on to a bill that was about to be voted on in the Senate.
“Shit!”
Emery was right!
“Son of a fucking bitch!”
Ted squeezed his eyes shut so he wouldn’t cry.
Chapter 6
Charles Martin stared at his computer screen, a frown building between his brows. His stable of retired covert operatives were sending him e-mails at the speed of light. Most were giving him tidbits of information they’d picked up over the past few days in regard to the World Bank and the problems within. All were chomping at the bit to, as Charles put it, get back in the covert game. When it came right down to it, it wasn’t what you knew, it was who you knew. Without these old friends willing to stick their necks out, he knew he could never mastermind his operation. He had other powerful help he could call on from time to time, too, but he preferred to deal with people like himself, people who knew how to play the game, when to hold and when to fold.
Even when money was no object, things sometimes couldn’t quite come together. Right now he was instant messaging an operative he’d put in charge of securing six black Chevy Suburbans bearing untraceable government license plates