reporter who dealt with anonymous sources. “Only two kinds of people can talk without inhibitions,” she said. “Strangers or lovers. Everyone in between is just negotiating.”
“So,” he said, “unless there’s love—”
“In some ways, you’re actually better off being strangers.”
After six years of marriage, he had to wonder when 53
THE INFORMANT
it was that they’d been reduced to “negotiating”—and whether they’d finally reached the point where they were better off strangers.
His phone rang and he snatched it up, thinking maybe it was Karen. To his disappointment, it was Aaron Fields.
“I knew I’d catch you at work,” the publisher said with approval. “Listen, I just wanted to let you know I’m making a slight change in your proposal to the FBI.”
“What kind of change?”
“I agree that we can’t have the FBI eavesdropping on your phone conversations. The idea of a bug in a newsroom makes me very nervous. But instead of you just passing the informant’s tip along to the FBI, we’re proposing that the FBI get its information just like everybody else—by reading your stories in the Tribune . We retain exclusive control over what we print and don’t print.”
“What do you mean ‘print’ ? Who says this guy is telling the truth?”
“He’s proven himself reliable with Gerty Kincaid.”
“Come on,” Mike scoffed. “You always insisted we verify—”
“Things change,” Fields interrupted. “I’m not telling you to abandon your standards. Throw in all the qualifiers you want—‘unconfirmed reports…it’s alleged’…all that.
But the paper needs the sales bump this story will give us.”
Mike was speechless.
“Charlie’s in agreement with me on this,” said Fields.
“Printing a story after each call from your informant is 54
James Grippando
more in line with our role as independent journalists than passing tips directly to the FBI anyway.”
“I’m still not comfortable—”
“Mike, your instincts were right: We have to help stop this killer. But if we pay money for the tips and don’t write the stories, your informant will know we’re working with the police. Trust me, okay? This is the only way it’ll work. Now, get back to work, you slacker,” he joked, then hung up.
Mike breathed a heavy sigh, not sure what to think. He switched off his desk lamp.
Somehow, he didn’t feel much like working late anymore.
A slushy rain had been falling all day. By 9:00 P.M. temperatures were in the teens and downtown Atlanta was encased in ice. Most businesses had closed early that afternoon so that people could get home safely before dark.
Those who hadn’t left fast enough were now parked on the interstate, cursing the winter storm and a five-car pileup that had traffic blocked for miles.
A blast of cold wind nearly knocked Cybil Holland to the frozen sidewalk as she emerged from the Ritz-Carlton on Peachtree Street. No vacancy. It was the same at all of the downtown hotels. At this point everyone, Cybil included, had given up any hope of getting home tonight.
She cinched up her Burberry trench coat, turned up the lapels and headed directly into the chilly north wind toward the subway station at Peachtree Plaza. The Ritz had promised her a room at their Buckhead
55
THE INFORMANT
Hotel in midtown, but it was up to her to figure out how to get there. MARTA was her only hope.
She walked with her head down, bucking the wind and intermittent icy flakes that bit her on the cheeks and forehead. It was too dark and windy to tell for sure, but the precipitation seemed to be falling heavier in the streetlamps’ fuzzy light. Across the street, the store windows at Macy’s had glazed over with a thick layer of ice.
The Ritz was only a block behind her and already she felt like she’d trudged a mile, freezing and suddenly nervous—increasingly aware that she was alone on the streets.
Without gloves her hands were stinging. She blew on them and her
“So,” he said, “unless there’s love—”
“In some ways, you’re actually better off being strangers.”
After six years of marriage, he had to wonder when 53
THE INFORMANT
it was that they’d been reduced to “negotiating”—and whether they’d finally reached the point where they were better off strangers.
His phone rang and he snatched it up, thinking maybe it was Karen. To his disappointment, it was Aaron Fields.
“I knew I’d catch you at work,” the publisher said with approval. “Listen, I just wanted to let you know I’m making a slight change in your proposal to the FBI.”
“What kind of change?”
“I agree that we can’t have the FBI eavesdropping on your phone conversations. The idea of a bug in a newsroom makes me very nervous. But instead of you just passing the informant’s tip along to the FBI, we’re proposing that the FBI get its information just like everybody else—by reading your stories in the Tribune . We retain exclusive control over what we print and don’t print.”
“What do you mean ‘print’ ? Who says this guy is telling the truth?”
“He’s proven himself reliable with Gerty Kincaid.”
“Come on,” Mike scoffed. “You always insisted we verify—”
“Things change,” Fields interrupted. “I’m not telling you to abandon your standards. Throw in all the qualifiers you want—‘unconfirmed reports…it’s alleged’…all that.
But the paper needs the sales bump this story will give us.”
Mike was speechless.
“Charlie’s in agreement with me on this,” said Fields.
“Printing a story after each call from your informant is 54
James Grippando
more in line with our role as independent journalists than passing tips directly to the FBI anyway.”
“I’m still not comfortable—”
“Mike, your instincts were right: We have to help stop this killer. But if we pay money for the tips and don’t write the stories, your informant will know we’re working with the police. Trust me, okay? This is the only way it’ll work. Now, get back to work, you slacker,” he joked, then hung up.
Mike breathed a heavy sigh, not sure what to think. He switched off his desk lamp.
Somehow, he didn’t feel much like working late anymore.
A slushy rain had been falling all day. By 9:00 P.M. temperatures were in the teens and downtown Atlanta was encased in ice. Most businesses had closed early that afternoon so that people could get home safely before dark.
Those who hadn’t left fast enough were now parked on the interstate, cursing the winter storm and a five-car pileup that had traffic blocked for miles.
A blast of cold wind nearly knocked Cybil Holland to the frozen sidewalk as she emerged from the Ritz-Carlton on Peachtree Street. No vacancy. It was the same at all of the downtown hotels. At this point everyone, Cybil included, had given up any hope of getting home tonight.
She cinched up her Burberry trench coat, turned up the lapels and headed directly into the chilly north wind toward the subway station at Peachtree Plaza. The Ritz had promised her a room at their Buckhead
55
THE INFORMANT
Hotel in midtown, but it was up to her to figure out how to get there. MARTA was her only hope.
She walked with her head down, bucking the wind and intermittent icy flakes that bit her on the cheeks and forehead. It was too dark and windy to tell for sure, but the precipitation seemed to be falling heavier in the streetlamps’ fuzzy light. Across the street, the store windows at Macy’s had glazed over with a thick layer of ice.
The Ritz was only a block behind her and already she felt like she’d trudged a mile, freezing and suddenly nervous—increasingly aware that she was alone on the streets.
Without gloves her hands were stinging. She blew on them and her
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