Breaking the Story

by Ashley Farley

  “I’m working on a story, and I could use your help in verifying some of the details.”

  Settling back on the sofa, he threaded his fingers together and placed his hands in his lap. “Go on, I’m listening.”

  “Before I explain, I need to know I can trust you, that this conversation doesn’t leave this room.”

  He smiled. “Whatever is said on the ranch stays on the ranch.”

  “I’m serious, Guy. Important people could get hurt if I don’t handle this situation properly.”

  “Now I’m really intrigued.” He locked eyes with her. “We don’t know each other very well, Scottie, but I promise you, you can trust me. Whatever you tell me does not leave this apartment without your permission.”

  A wave of doubt gripped her. Someone had ransacked her home and chased her through the streets of downtown Richmond. Was she making the wrong decision by sharing her story with a man she barely knew? Maybe. But if Guy wouldn’t help her, she didn’t know anyone else who could.

  She removed her laptop from her bag and placed it in her lap. “Last night at the convention, I stumbled into a bit of a predicament.”

  “Define stumble.”

  “Okay… So maybe it’s more accurate to say I was lying in wait in the alley behind the convention center.”

  His eyes grew big and round.

  “I know.” She sighed. “Call me the paparazzi, but I was desperate for a shot of Catherine Caine alone with her family, just one photograph that was different from all the rest.”

  “And I assume you got it?”

  “Oh, yeah. Three of them.” She set her laptop on the coffee table in front of them, loaded the images, and watched closely for his initial reaction. His gray eyes lit up for a brief second, like the sun beaming through a cloudy sky, but just as quickly, his expression turned serious.

  “Who’s the guy?”

  She considered a witty that guy comeback, and then realized it wasn’t appropriate. “I haven’t a clue. I was awake half the night searching the Internet. He doesn’t exist, at least not on social media, or anywhere else online for that matter.”

  He leaned in for a closer view. “He’s dressed like he’s going to dinner at a five-star resort. His clothes aren’t flashy, but well cut. Clearly he has money.”

  “He’s wealthy, all right. There’s no doubt in my mind. His grooming is immaculate. Look at his hands.” Scottie zoomed in on the man’s manicured hands. “He’s elegant. Some might even call him debonair.”

  Guy shot her a sideways glance. “You make him sound like James Bond.”

  Scottie considered herself something of an expert on Bond. Her soon-to-be ex-husband owned every movie in the collection. “Bond is actually a good analogy. Add a few gray hairs at the temples, and he would pass for Pierce Brosnan any day.”

  “Brosnan, huh? Why not Roger Moore or Sean Connery?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Will you be serious?”

  Guy returned his attention to the computer. “Why haven’t you sold the photographs?”

  “My conscience won’t let me until I know who he is. I don’t want to end up with mud dripping from my face by posting my photographs without the facts. If he turns out to be Catherine Caine’s best friend from kindergarten days, I’ll look like an idiot.”

  “You have a photograph of a strange man kissing the Democratic candidate for president. Who cares who he is, as long as he’s not her brother?” Guy examined the photographs closely. “I’ve met both her brothers several times. And I can assure you, that man is neither Samuel nor Lawrence Wainwright. You’re a photojournalist, Scottie. You’re only responsible for the image. Why don’t you submit your pictures and let the news folks figure out who he is?”

  “I’m more than a photojournalist, Guy. If I want top news organizations to consider me for positions that will take me to the places I want to go, I need to submit the complete package. Both the story and the image must have my byline.”

  “And you think I’m in a position to help you determine this man’s identity?”

  She nodded. “I thought that maybe you, or someone you know, might have access to certain databases…”

  “We don’t live in a totalitarian state, Scottie. Our government doesn’t have constant surveillance on the American people any more than we have a database that catalogs every citizen’s image. If this man is a criminal, then that’s a different story. Did you ever think these pictures might place you in danger?”

  She looked away from him, not wanting to see his reaction when she told him her house had been broken into and she’d been chased. “Actually, I already have a couple of thugs harassing me.”

  His face fell. “You conveniently left that part out.”

  She told him about the men who had ransacked her house and chased her through downtown Richmond.

  He moved to the edge of the sofa, closer to her. “Listen to me, Scottie. This is a dangerous situation, and I’m not sure I’m the right person to help you. My involvement in your crisis presents a conflict of interest on a number of different levels.”

  Scottie jumped to her feet. “I may never get a chance like this again, Guy. If you can’t help me, I don’t know anyone else who can.”

  He stared at her for several long seconds, then let out a deep breath and said, “I need a minute to think about it.”

  When he stood up and walked over to the window, Scottie leaned against the kitchen counter and watched the minutes tick away on the oven clock. Five minutes, then ten. She held her breath when he finally turned to face her, his expression all business.

  “I have a few colleagues I can ask for advice. If you’re okay with it, I’ll show them the pictures and see what they think. They may even know who the man is.”

  She tilted her head to the side as she considered his response. “You don’t work for the Secret Service or the Department of Homeland Security, do you?”

  “No. I most definitely do not.”

  “Then who? The GOP?”

  “I—” He started to speak, then clammed up. “You’re gonna have to trust me for now, if you want my help in identifying this Brosnan character.”

  Scottie gnawed on her lower lip. He didn’t deny working for the Republican Party, which was the same as admitting to it in her book. He’d had plenty of opportunities to mention this little tidbit when they’d talked about politics during their previous two encounters. Would his allegiance to the GOP, to Andrew Blackmore if he was working on the presidential campaign, prevent him from handling the situation objectively? Did these colleagues of his also work for the Republican Party? She imagined a roomful of campaign workers gathered around a computer drooling over the images, discussing the ruination of their opponent. They would leak the photographs first and ask questions later. They didn’t know Scottie. They wouldn’t care about her integrity as a reporter.

  She couldn’t explain it, but something about Guy told Scottie she could trust him. And she’d made a vow to herself to pay more attention to her wise inner voice that usually proved to be spot on and ignore the reckless impulses that led her to trouble.

  She sighed. “I guess it doesn’t really matter who your boss is. You’ve already seen the photographs. The cat is out of the bag.” She thought about it for a minute. “Okay, fine. I’ll let you show the images to your colleagues, as long as they don’t share them with anyone else.” She downloaded the files onto yet another memory stick and handed it to him. “Leave the images on this drive. Whatever you do, do not copy them to anyone’s computer or mobile device. And I want that memory stick back when you’re done.”

  “Understood.” He took the drive from her and slipped it in his pocket. He opened the door. “Lock this door behind me, and whatever you do, don’t leave this apartment until I get back.”

  “Don’t worry. I have nowhere to go.”

  13

  Guy bypassed the elevator and headed for the stairs, taking them two at a time down four flights. He jogged through the lobby and
hit the sidewalk running. He weaved his way in between and around the afternoon commuters for six blocks, until he felt some of the tension leave his body.

  Scottie Darden had turned his life upside down, one somersault at a time, ever since he met her a week ago at the Richmond airport. He’d finally managed to go for a stretch of time that afternoon without thinking about her once. Then boom, she showed up on his doorstep, asking for his help, with a handful of photographs that could guarantee him a job come January. Once the images went viral, the election would be over for Catherine Caine. Andrew Blackmore would become the next president of the United States, and Guy would be appointed chief of something. No way was he walking away from the opportunity. He considered himself a good guy, but he sure as hell was no saint.

  At the next intersection, while he waited for traffic to clear, he sent a group text to his coworkers: We have a 911. Meet me at the office asap.

  Rich replied: We’re still at the office, bro. What’s up?

  I’ll fill you in when I get there. ETA five mins.

  Somehow Guy needed to figure out a solution that worked for all of them. He knew his coworkers well enough to realize that, when they saw these images, Rich and James would open a bottle of Jameson Reserve and call in the strippers. But they were a long way from celebrating. The outcome of this once in a lifetime opportunity hinged on all of them playing their cards right. Rich and James knew every insider in Washington by name. With any luck, they could identify the mystery man. And even better if they could explain his relationship with Senator Caine. If not, they would have to figure out a plan B that Guy could sell to Scottie. He agreed with her that leaking the photographs to the press without the story would be both political and professional suicide.

  Rich and James were waiting at Guy’s desk when he arrived. “What’s up, man? We were just leaving to get some dinner.”

  “Order a pizza,” Guy said, pulling his desk chair up to his computer. “We’re gonna be a while.”

  He inserted the memory stick into his computer and clicked on the files. The faces of Senator Caine and her mystery man filled his screen.

  “Holy shit!” James’s blue eyes grew as big and round as SpongeBob’s. “Is that who I think it is?”

  “It’s certainly not Mother Teresa.” Guy scrolled through the images. “What I want to know is, who is the man kissing Senator Caine?”

  Guy felt James and Rich breathing down his neck as they peered over his shoulder. “Can you zoom in a little?” Rich asked.

  Guy magnified the image, and the three of them studied the mystery man’s face.

  “I haven’t a clue,” Rich said. “He looks familiar, like I’ve met him somewhere before, but I can’t place him.”

  “He could be any one of a thousand campaign contributors we’ve met over the past eighteen months,” James added. “Where the hell did you get these images?”

  “From a photojournalist I met last week when my plane rerouted to Richmond. I ran into her again in Philadelphia. She came to me this afternoon for help identifying this man.” Guy filled them in on how Scottie had captured the images and the subsequent break in at her house.

  James punched the air. “Whoo-hoo! This is the end of the road for the Democrats.” He jabbed his finger at the computer. “Post those suckers online this instant.”

  Guy swiveled in his chair to face his coworkers. “Didn’t you hear what I just said? These are not our photographs to leak. We have to play it Scottie’s way. If we post them and it turns out this man is a close relative of the senator’s, we will be eating a plateful of crow from now until the next presidential election in four years.”

  “They’re romantically involved all right,” Rich said. “Why else would someone have broken into her house?”

  Guy rubbed his chin. “You make a good point, but we have to be absolutely certain.”

  James shook his head in disgust. “You’ll never survive in politics with those kind of ethics.”

  “I agree with James,” Rich said. “You need to post the pictures now and ask for forgiveness later from your new girlfriend… or whatever she is to you.”

  “Look, guys, I’m just as anxious as you are to stage a social media blitz with these images. But my daddy doesn’t have deep pockets like yours. My reputation is all I’ve got. I gave Scottie my word, and I’m sticking to it.”

  “What do you suggest we do, then?” Rich asked. “We can’t let this opportunity go.”

  Guy turned back around to his computer. “We find someone who can identify this man.”

  “Like who?” James asked, his tone skeptical.

  “Surely we can think of somebody.” Rich crossed his legs and leaned back against Guy’s desk as he contemplated their dilemma. “What about Roger Baird? If he can’t help us, I’m sure he knows someone who can.”

  Roger Baird was the hotshot young agent who had recently rocketed to the top of the FBI’s food chain.

  “Dude.” James smacked Rich on the back. “Do you seriously know Roger Baird?”

  Rich shrugged. “Enough to ask him for a favor. He dated my sister for a while in college.”

  “Then by all means, text him,” James said, pointing at the cell phone in Rich’s hand. “Get him over here now.”

  When Rich started to thumb a text, Guy said, “Don’t text him, dumb ass. This situation warrants a phone call.”

  “Right.” Rich clicked on the number and held the phone to his ear. He listened for a minute, and then left a brief message for Roger to call him regarding an urgent matter. He slammed his phone down on Guy’s desk. “According to Roger’s voice mail, he’s not available until Monday.”

  “That’s what happens when you get five promotions in two years—time off for good behavior.” James hurled the pen he’d been holding across the room. “What are we supposed to do now, sit on this all weekend?”

  “Unless you have a better idea,” Guy said.

  “Actually I do.” Rich picked his phone back up. “Text me the images, Guy. I have an idea of where I might find Baird.”

  “I can’t do that,” Guy said, shaking his head. “I promised Scottie I wouldn’t share them.”

  Rich’s nostrils flared. “Look, dude. We need to divide and conquer on this. Go home to this Scottie person. Take her out to dinner. Show her a good time in bed. I don’t care what you do with her. Just keep her safe and don’t let her out of your sight no matter what. In the meantime, James and I will find a way to identify this man. But you’ve got to trust us with the image files in order to do that.”

  Guy thought about it for a minute. “I can’t give you the full image, but I can give you something that will work just as well.” He opened his photo editor and cropped Senator Caine out of the image that offered the clearest view of the mystery man. He exported the new file and texted it to Rich. “There. You should get it in a second. But I’m warning you, if one word of this leaks to the press, I’ll know where it came from. And you’ll have to answer to me.”

  14

  After Guy left to meet with his coworkers, Scottie settled in at the bar with her laptop. She turned on CNN for background entertainment while she edited her photographs from the convention and uploaded them to her website. With two popular candidates for president, America was hopeful for new leadership, which meant patriotism was trending on social media. Scottie was pleased to see her Republican convention photographs flying off the shelves of her online store. She transferred her meager earnings from her PayPal account to her checking account, once again giving her a positive balance.

  Around eight o’clock, when her stomach started to growl, her turkey sandwich now a dim memory, she inspected the slim pickings in Guy’s refrigerator—cartons of moldy leftover Chinese food, a package of individually wrapped process cheese slices, and a half-empty jar of dill pickles. She didn’t dare leave the safety of Guy’s building, not that the goon platoon could possibly have followed her. Instead, she tried to curb her appetite by drinking three tumblers ful
l of water.

  Curling up on the sofa, she surfed the news networks and caught up on the latest headlines, election related and otherwise. She was in a semiconscious state, seconds away from drifting off to sleep, when Guy got home a few minutes before ten. “Dinner.” He held up a brown paper bag spotted with grease. “Burgers and fries from Hal’s, the best hangover dive in the city.”

  “What if I don’t have a hangover?” she asked.

  “The plan is to eat the burgers in advance of the hangovers we’re going to have tomorrow.” He produced a bottle of Grey Goose from the cabinet under his television. He poured two shots and handed her one. “Cheers.” He held his glass out to her. “To identifying the mystery man.”

  She downed her shot and dug into the burger bag. “I’m starving.” She removed two foil-wrapped burgers and a handful of plastic condiment packages. “Are both of them the same?”

  “Yes. I didn’t know how you like your burger, so I ordered yours plain with American cheese, like mine.”

  She remembered the processed cheese in his refrigerator. “Good thing I’m not lactose intolerant.” She was hungry enough to eat a raw side of beef. “What’d you find out?” she asked before taking a big bite of her burger.

  “Not much, unfortunately. Neither of my coworkers knows who the man is.”

  She stopped chewing. “Are you serious?”

  “As serious as the heart attack you’re going to have after eating that burger.”

  She set the burger down on the foil wrapper. “This isn’t a joking matter, Guy. There are mean men chasing me for these photographs,” she said, close to tears.

  His face grew somber. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” He placed his arm around her shoulders and pulled her into him. “I was only trying to lighten the mood. My coworkers and I came up with a plan. We have no intention of letting those mean men get to you.”

  Sniffling, she pushed him away. “Stop teasing me.”

  He massaged her shoulder. “If you’ll give me a chance, I’ll explain our plan.”