The Inverted Pyramid (An Alex Vane Media Thriller, Book 2)
Page 27
"Nope." I'd been on that damn list for two years.
"We got an offer?"
"Not that." I had no intention of selling The Barker, but I didn't mind the fact that we got offers. Every time a major media company tried to buy us out, we'd leak the story to the business blogs and get a spike in traffic.
"You got a story?"
"Ding-ding-ding. Can you guess from where?"
"Well, all our best sources come to me, these days, so—"
"That stings."
"Who?" he asked.
I smiled.
"Who?"
"Innerva. She said James has a story for me."
He paused a beat, checking to see if I was serious, then leapt up and clapped his hands together once with a controlled, violent joy.
I nodded. "I know, right?
He sat back down. "I thought he'd ghosted you."
"He had ghosted me. Until fifteen minutes ago."
Bird was the only person at The Barker who knew that the "I.S." from the e-mail was Innerva Shah. Other than Greta, he was the only person I'd told about NUM. And he was the only person who knew my history with James.
We'd met when James was an intern at The New York Standard, where I'd been an ambitious court reporter. I broke some big stories back then. The kind that got me on TV and now have their own Wikipedia pages. But that's like saying I was an up-and-coming deckhand on the Titanic. James and I knew the newspaper model was sinking, and we were looking for a life raft.
So, in 2002, we'd founded News Scoop out of the rubble of the first dotcom bust. We were the first investigative journalism site on the Internet, but we only investigated one thing. The media.
We knew about all the behind-the-scenes wrangling that shapes the news America consumes. When an international media company tried to stack the FCC to take control of the broadband Internet market, we were the first to know. When The New York Times buried a story on the dangers of a well-known blood pressure medication, we had sources who told us. When the editor of a national magazine got caught charging shareholders for wild nights at a strip club, we heard about that, too. I was on a first-name basis with half the journalists in New York, and one degree of separation away from the rest. We did real stories. Good stories. And for a couple of years, it was great.
But despite our early successes at News Scoop, James had bigger plans than playing Internet journalist with me for the rest of his life. In 2004, he teamed up with Innerva and took off. These days, an e-mail from James or Innerva was like God tapping me on the shoulder and whispering, "Hey, I've got a scoop for you."
Not that you've ever heard of them. People like James and Innerva don't take victory laps on CNN when they break a story. Strictly speaking, they don't even break stories. If the wrong people knew who they were, they'd be in jail. Or dead. That's why they leave the breaking—and the victory laps—to guys like me. In the early days, they called me to Vegas several times a year to feed me stories. But I hadn't heard from them in a year.
Until fifteen minutes ago.
Bird said, "What did she say? I mean, did she tell you anything about the story?"
"Just that they had something for me."
"No details?"
"No."
"When are you meeting her?"
"I need a flight. Can you call Mia in?"
Bird texted Mia from his laptop, then gave me his thin, conspiratorial smile, exposing just the bright white bottoms of his top row of teeth. "Best guess. What's the scoop?"
He followed me with his eyes as I made a slow lap around his desk, which was situated in the center of his office. "Maybe they finally cracked the shadow banks in the Caymans," I said. "Last time I saw him, James was talking about that. Said it would be like the Panama Papers times ten."
"They wouldn't give that to us, though."
"Probably not." I paused a beat. "They were getting pretty good at hacking the iCloud accounts of corrupt politicians, and it's the kind of thing they don't like to give the big papers. Could be one of those."
"Maybe," Bird said.
Mia Rhodes appeared in the doorway behind us holding a stack of paper in one hand and an iPad in the other.
"I like the new hair," Bird said. "Looks like a horse's tail, but in a good way."
Mia changed her hair every week or two. Today it was a black ponytail that hung over her right shoulder and didn't stop until it hit her hip, which wasn't actually that far, because she was barely five feet tall. But what she lacked in height she made up for in every other way. She was efficient and smart, sure, but most of all, she was trustworthy.
And she was always in a hurry. "What's up?" she asked quickly.
"Vegas," I said. "I need to get to Vegas fast."
She tapped at her iPad for a few seconds, then said, "There's a one-thirty-five, but you're not gonna make that. I'll get you on the four-forty."
"Nothing before that?"
"Not on Alaska."
"Can't we use another airline?"
Mia sighed and gave me her don't-make-me-go-there look. It was a look she used whenever I tried to do something that upset the immaculate systems she maintained to keep the office running smoothly. "Do I need to explain again why we went exclusive with Alaska?"
She didn't. It was something about upgrades, frequent flyer bonus points, and a special reservation system. My policy with Mia was to push a little bit when I wanted something, and if she pushed back, just give in. I'd never told her this, but I lived in constant fear that she'd realize she was too good for this place, and quit. "Okay, four-forty."
"When do you want to come back?"
"Tomorrow, noonish?"
"Okay," she said. "And I'll book you your room at the Wynn."
"Not gonna stay and eat for a few days?" Bird asked. "A few more tasting menus and they'll give you your own cage at the zoo."
I ignored him and nodded to Mia. "Before you go, what's up with Dexter Park?"
"I e-mailed you about that."
"Must've missed it," I said.
Half the time I asked Mia about something, she'd already handled it, checked it off her list, and e-mailed me about it. She sighed and walked to the window. "I've booked his flight for Friday night. Flight seven out of JFK."
"Is that on United?" Bird asked. "Maybe Delta or JetBlue?"
Mia gave him a look. "Park will be staying in a suite at The Bryant. That's assuming, of course, that he's willing to do it."
"He hasn't confirmed yet?" I asked.
"No, but I'll let you know when I hear back."
"It's T-minus five days," I said. "And everything hinges on him."
Dexter Park was a major piece of my plan to surprise Greta on our anniversary, which was five days away. We'd been separated for eight months, none of my efforts at reconciliation had worked, and this plan was my Hail Mary at the end of the fourth quarter.
"Is that all?" Mia asked.
"Just one more thing," I said. "Honest opinion from both of you. Is this going to work?"
Mia looked at Bird, who looked at the floor. Each was waiting for the other to speak first. "Well," Mia said. "I mean—"
"Hard to say," Bird chimed in, not looking up from the floor.
"Maybe it's an age-gap thing," Mia said, "but I just don't think women respond to grand gestures anymore, if they ever did."
"What should I do instead? Hit her up on Snapchat? Bling her on Insta-Booty?"
"A grand surprise anniversary thing is a little old-fashioned," Bird said. "It's like, what's next? Show up at her house with a boom box playing Peter Gabriel?"
"I already tried that."
"Really?" Bird asked.
"No."
Mia said, "Have you tried just talking with her?"
"We talked for the first few months, then she kinda went quiet."
"Is she dating?" Mia asked.
"I think so."
"Are you dating?"
"No."
"Not at all since the separation?"
I
nodded at Bird. "Not unless you count my codependent relationship with this guy."
Mia ignored my joke. "You still love her?"
I said nothing and Mia stared at the floor. Up until that moment, the tone of the conversation had been light. A serious topic kept at bay by humor. But I think she knew she'd crossed an invisible line. Not that it was her fault. I'd started the conversation, and I was the one who wasn't comfortable talking about how I felt. It was like Greta used to say: "You're good at many things, Alex, but facing your emotions isn't one of them."
Bird said, "He loves her more than anything."
He was right, but I couldn't say it out loud.
We just stood there, until Mia gave Bird a do-something-to-break-the-silence look.
Bird took a quick sip of his Red Bull, then glanced at me awkwardly and said, "Innerva, amirite? Get your butt to Vegas and get us that story!"
—End of Sample—
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Acknowledgments
As always, there are more people to thank than I can possibly remember. But I'm going to make a go at it anyway. For all their love and support along the way, and for playing roles large and small in the creation of this book, I'd like to thank:
Amanda Allen who, in addition to being my wife of fifteen years, is my first editor and greatest supporter. She deserves credit for many of the best lines in this book.
My children, Arden and Charlie.
My extended family of Fullers, Johnsons, Allens, and Andersons.
My team of early readers, who took the time to offer suggestions on an early draft: H.M. Jones, Chris Rhodus, Chet Sandberg, Kay Vreeland, Linda Barnes, Teri Fink, Nancy Swanton, and Jenny Brookie.
All my wonderful guests on the WRITER 2.0 Podcast, who teach me so much.
Michael Anderle and everyone who's inspired me at 20booksto50k.
The staff and students of Northwest Indian College and the Suquamish and Port Gamble S'Klallam Tribes.
My editor, Julie Molinari, and proofreader, Sue Currin.
My cover designer, Yosbe, from Yosbe Design.
About the Author
A.C. Fuller writes media thrillers and literary fiction. He’s the creator and host of the WRITER 2.0 Podcast, a weekly interview show featuring award-winning writers and publishing experts.
He was once a freelance journalist in New York and taught in the NYU Journalism School from 2006 to 2008. He now teaches English at Northwest Indian College near Seattle and leads writing workshops around the country and internationally, including classes for the Pacific Northwest Writers Association, the Write in the Harbor Conference, and the Royal City Literary Arts Society.
He lives with his wife, two children, and two dogs near Seattle.
And he loves hearing from readers.
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