The Informant

by James Grippando

  “Hey, fuck you, buddy!” he snapped at the window.

  “No, fuck you!” his image shouted back. He grabbed his crotch like those Mafia types from New Yawk and continued on his way.

  A bank marquee on the corner flashed the time of day. He hadn’t given the Tribune a to-the-minute deadline, but he had said Friday, and by now the financial institutions on the East Coast had all closed for the weekend. It made him nervous to think about it: Either fifty grand was sitting in his account or it wasn’t. It was time to find out.

  Rounding the corner, he was singing a head-banging song by his favorite rock group, Guns N’Roses, mimicking the screechy voice of his long-haired and tattoo-laden hero, Axl Rose. He was getting to the good part—something about an old lover buried out in the backyard—when he stopped in mid-note at the sight of an automatic teller machine dead ahead, facing the sidewalk. He didn’t notice which bank owned it, and it didn’t matter. The sign had the “Cirrus” logo, which told him his magnetic card would work. He traded his cap for his trusty ski mask to shield his face from the bank’s security camera. He stepped up to the machine, bending slightly at the knees, so he’d look five or six inches shorter to anyone who might watch the videotaped transaction. The machine sucked in his card, and he eagerly punched in his code.

  “Welcome, Mr. Ernest Gill,” the display screen read.

  Rollins smiled. That was the phony name he’d used to open the account weeks ago, before he’d even decided which reporter he was going to call. He hit the “balance inquiry” button and waited. His heart raced as he listened to the machine print his ticket. He’d opened the account with the minimum amount required, the leftover proceeds of a stolen Rolex watch. After all the planning and maneuvering, he was finally about to discover whether the gravy train had begun.

  He snatched the printed ticket from the slot and read it: CURRENT BALANCE $50,100.00.

  “Yessss,” he hissed beneath his breath, like a tennis player serving an ace. He did a little dance, almost giddy with excitement. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t touch any of the money until the scheme was completed, but he couldn’t resist. After all, he’d have to replace the clothes on his back, now that the security camera had him on film. And all this travel was getting expensive, more than hocked jewelry could support.

  He withdrew the daily maximum—six hundred bucks—and then pulled off the ski mask and merged into a stream of commuters brisk with purpose. He ran the last half-block to hop the cable car on California Street. He’d take it wherever it was going, so long as it was away from the ATM. Then tomorrow or the next day or whenever he felt like it, he’d find another bank with an ATM—maybe across town, maybe another state—and withdraw another six hundred.

  Lunch money, he thought smugly, compared to what Posten is going to pay me.

  It was 7:00 P.M. Friday, and Mike still hadn’t finished his Sunday-edition exposé on violent crimes committed by tourists, a twist on the usual Miami-bashing story about tourists as victims. TOURISTS WHO COME PACKIN was the headline one of the copy editors wanted to slap on it. Even the Tribune wasn’t above an occasional lapse into Hard Copy hyperbole.

  “Hope you finish before Monday,” the cleaning lady said as she emptied his trash into her big bin on wheels.

  “If I don’t, it’s been nice working for you, boss.” They exchanged smiles as she moved on to the next cubicle. He took another sip of bad coffee and turned back to the computer. He was massaging a paragraph about a murder at a Hialeah cockfight, trying not to make it sound like a fatal argument over a penis, when he heard a voice right behind him.

  “Michael.”

  He looked up from his desk. Only one person ever called him “Michael,” and she used that harsh tone only on the rarest of occasions. “Karen, hi. What are you doing here?”

  “Zack said you’d be here,” she said flatly.

  He looked at her curiously. She was wearing a business suit, but she looked disheveled. The jacket wasn’t quite straight, and her hair needed combing. Little beads of sweat glistened above her lip. She looked like she’d been running, and she was obviously mad. “Did I do something?”

  Her face turned an even deeper shade of red.

  Wrong question, he thought. She obviously would have just called if she weren’t looking for a showdown, face-to-face. He quickly canvassed the newsroom, spotting a few Friday-evening stragglers who might overhear. “Can we discuss this in private?” he said, motioning toward the glass-encased conference room. She followed him inside and closed the door behind her. He offered a chair, but she wasn’t taking.

  “I can’t believe you did this,” she said.

  “Did what?”

  “Don’t deny it. You’ll only make it worse. He told me.”

  “Who’s he? Told you what?”

  “I caught a man following me on the Metro tonight. I thought he was some kind of nut, but when security nabbed him he said he was hired to protect me. Naturally,” she scoffed, “he wouldn’t say who hired him or why I need protection.”

  Mike’s expression fell. He stood in silence, stunned.

  Karen’s eyes welled as her anger turned to disbelief. “You did hire him. I can see it on your face. God, I hoped it wasn’t true, but now I’m glad I came all the way down here. You actually hired a private eye to spy on me while we’re separated.”

  “No,” he stammered. “That’s not it at all. He’s not a private eye. It’s…. it’s for your protection. I wish I could explain, but I can’t. Not now.”

  “I came here to sort this out. If you have an explanation, let’s hear it. Now.”

  He struggled to say something, but what could he say? That he was secretly cooperating with the FBI, and that he’d kept her in the dark because she couldn’t be trusted to keep her mouth shut? That would really fix things. He needed time to think. “I’m sorry,” he said, massaging a throbbing temple. “I really can’t discuss this now.”

  Her lips quivered with anger. “Then we’ve got nothing to talk about.” She flung open the door and rushed out.

  “Karen, wait!”

  She cut across the newsroom in seconds, past the night editor, eyes riveted on the exit. He had to break into a trot to catch her in the lobby. She was frantically pushing the elevator call button over and over again when he took her by the arm. As the doors opened she shook herself free.

  “Please,” he said with a pained expression. “This isn’t what it seems.”

  She stared back coldly from inside the elevator. “Neither was our marriage.” The doors closed, and she was gone.

  He just stood there, like a man punched in the chest. Instinct told him to run after her, but he knew he’d made her too mad to reason with her, and this was no time for knee-jerk solutions anyway. First things first: He marched back to his cubicle to call Victoria and tell her he had to confess all to his wife—whether the FBI liked it or not.

  The phone rang just as he reached for it. He did a double take, startled. He answered on the next ring. “Posten.”

  There was silence, then a dry reply. “You know, security at the Tribune is really lax.”

  Mike paused, though he instantly recognized the voice of his informant.

  “It’s you.”

  “And another thing: It’s very stupid of you to leave your computer on while you go wandering around the building. You never know who might access your files while you’re away from your desk.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Switch on your computer, you’ll see.”

  “It’s already on.”

  “Good. Go to your control panel, bring up the screen-saver mode.”

  Mike clicked his mouse, exiting his files. The old Lombardi quote came up, his usual screen-saver message. “Okay, I’m there.”

  “Left-click twice with the mouse.”

  He hit it once, and the Lombardi quote disappeared. With the second hit, a new message popped up. TIMOTHY COPELAND, it read in bold red letters. Mike felt his stomac
h tighten. “Where does he live? How do I stop this?”

  “San Francisco,” came the morose reply. “But you can’t stop it. Happened early this morning, but I couldn’t tell you about it till I got my money. Don’t worry, though. Cops ain’t found the body yet. You’re the first to know. Besides me and the killer, you’re the only one to know.”

  “This was supposed to be a prediction, not a news flash.”

  “It is a prediction. That’s why I put it on your computer beforehand, so you’d know I wasn’t just phoning you after the fact. Check with your tech-services people. I’m sure they’ll be able to confirm that I input the name a few days ago.”

  “So what? It’s no good to me now. It’s too late to stop it.”

  “Don’t get high-and-mighty on me. Admit it. You guys don’t want to stop the news from happening. You just want to be the first to report it.”

  “Do you think this is clever?” Mike asked.

  “It’s not clever. It’s brilliant. So don’t bite the hand that feeds you. I might bite back.”

  “How can you just let these people die—for money?”

  “People let other people die for money every day. A lot more money than I’m making. Cigarette companies do it. Chemical companies do it. Why the hell shouldn’t I do it?”

  “Because it’s wrong.”

  “The only thing wrong, Mother Teresa, is you wasting our precious time. This is a big story. First homosexual victim, to add to your confusion. And it’s the first victim who didn’t live alone. Your killer’s getting bolder. Timothy’s gay lover is bound, gagged and unconscious, locked up in the closet. He won’t know a thing. But he’s very much alive.”

  “So the killings aren’t random. He’s targeting specific people.”

  “Not so fast. Next installment: a hundred thousand dollars, same account. By next Friday.”

  Mike rose from his chair and looked out over the maze of workstations, making sure no one could over hear. “What makes you think I’ll keep paying you?”

  “Because my information just keeps getting more valuable. Do you know how he takes the tongues?”

  Mike hesitated. He felt almost morbid about it, but he sank into his chair and reached for a notepad. “No. Tell me.”

  “A diving knife. Two incisions at the base of the tongue, one on each side, each about a third of the tongue’s width. Two little notches that give him something to grab hold of. Kind of like those corkscrews with the T-shaped handle. He puts on metallic butcher gloves—divers wear them for spear fishing. Not even eels or sharks can bite through them. And then he yanks. Usually once or twice. Sometimes three or four times. Until—” He made a clucking sound with his tongue, like a cork popping from a wine bottle.

  Mike stopped writing in midsentence. For a horrific split second he envisioned it happening to one of the victims—alive. The pain and blood, the screams and tearing. Yet the description was so matter-of-fact, like hooking up a stereo. If this guy’s the killer, he’s got ice in his veins.

  “What’s the matter,” the caller said with a snicker. “Cat got your tongue?”

  Mike grimaced. “How do you know so much—so much detail?”

  “How do you think?”

  “Either you’ve seen it happen. Or you made it happen.”

  “Either way, you get your exclusive. Just stay tuned. And keep your payments current.”

  “Wait!” Mike said as the line clicked, but there was no reply. His hands were shaking as he hung up the phone. He drew a deep breath and closed his eyes tightly.

  “What was that all about?”

  He turned at the piercing voice from behind. It was Brenda Baines, a veteran reporter who’d started at the Tribune a year after Mike, and who’d lived in his shadow from day one on the job. Ever since he’d won his Pulitzer, a week didn’t go by when she didn’t announce to someone that he was Miami’s most over-rated reporter. She had straight, black hair and big green eyes that made her attractive in a severe but exotic way. She was standing behind a chest-high divider in the next pod of workstations. “Were you eavesdropping?” he said accusingly.

  “I was just sitting here at my cubicle, couldn’t help but overhear.”

  “How long have you been there?”

  “Long enough to hear you say something about paying a source,” she said with a penetrating stare. “A rather flagrant violation of Tribune policy.”

  “Mind your own damn business.”

  “If somebody’s breaking the rules around here, it is my business. And I know what I heard.” She grabbed her purse, then turned and walked away.

  Mike sank down in his chair and exhaled. “Timothy Copeland,” he said quietly, feeling a wave of frustration crash over him. There wasn’t supposed to be a seventh victim. No one in the newsroom was supposed to know anything about the money. And Karen—What the hell am I going to do about Karen?

  He sat for a few more seconds, then, resigned, reached for the phone. He hit speed dial and waited.

  “It’s me, Mike,” he said solemnly. The words came slowly. He felt unclean, almost nauseated by what he was about to say. “Aaron, I need page one tomorrow.”

  Chapter 12

  “a Tribune Exclusive,” boasted the morning’s front page, “by Michael Posten.”

  Just after 7:00 A.M. the phone rang on Mike’s nightstand. Victoria Santos had just finished reading the story and was already booked on the next flight to San Francisco—United, 9:35, out of Fort Lauderdale. They still had a strict rule against talking “business” on the phone, so Mike agreed to an eight o’clock breakfast meeting. If it were up to him, they would have just talked on the phone. As a reporter, he often found his own sources to be more forthcoming on the phone than in person. From experience, however, he knew that FBI agents preferred in-person meetings. They claimed it was because they wanted to assess demeanor, or that phone conversations were often cut short. The real reason, he suspected, boiled down to authority and subtle intimidation.

  Begrudgingly, he threw on a pair of plaid shorts and his last clean shirt, a twelve-year-old memento from the Pope’s last visit to Miami. Some Anglo trying to capitalize on Cuban America’s love for His Holiness had unwittingly printed up ten thousand T-shirts reading LA PAPA, the Potato, instead of EL PAPA, the Pope. Mike had worn it to the press conference.

  Forty minutes north on 1-95 at the customary eighty miles per hour put him in Fort Lauderdale by eight o’clock. Victoria had picked Offerdahl’s Bagel Gourmet on Seventeenth Street, one of the original shops owned by John Offerdahl, a former All-Pro Miami Dolphin middle linebacker. Mike ordered a toasted seven-grain with honey butter from the cheery young woman behind the counter, then joined Victoria at the round table for two she’d snagged by the window. She was dressed in nice-fitting jeans of eyelet denim and a red cotton sweater that was definitely airplane apparel.

  “Mmmmm,” said Victoria, taking a sip of her coffee and munching on her bagel. “I’m in heaven.”

  “Glad to hear it. The last twelve hours have pretty much been hell for me.”

  A flick of her tongue wiped the espresso mustache from her lip. “Sorry about that mix-up with your wife. We had a rookie covering her. Guy just plain panicked when she spotted him. He probably should have bolted. Instead, he tried to catch up with her and keep her from calling the cops. His intentions were good. Last thing we wanted was your informant to hear on the news that some South Miami cop had mistakenly arrested an FBI agent who was protecting your wife.”

  “Well, I don’t know what he told her. But now she thinks I’m a jealous husband who hired a private detective to spy on her.”

  Her eyes lit. “Let her keep on thinking that. It’s perfect.”

  “It’s not perfect. This is my wife—my life—we’re talking about. I have to tell her.”

  “If you tell her, our deal’s off.”

  “Okay,” he said with a shrug. “Deal’s off.”

  “Fine.” She leaned forward on her elbows, assuming a datelike post
ure. “Just one thing I’d like to know, hotshot. What are you going to do when the money stops flowing and your informant gets really pissed?”

  His bravado quickly faded, and he shook his head with resignation. “It’s true what they say, isn’t it. No good deed goes unpunished.”

  “I know you’re feeling put-upon. But let me just say something about this situation with your wife. I’m speaking to you as a woman now, not as Special Agent Santos, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  She took a breath, measuring her words. “I find it a little hasty on her part to be jumping to the conclusion that you hired a private detective to spy on her. Hasty isn’t the right word. Defensive. It’s like that line from Hamlet: ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’ I’m not passing judgment, but maybe what’s got her more uptight than the thought of you hiring a detective is the fear of what your detective might find out.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Do you know something I don’t know? Or are you just assuming that as a journalist I’m in the habit of relying on wild speculation?”

  “I’m just trying to help. I’ve seen the FBI send a lot of men to prison who put too much faith in wives or girlfriends who weren’t exactly trustworthy. I’d really hate for one of us to end up dead because you made the same mistake.”