The Informant by James Grippando Read Free Book Online

what?”
    “Money, for starters. Lots of it. Fifty thousand dollars for my next prediction.”
    “You dirtbag, I’m not about to pay a penny to you or any other source. You’ve got the wrong reporter.”
    “Oh, I’ve got the right one all right. Stay in the 44
    James Grippando
    game, and maybe I’ll tell you why. Citibank. The account number’s on the back of the package. It’s in the name of Ernest Gill. Make a cash deposit by Friday.”
    “You deaf? I said I’m not paying.”
    “Oh, you’ll pay,” the caller said smugly. “You have no choice but to pay. Because if you don’t, I’ll keep making my predictions, the day before the murder. And you’ll keep on getting them. The day after they find the body.”
    “What the hell kind of a prediction is that?”
    “A worthless one. Which only goes to show: You get what you pay for.”
    “Listen—”
    “No, you listen. Don’t even think about the cops, or my next prediction might hit very close to home. Understand?”
    Mike started to object, but the line suddenly went dead.
    45
    Chapter 6
    t he Tribune headquarters sat right off sparkling Biscayne Bay, with a fifth-floor newsroom offering picture-window views of the Port of Miami and Miami Beach.
    Curiously, the editorial board was quartered on the fifth floor, south end, in probably the only waterfront office space in Miami with no windows. Neither that, however, nor the beige wallpaper was the real reason the rank and file called it “the ivory tower.”
    The largest office belonged to Aaron Fields. At age sixty-two he’d been publisher for the past five years, a member of the board for seventeen. He had the people skills of a consummate politician, which meant that people still liked him even after they discovered he was a mile wide and an inch deep. Thick silver hair and a thin smile of confidence gave him the look of success. He dressed the part, too, sporting custom suits that cost more than some reporters earned in a month—certainly more than Mike had earned thirteen years ago, when Fields had first hired him.
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    James Grippando
    His impressive desk, credenza and wall unit were matching teak and rosewood, all custom designed to the contours of his office. Remington bronzes were perched on marble pedestals along the wall, the way rich, unathletic men who had never ridden horseback often expressed their love for the Wild West. Behind him was his collection of rare books, none of which he’d ever had time to read.
    “Are you suggesting we pay this lunatic?” said Fields.
    His Cole-Haan wing tips were propped up on his desk, and he was leaning back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head.
    Mike shifted uncomfortably in a wing chair, then glanced at Charlie Gelber, executive editor, seated on the couch. Mike had been talking for twenty minutes, laying it all out. “At this point I’m just looking for guidance.”
    “We simply don’t pay informants,” Gelber said indignantly. “We’re not the National Enquirer. ”
    Mike struggled not to roll his eyes. Gelber was a forty-eight-year-old creative type with an effeminate voice that became even more affected when he tried to be stern or sarcastic. A habit of crossing his legs like a woman and bringing a hand to his cheek like Jack Benny fed rumors that he was gay. Long ago, however, Mike had come to the very firm conclusion that Gelber didn’t smile nearly enough to be gay, straight or otherwise sexually active.
    “Paying him isn’t the real issue,” said Mike. “The question is, do we have an opportunity here to help stop a serial killer who’s already struck once in our own city and is now up to victim number six nationwide.”
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    THE INFORMANT
    “Well, excuse me, Michael.” Gelber cocked his head—and there went the hand to the cheek. “But catching the bad guys is Eliot Ness’s job.”
    Fields dragged his feet off the desk and onto the floor.
    “Tell me this, Mike: Do you think he’s the killer or don’t you?”
    “Could