The Informant by James Grippando Read Free Book Online Page B

the information they need to catch the killer. We pay the informant for his predictions, but the FBI secretly supplies the money.
    They pay informants all the time, so they should go for it, and this way the Tribune technically wouldn’t be violating its own policy against checkbook journalism. But there’ll be no telephone taps or other intrusion by law enforcement into my conversations with the informant.
    The FBI will get only those clues that I decide to pass along to them.”
    “It’s pretty risky,” said Fields. “What’s in it for us?”
    “We help catch a serial killer,” said Mike. “But if you’re looking for some kind of quid pro quo, I suppose 50
    James Grippando
    we could ask for some kind of exclusive if the FBI makes an arrest.”
    Gelber grimaced. “This would be a huge mistake. I wouldn’t be worried if we knew Mike’s source was the killer. No one would fault us for going to the FBI in that situation. But here we don’t know; in fact, he’s telling us he’s not the killer. If we start running to the FBI every time we think that maybe one of our informants has committed a crime, our phones will stop ringing.”
    Fields leaned back and stared at the ceiling, thinking.
    “Tough call,” he said, sighing. “What you’re proposing, Mike, probably can’t be defended if it turns out your informant really is just an anonymous source out to make a buck, no matter how mercenary or reprehensible we think that is. Are you willing to go out on a limb over this?”
    Mike’s eyes became lasers. “I know this much. I’m not willing to sacrifice another victim if there’s a chance we can help catch this psycho. Are you?”
    The room went silent. Fields drew a deep breath and glanced at Gelber. But there was no more argument. “I’ll arrange the meeting,” he said.
    51
    Chapter 7
    n ightfall made mirrors out of the windows overlooking Biscayne Bay, and without the vista the newsroom had the stark and gaping ambience of a high school gymnasium. Beige walls were the perfect complement to the industrial carpet and fluorescent lighting high overhead. A twisted network of dividers compartmentalized the room into open workstations for nearly a hundred fifty reporters and staff writers, each with their own video display terminal, gray metal desk, and modern telephone that emitted a muffled chirp instead of the good old-fashioned ring. It was relatively quiet now, but in peak business hours the incessant buzz of a hundred different conversations swirled above them. Mike’s pod was somewhere in the middle, like the wedge of cheese in a sprawling rat maze.
    He leaned back in his chair, his face lighted only by the glow of his computer terminal in the screen-saver mode. He smirked at the familiar preprogrammed message that flashed across the screen in big green letters 52
    James Grippando
    from left to right, an old Vince Lombardi quote that Aaron Fields had drilled into his brain from day one. “Be fired with enthusiasm. Or you will be fired—with enthusiasm.”
    For thirteen years that creed had kept him working late, night after night. How many times had he called Karen to cancel plans at the last minute? How many times had he simply forgotten to call, or even apologize?
    He glanced at her photo on his desk—a honeymoon shot taken six years ago, back when he thought divorce was for the other fifty percent. Karen, wearing shorts and a cable-knit sweater, was perched atop a pile of huge gray boulders along the coast of Maine, the surf crashing in the background. There, he’d truly fallen for her: He slipped after snapping the photo and tumbled into a crevice. She climbed down to him, recklessly, as if the most important thing in the world was to reach him.
    He was okay, so they sat there on the jagged coastline and watched the sun set, just talking. They were great talkers back then, took pleasure in exchanging small secrets.
    Karen had a theory about that—one that made perfect sense to a newspaper