A Good Kind of Trouble (A Trouble in Twin Rivers Novel Book 1) (14 page)

Sam shook his head and stared out over the tree-lined street. "I'm doing what I can to keep Lindsey on staff. But I don't know how long I can keep her safe from the suits upstairs."

"What can she do to keep her job?" Ben asked.
 

Sam paused before answering. "I don't know. Maybe if she brought me something for the front page. Something that got people talking and buying papers. That's what matters to these guys. Money."
 

Ben nodded. Since Sam wasn't going to look out for Lindsey, Ben was going to need to. And Sam was right—what mattered in this situation was money. They needed to follow the money.

Lindsey shifted her bag from one shoulder to the other with a growing impatience. She had been waiting in line at the records office for twenty minutes, ever since she was abruptly shown the door in Teri Schulman's office. She took in the familiar sights—the grey counter that stretched the length of the office, the few bored employees handling the long line of annoyed city residents.
 

"Next," the clerk said and Lindsey moved to the counter.
 

She handed him the copy of her letter. "These should be ready for pick-up."
 

The clerk took the letter and walked to a desk in the rear of the office. When he finally returned, he handed her the letter. "There's no record of your request, but if you want to file a new one, I'll make sure it gets to the right department."
 

"How odd," Lindsey said, her jaw tightening as she fought the frustration bubbling up inside of her. "I sent this one by mail, fax and then hand-delivered a copy to this very office."
 

"Yes, odd," the clerk said, completely unconcerned. "You want to make a new request or not?"

Lindsey glared through narrowed eyes, but nodded and gave him the letter. She made a note in her calendar with the clerk's name. Was this Teri Schulman's doing? Had the city attorney managed to sabotage her records request?
 

"Those records should be ready in about ten days," he said. "That's ten business days, not calendar days."
 

"Of course it is," Lindsey said, shoving her notebook back into her bag.
 

Great, another two-week delay. She strode out of City Hall and into the park-like courtyard, dropped her bag on a shaded bench and plopped down next to it. She had been confident that the abrupt ending of the interview meant she was getting close, but now she had hit another brick wall.
 

She sat, basking in the warmth and tried to figure out what to do next. She was frustrated with the story, about to lose her job, and she was really confused about Ben. They clearly had chemistry. Even from the beginning, that first night they met in the Hogans' backyard there had been an immediate attraction. It wasn't just the exterior package. They’d spent an hour in a lively debate that ranged from books to sports to the best burger joint in Twin Rivers. Then the night of their date, they had practically ripped each other’s clothes off in the car. Despite what he might think, that wasn't how she usually behaved on a first date.
 

Then last night—well, how to explain that? She'd like to blame the heightened emotions from being chased through the park. Or the relief of finding someone who cared about the mysterious mishaps that followed her for the last several months.
 

But why was he helping her? Did he think she was accident-prone? Or incompetent? She certainly didn't need him taking care of her, or God forbid, rescuing her.
 

Except that he did come to her rescue.
 

She pulled a notepad out of her bag. She needed to focus on work, not on Ben. She fanned her warm face with the notepad. This was not the time to be reliving last night. No. She needed to be working.
 

She flipped to a blank page in her notepad and drew a line down the center. On one side she wrote what she knew about the contracts, the stadium contractor, the subcontractor's lawsuit, the bonds, the sudden property sales that happened just before the arena site was made public. On the other side, she wrote the questions she still needed to answer.
 

It wasn't enough to convince Sam that it was solid. But she knew it was a good story. She could just
feel
it.
 

What she needed was to figure out the identity of her anonymous pen-pal. She looked up at City Hall. Her source must have access to the bond documents, which meant he either worked for the bank or for the city. A bank employee probably would gain financially from the deal, which meant any story exposing the high costs of the stadium and sewer bonds would jeopardize his or her income. The odds were low that the bank employed such an altruistic person. Especially a bank that was known as Evil Fucking Bankers, Inc.
 

But there might be a city employee who thought the deal was bad. Someone smart enough and with the right education to know what the terms of the contract meant for the city's financial future.
 

Someone like a lawyer...

Lindsey stood up and ran to the directory on the front of the building. There were a lot of lawyers in City Hall. She ran her finger down the department listings. There were several departments that would have to review the bond deal before it was approved, but where to start?
 

The sound of a motor revving distracted her and Lindsey glanced over her shoulder. A motorcycle cruised by the main street, the driver wearing a black helmet and a black and red leather jacket. The hair on the back of her neck bristled as she recognized him.

"Not that guy again," she said.

Chapter Twelve

Lindsey picked up her bag from the bench and glanced again at the man on the motorcycle just as the man turned her way. Even with the dark helmet covering his face, she could tell he saw her. His body tensed and the bike lurched forward—right into the back of a car stopped at the red light.

The driver’s side door flew open and a hulking man got out of the car, his arms waving. Taking advantage of the distraction, Lindsey ran back toward the lobby. She caught the eye of the harried security guard and pointed to the visitor sticker still on her sweater. He waved her through the security checkpoint.
 

She headed to the elevators and saw a large crowd gathered. She opted for the stairs instead. There was only one public entrance to City Hall, but she’d seen city employees leaving by side entrances. She just needed to find one of those exits so she could slip out of the building and... then what?
 

She had no idea what she'd do after she left the building, but it wasn't going to involve calling Ben for help. Not this time.

The stairwell was deserted and she jogged up to the second floor. The door was locked with an electronic pad mounted on the wall next to it. Without a plastic card to wave past the sensor, she was going to be stuck in the stairwell. She ran up to the next floor and found the same security barrier.
 

"Oh, come on," she muttered.
 

The building only had eight floors; she might as well check them all. At least it would give her time before she had to go back outside and see if her stalker was still hanging around. As she approached the fourth floor, she heard a door open and heavy footsteps on the metal stairs, getting fainter as the person walked up to the next floor. The door was still open a few inches when she reached the landing, and she dove, shoving her notepad into the narrowing gap, stopping the door from closing.
 

Taking a deep breath, Lindsey pulled the door open and peered into the empty hallway. She stepped into the quiet space and eased the door closed behind her. Out of breath from running up several flights of stairs, she leaned against the door, safe for a moment.
 

She started down the hall, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. She recognized a few names on the office doors. She must be in the area where the city council staff worked. This wasn't an area open to the public and she would be questioned if she were found back here. And then escorted out by the overworked security guard downstairs.
 

She tried to get her bearings and headed for what should have been the main hallway, but she kept getting turned down more halls and past other offices. Within a few minutes, she was thoroughly confused. The interior halls had no windows and she had no idea where she was.
 

From down the hall, Lindsey heard a door open and the sound of women's voices and her pulse quickened. She couldn't be caught here. There was no good excuse for a reporter being found wandering around a secure city office. She reached for the handle of a room marked "Supplies" and found it locked.
 

"Damn it," she whispered, but kept moving down the hall away from the sound of the voices.
 

She tried another door and found it locked, too. The hallway ended in a few feet and the women were probably going to turn the corner and see her in about ten seconds. She grabbed the doorknob on the last door in the hall, turned it and slipped inside the room. Taking a deep breath, she leaned against the door.

The man working at the desk in the windowless room leapt to his feet.
 

"I'm sorry," Lindsey said. "I, uh, I didn't mean to startle you..."

The man’s face went white, he grabbed a handkerchief from his orderly desk and wiped at his bald head, which was suddenly glistening with a thin sheen of perspiration. Was he going to call security on her?
 

"What are you doing here? How did you find me?" The man’s eyes bulged, huge behind his glasses. "Ms. Fox, you can't be here."
 

She froze, her heart thumping in her chest, this time not from the physical exertion.
 

"What?"

"You can't be here, Ms. Fox," he said, coming out from behind the desk. "They don't know I sent you the documents. Nobody knows. It's dangerous for you to be here."

"You sent me the documents," Lindsey repeated, his words sinking in.
 

"I can't talk to you," he said, taking her by the arm and trying to push her back toward the door.
 

"Wait," Lindsey hissed, hearing the women pass by the office door.
 

He obeyed her and they both stood still, the voices in the hall fading as the women kept moving down the hall. She took a deep breath and sized up the man holding her arm. He was more frightened than she was, possibly on the verge of an anxiety attack.
 

"You have to go," he whispered.
 

"We have to talk," she whispered back.
 

"I can't talk to you," he said. He picked up the nameplate on his desk—Lyle Wilkes, legal counsel. "I'm bound by attorney-client privilege."
 

"But you already broke that by sending me the contracts," Lindsey said.
 

"No, I researched it," he said, wiping his head again. "The documents are public. I just can't explain them to you."
 

"I can protect you, I won't use your name," Lindsey said, but the man was shaking his head.

"You have to go," Lyle Wilkes hissed, his eyes darting to the door as if he expected to see someone walk in and catch him
in flagrante delicto
with a reporter.
 

"Fine, I'll go," Lindsey said. "But you have to talk to me. You were going to meet me at the library."

The sheen of sweat reappeared and he mopped his brow furiously. "I tried, but it was too crowded there," he said.
 

"There was like, one teenager and me on the whole floor," Lindsey said. There was being careful and then there was paranoia and Lyle Wilkes had passed well into the second. “Just give me a few minutes now, then I’ll go.”
 

He glanced around the empty room, and then lunged toward Lindsey. She jumped out of the way as he opened the door, peered up and down the hallway, and then closed the door and locked it.
 

“Fine. One minute, Ms. Fox,” he said, wiping his brow again. “What do you want to know?”

“For starters, why are you sending me these contracts?”
 

“Look, I just saw that you were covering City Hall now and I thought you should get the real story.”
 

“What is the real story?” she asked.
Please don’t be a nut-bucket. Please don’t mention presidential assassinations, fluoridation, or the gold standard.

“The bonds. They’re terrible. Way too expensive. But the investment bank has convinced the city to sign this deal because the rate on the stadium is so much lower. But that rate is safe and is designed to get the rating agencies to approve the deal and that will help the city sell it to the voters.”
 

A murmur of voices outside the office door grew louder and Lyle jumped and looked around his spare office.
 

“Someone’s coming. Quick! Hide!” He pushed Lindsey around his desk and before she could fully comprehend what was going on, she was on her knees behind it. Lyle kicked her messenger bag under the desk and pushed her head down.

“Hey!” Lindsey said, but quietly, unnerved by the man’s panic.
 

“Stay down!”

Crouched behind the desk, Lindsey heard the sound of the knob rattling.
 

“Lyle?” A familiar woman’s voice came from the other side of the door.

She heard the door open.
 

“Ms. Schulman, hello. How can I help you?”
 

She might not know Lyle Wilkes very well, but Lindsey could hear the barely concealed panic in his voice.
 

“Why was your door locked?”
 

“I uh—I was changing clothes. You know, after my workout.”

“Workout?”
 

“Sure, yeah. I work out all the time. Went for a run on my break.”