Syndrome, Thomas Hoover [best free e reader txt] 📗

So was she killing this major piece out of spite? he wondered. Just to prove one last time who really had the cojones?

Actually, it would have been nice to think so. That would put a human face on this gutless travesty. But the attached memo had enough legal jargon that another reason was immediately suggesting itself. The owners of the paper, the Family, the fucked-up twins Harry and Bosco and their mother, Adeline, the heirs of Edward Jordan, actually were afraid of a lawsuit. The attachment had the fingerprints of the Family’s attorneys all over it. Jane was just carrying out marching orders.

And sure enough, there at the bottom was a second message, unsigned and not part of the original memo. She had written clearly ITMB.

That was their old code for “I tried my best.”

Well, Jane baby, who the hell knows. Maybe you did.

Damn, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. He wasn’t trying to be a Carl Bernstein, for chrissake. For once, all he wanted was to report a story exactly the way it was, and then try to help. He ultimately wanted to fix, not fault.

He hit a button and printed out a copy of everything, then minimized the screen, grabbed his jacket, and walked down the hall. Was this the moment to quit? It was, except he couldn’t afford to. He’d never managed to put enough aside to take off a year and live on air and write and still get that fifteen-hundred-dollar check out to Joyce and Amy every first of the month.

He got to the bank of elevators and pushed the button for the third floor and stepped on. The inspection sticker framed just above the controls actually told the whole saga of why his cover story about sloppy procedures in New York and national hospitals had been killed. The building was owned by Bartlett Enterprises, the real estate holding company of Winston Bartlett.

The Sentinel held a very favorable lease, renewable for another ten years at only a 5 percent increase when it rolled over in seven months. The Jordan family had gotten it in the early 1990s, when New York real estate was still in the toilet from the stock market crash of ‘87, and for once Winston Bartlett really screwed up. Now it was about a fifth of the going price per square foot.

So naturally he was about to do everything he could to break the lease. He was that kind of guy. The Jordan family, owners of the Sentinel, probably figured that a big lawsuit by the AMA or somebody would overtax their legal budget and give Bartlett a shot at their soft underbelly. Thus no boats were to be rocked.

The elevator chimed and he stepped off on three. This floor had subdued lighting and understated birch paneling, pale white, in the reception area. It was as though power didn’t need to trumpet itself. Everybody knew who had it He waved at Rhonda, the receptionist, and strode past. She glanced up, then said, “Does she know you’re coming?”

She knew full well he was headed down to see Jane. Unlike most organizations, which take Sunday off, this was always a big day for the Sentinel, with all hands on deck.

“Thought I’d give her a little surprise.”

“No kidding.” She was reaching for the phone. “I think maybe I should—”

“Not necessary.” He was charging down the hall, feeling knee-deep in the thick beige carpet. “I’ve got a feeling she’s expecting me.”

Jane’s door was open and she was on the phone. But when she saw him, she said something abruptly and hung up. He strode through the door, then slammed it. The decor was bold primary colors, like her take on life. Explicit.

“Okay,” he demanded, “what the hell’s going on? How about the real story?”

“Love, you know you can’t hang the Family out with that kind of liability,” she declared, then got up and came around her desk and cracked open the door half a foot. “And you’re the one person here I can’t have a closed-door meeting with. It’ll just get people talking again.”

“Good. Let the world hear. It’s time everybody on this floor learned what a bunch of gutless owners we have.” He watched the crisp way she moved, picture-perfect inside her deep blue business suit, complete with a white blouse and a man’s red tie. Seeing her here, hair clipped short, glasses, in an office brimming with power, you’d never guess she liked nothing better than to be handcuffed during sex.

“Stone, have you ever considered growing up?” She settled back into her chair. The desk was bare except for her notebook computer, an expensive IBM ThinkPad T25. Power all the way. “The Family’s attorneys are just trying to keep us from getting dragged into court. At least until we can get the paper’s lease on this building renewed. We’re going to need to focus on that negotiation, not be distracted by some massive libel suit brought on by an irresponsible, mudslinging piece. You practically accused the AMA of bribery, and you named three senators. One from New Jersey, for chrissake. Stone, there might be a time for that, but this is not it.”

This was exactly the reason he’d expected. What it really meant was, the Family was scared stiff of Winston Bartlett. They figured he was going to go to court to try to break the Sentinel’s lease.

“Let me ask you a question. Whatever happened to journalistic ethics around here? Remember that Statement of Purpose they have everybody sign before they could be hired. ‘All the news, without regard’… you know. We were both so damned proud to be a part of that. Now you’re helping them kill anything that’s the slightest bit controversial. Is that what we’ve come to?”

“Stone, what the New York Sentinel has come to is to try and stay out of legal shit till their lease is renewed.” She brushed an imaginary lock of hair from her face, a residual gesture she once used to stall for time when she actually did have long hair. “Just let it go, won’t you? To get the signed and notarized documentation we’d need to run that piece-assuming we even could-would cost a fortune in time and resources.”

Well, he told himself, there was possibly something to that, from a legal standpoint. But this was not the moment to let sweet reason run riot.

“Okay, look, if you or the Family, or whoever the hell, believe I’m going to go quietly, you’d better get ready for some revisionist thinking. If this piece gets spiked, after all the work I put into it-and dammit, Jane, you know I can document everything I write; that’s the way I work-then I bloody well want something back from this gutless rag. Actually, it’s something I want from you.”

“You’re not really in a position to—”

“Hey, don’t try to ream me twice in the same morning.” He walked around her desk and gazed down at the street. The Sunday-morning traffic was light. He also noticed that there was a public phone on the corner. Good, he’d be using it in about eight minutes. Then he took a moment to reflect on how nice it was to actually have a window. Of any kind. “You know the saying, the pen is mightier than the sword. I’m about to prove that once and for all, but there’s something I need I need a half hour’s face time with one of Bartlett’s employees. A certain Dr. Karl Van de Vliet. He runs a company that Bartlett bought out, called the Gerex Corporation. Strictly for fact-checking. They’ve got some important clinical trials going on at a clinic in New Jersey that I need to hear about.”

She looked at him in sincere disbelief.

“Stone, how on earth am I supposed to—”

“You talk to the Family’s lawyers. They’ve gotta be talking to Bartlett’s attorneys by now. Make it happen.”

“And why exactly-?”

“Because I have a book contract, Jane. And in the process I need to find out everything there is to know about Winston Bartlett’s biggest undertaking ever. He has bankrolled something that could change the face of medicine.”

“You’re doing a book about Bartlett?” Her astonishment continued growing and appeared to be genuine. “Jesus, you didn’t tell—”

“Hello. That’s because who or what I write about on my own dime is nobody’s effing business around here.”

Now he was thinking about Winston Bartlett and wondering why he’d never told her the most important piece of information in his life. It was how he was connected to the man. He often wondered if maybe that was why he was doing this book on stem cells, knowing that half of it would end up being about Bartlett’s self-serving, take-no-prisoners business career. His infinite cruelty. Was the book actually revenge?

“You know you’ll have to get permission to reprint anything you’ve published in the Sentinel. The paper owns the rights to—”

“Didn’t you hear me?” He smiled. “It’s a book. My book. There’s no editorial overlap.”

“Who’s the publisher?”

“They exist, trust me.”

His small publisher wasn’t exactly Random House, but they were letting him do whatever he wanted.

“It didn’t start out being a book about Bartlett, per se,” he went on, “but now he’s becoming a central figure, because of what’s going on-or possibly not going on-at Gerex.”

She was losing her famous poise.

“What… what are you writing?”

“The end of time. The beginning of time. I don’t know which it is. You see, the Gerex clinic in northern New Jersey has clinical trials under way on some new medical procedure involving stem cells. At least that’s what I think. They’ve clamped down on the information, but I believe Van de Vliet, who’s the head researcher there, is perilously close to one of the most important breakthroughs in medical history. I just need to get all this confirmed from the horse’s mouth.”

“Is that what you want to interview him about?”

“He was available for interviews until about four months ago. I actually had one scheduled, but it abruptly got canceled. Bang, suddenly there’s a total blackout on the project. They just shut down their press office completely. When I call, I get transferred to his CFO, some young prick who likes to blow me off. For starters, I’d like to know why it’s all so hush-hush.”

“Stone, private medical research is always proprietary, for God’s sake. Sooner or later he undoubtedly hopes to patent whatever he’s doing. A privately held corporation doesn’t have to report to anybody, least of all some nosy reporter.”

That was true, of course. But Stone Aimes knew that the only way his book would be the blockbuster he needed to get free of the Sentinel was to tell the real story of what Gerex was in the process of achieving. And to be first doing it.

For which he needed access.

“Make it happen. Because, like it or not, Winston Bartlett is about to be the subject of a major volume of investigative journalism. I’ve already got a lot of what I need.” That wasn’t precisely the case, but there was no need to overdo brutal honesty. “The only question is, does he want it to be authorized or unauthorized? It’s his choice.”

Winston Bartlett, Stone knew all too well, was a man who liked nothing better than to see his name in the papers. In fact, he used the free publicity he always managed to get with his jet-setting lifestyle to popularize his various business ventures. Like Donald Trump, he had made himself a brand name. So what was going on here? Was he just playing his cards close to the chest, waiting to make a dramatic big announcement? Or was he keeping this project secret because he was worried about some competing laboratory beating