"Gribble Nix," the little bastard says before Wilfred can answer, extending a business card I don't take. "Freelancephotographer and journalist.The Sizzlesent me to cover the fundraiser."
The Sizzle. Sweet Ogre Mother. If there's a lower bottom-feeding publication in existence, I haven't heard of it. They're the kind of outlet that pays for photos of celebrities' kids falling down drunk or royals having meltdowns in grocery stores. The kind I won’t allow entry into the building under any pretense.
"Private event," I say, my voice flat. "Only pre-approved press is allowed."
"Public figure, public interest," Gribble shoots back, adjusting his camera rig. "Senator Quinn's been making a lot of noise lately. Seems to me the public has a right to know who's writing her checks."
There's something about the way he says it that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Is this slimy bastard trying to bully me into allowing him in? Fat chance.
"Press accreditation goes through the campaign office," I tell him. "If you want coverage, you follow proper channels. Maybe next event you’ll be allowed through the front door instead of trying to sneak in like a rat from the sewers."
Gribble's small black eyes shine with anger, but he keeps his cool. I’m sure men like him are used to being called worse than rats. And they deserve every single insult.
"Proper channels." He laughs, a sound like gravel in a blender. "That's rich, coming from hired muscle. How much is Quinn paying you to keep the truth away from voters?"
Wilfred shifts beside me, his hand moving toward his radio. Good instincts, but I wave him off. Senator Quinn doesn’t want a circus of police squad cars at her fundraiser. This requires a more delicate touch.
"Mr. Nix," I say, taking a step closer. At seven feet, I tower over the gnome, and I let every inch of that height register. "You're on private property without authorization. I'm asking you nicely to leave."
"I'm on a public sidewalk," he counters, gesturing to the loading dock, where a dented gray van is parked. "Last I checked, that's still legal in this country."
Technically, he's right. The loading dock area borders public access, and as long as he's not actually inside the hotel, there's not much I can do legally. But there are other ways to handle persistent problems.
"You're right," I admit, which clearly surprises him. "You can stand here all day if you want. But you put one foot inside this hotel, and we'll have a different conversation."
Gribble's eyes narrow, calculating. He has the look of someone who's been run off by security before, someone who knows exactly how far he can push before things get unpleasant. Too bad. It’s been a while since I gotsome action.
"Listen, pal," he says, changing his tactic and lowering his camera just enough for my shoulders to relax. “I got a tip a few hours earlier from someone who thinks there's a story here worth telling. Something about the Quinn family that the voters ought to know.”
Every protective instinct I possess flares to life. Senator Quinn is my principal and protecting her from unwanted attention is almost as important as protecting her from physical harm.
"What kind of story?"
"The interesting kind. The kind that sells papers and gets people talking." He pauses, then his lips stretch over crooked yellow teeth topped with two sharp little fangs. “A big story like that means a big payload. I’m sure even hired muscle like you can’t be paid that much. I’ll share the bonus with you if you let me in.”
I feel my hands clench into fists and force them to relax. Violence isn't the answer here, much as I'd like to introduce this little weasel to the dumpster behind him. But the threat is clear enough. He has something, or thinks he does, and he's here to cause trouble.
"Wilfred," I say without taking my eyes off Gribble. "Radio Elsebeth. Tell her we've got a problem at the back entrance. Tell her to run a check on a gray van, plates Delta-Echo-Seven-Seven-Nine."
"Yes, sir." Wilfred's relief at having clear instructions is obvious as he steps away to make the call.
"Smart," Gribble says approvingly, but his eyes shine with resentment. "Dig into your opponent. I respect that."
"You're no opponent," I correct him. "You're a pest."
"A pest with a camera and a nose for news," he replies cheerfully, yet takes a subtle step back. "And I always get my story, one way or another."
The way he says it sounds like a promise. Or a threat.
I study his face, looking for tells. Gribble Nix is the kind of bottom-feeder who thrives on chaos and scandal, but he's not stupid and there’s no doubt in my mind he’s good at sniffing out trouble. If he's here, it's because there’s a story to tell. Or there will be. And that last part is my biggest worry.
"Who sent you here?" I ask directly. I don’t have much hope that he’s going to answer, but I can stall him for time until Elsebeth does her thing.
"Professional confidentiality." He taps his press lanyard. "Same as lawyers and doctors. I don't reveal sources."
Bullshit. Guys like Gribble don't have professional ethics; they have profit margins. But pushing harder right now won't get me answers, just more lies.
"Mr. Rooke?" Wilfred's back, slightly out of breath. "Ms. Elsebeth says to tell you the vehicle's got at least four unpaid parking tickets. She already called the towing company."
