“Developers are always corrupt.”
“The Empress is ugly as sin.”
“Austin don’t need another big-ass hotel. We need affordable housing!”
But a not-insignificant percentage demand we “leave poor Eugene alone.”
Like I’m going to listen to anonymous keyboard warriors whining about a corrupt land developer getting his ass handed to him.
Then there are the outright threats. Comment after comment telling me to die in a fire, go fuck myself, or watch my back.
I should stop scrolling. It’s not doing my sanity any good. But this is part of the job. Before the next installment of the series, I need to understand public opinion.
By the fourth page of comments, the tone has shifted entirely.
“That prissy bitch doesn’t know a real man when she sees one. Maybe I’ll go down to Channel 5 and show her.”
“I should drop Emmylou’s naked body off Reckless Ridge after I rip her to shreds with my dick.”
“Watch your back, cunt. Your gonna be bent over the garbage bin begging for my cock behind News 5. I’ll be their at 7.“
Oh, the urge to reply and correct his usage of your and their.
My desk phone rings before I can read any further, and I close my internet browser. Enough of that for today.
“Emi? You have visitors waiting for you.” Channel 5’s receptionist, Nia, sounds distracted. Worried, even. She’s usually so calm.
I check my calendar. “There’s nothing on my schedule. I blocked off this whole afternoon to work on the Eugene Fowler story. Who’s here? Did you get their names?”
She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Um…they say they’re with the FBI. Agents Van and Spooner. They had badges and everything.”
“Yes!” I can’t help doing a little dance in my chair. This is exactly what I was hoping for. I already had a call with Austin PD this morning. They’re supposed to get back to me before the end of the day with an update on their investigation of Consolidated Investment Group—though I don’t think they’ll tell me much. They can’t if they expect to make a strong case against CIG and Fowler.
“Um…Emi?” Nia asks. “Are you okay? I put them in Conference Room B. They’re waiting for you.”
Shit. She wasn’t ready for my level of excitement. “Sorry. Yes. Get the agents some coffee or tea and let them know I’ll be there in two shakes. I need to see if Nelson’s free to sit in.”
My boss isn’t in his office, so I’m on my own. Probably better that way. He’d spend the whole meeting focused on the couple dozen death threats I’ve received in the past two days. I’m not the story. Consolidated Investment Group’s corruption is the story.
I breeze into the conference room with my tablet tucked under my arm. “Gentlemen. I’m Emmylou Marsh.”
The two men rise almost in tandem to shake my hand. They’re both on the short side. Five-eight, five-nine at most. Spooner is a broad guy, but Van’s a little softer. Meeker too. Yet he’s the one who speaks first.
“A pleasure, Ms. Marsh. I’m Special Agent Michael Van. That’s my partner, Harlan Spooner. We’d like to ask you a few questions about Eugene Fowler and Consolidated Investment Group.”
With one of my polished smiles, I sink into a chair across from them. “Of course. Anything to help the FBI.”
Spooner leans back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of his face like he’s contemplating the mysteries of the universe. Van pulls a small notebook from his jacket pocket and clicks his pen.
“Ms. Marsh,” Van says, his voice even. Measured. “Your coverage of Eugene Fowler and his company came to our office’s attention. If what you reported is true?—”
Frustration prickles along my spine. “Now hold on just a minute, Agent Van. If my reports are true? I have evidence. Some of my sources are confidential, but others were very willing to talk on camera.”
Van frowns and glances down at his notebook. “Like Alan Trowing? One of Austin’s building inspectors? We tried to interview him this morning, but at 10:00 a.m. yesterday, he called his supervisor and resigned. His mobile phone is off, and his neighbor saw him put a suitcase into his car and drive away around noon.”
I don’t react—years of practice let me keep my cool in the most outrageous of circumstances—but why would Trowing run? He gave me permission to use his name. He sent me photo evidence of Fowler’s bribes. I fire up my tablet. “I have a signed statement from Mr. Trowing and copies of an email chain with his supervisor. He knew what he was doing when he admitted to taking money from Fowler and his boss agreed Trowing could take six weeks of leave—with pay—before he resigned for having the guts to come forward and admit what he’d done.”
I turn the device around so the agents can see the email on screen. Spooner holds out his hand, but I shake my head.
