The Love Experiment (Stubborn Hearts 1)

“You know it doesn’t work like that, Gerry,” said Madden. “Big corps and rich assholes use the law to punish us for messing with their scams, making their investors run for cover and their kids get beat up in school. They don’t like it when they’re forced to explain themselves, and they blame us for being the pricks that ruined their perfect little worlds, even when we have the truth locked down tighter than a convent during a bacchanal.”

Roscoe pushed into his chair back. “The way it works when I call you into my office, Phil, is that I talk about how the law works and you listen so we keep the lights on around here as long as possible. When I want to know how to sack a quarterback, I’ll ask your advice.”

“Shit.” Madden banged his hand against the side of a four drawer file cabinet. A pile of folders resting on top of it pitched to the floor, and Jack bent to pick them up.

“We’re on the same team, fellas,” said Roscoe.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Madden. “But I want it to be a winning team and a team that wins backs their star players and takes calculated risks. They don’t pussy out.”

“So don’t pussy out,” said Roscoe.

“No intention of it,” said Jack. When it came to bringing down Bix and holding Keepsafe’s management accountable to all the injured policyholders they’d duped. But chickening out was exactly what he was going to do where it came to Honeywell. He needed her safely writing her clickbait pieces while he was doing his thing on opposite sides of the office. “

And stop using that expression, it’s as bad as man-up. It’s offensive to women, and cats.”

He caught up with Madden in the elevator well, impatiently poking at the down arrow. “Don’t screw this up,” he said, and poked the up arrow. “I want the paper trail, all the gory details, use whatever resources you need. Get the art department in to make graphics, tell them to do the whole interactive thing, and use that forensic accountant woman. Get photos, video too.”

Jack checked his cell—dozens of messages. Most he’d never return. They were from flacks trying to drum up coverage for clients, or defend them from something Jack had already written. Phil was describing what Jack normally did on a big story, the only difference being he didn’t usually go after video. He could’ve used a camera last night. Would’ve stopped him taking advantage of Honeywell. Footage of Bix, Whelan and Noakes at the restaurant would’ve made them look stunningly complicit. He’d have to talk to Henri Costa again, put some junior reporters on the case to interview the victims and keep a watch on Bix’s movements.

“I’m on it. All I need is the time to connect the pieces.”

The up elevator arrived and they both watched its doors open. There was no hijacking it for their own floor. It was packed with people holding sandwich bags and drinks. Someone had takeout Chinese and Jack’s stomach rumbled. No one made eye contact.

Madden lurched forward and poked at the lit down arrow again, just as another of the elevators in the bank signaled its arrival with a bing and a light indicting it was going down. “And don’t even think about blowing off that love experiment story. I want it to run right before the Keepsafe story.”

Jack stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for their floor. “Enlighten me as to how the two are connected. One is a puff piece and the other is the newspaper business.”

Madden stepped into the elevator car. “Eyeballs, Jack. Gives us a chance to get the city talking about you, so more punters buy the paper the day the exposé drops.”

“That’s preposterous.”

“It’s marketing.”

“You’ve already got my face plastered all over the place. I can’t buy groceries without someone wanting to take a selfie or tell me how I got it all wrong on page one. Women in the cereal aisle at my market hand me business cards with their sexual preferences and availability printed on them. Printed, full color with photos. It’s enough. It’s too much. I’m not doing the—”

“You’re doing it. Because I’m doing everything I can to make sure the Courier isn’t going to become a digital-only edition. And it’d better be brilliant. You’d better be ready to fall on your knees for, er, one of Shona’s team.” Madden waved at his face. “The one with the dead fish eyes, what’s her name again?”

“Honeywell. And she doesn’t have—”

“Delia, rhymes with Ophelia, that’s it.”

“Derelie.” Rhymes with necessarily, extraordinarily. Like her eyes. Jack avoided looking into them because they were so clear he could see right through to her brave, tender heart.

“Yes, Derelie.” The elevator door opened on their floor. “Do one of those fantasy date things like on those TV dating games.” Madden stepped out. Jack should’ve too, but he wanted to put his hands around Madden’s neck and squeeze. “Don’t spare the horses. Romance the fuck out of her.”

Madden turned back when he realized Jack hadn’t followed. He said, “Get video,” as the doors closed.

Jack needed food. He needed a smoke. He did not need to spend time romancing Derelie Honeywell and have it immortalized on video. He needed a plan to convince her to drop out.

He went for his cell, pulled up his calendar and searched for the next open night at St. Longinus. He sent an email to add his name to the list of sinners, in the hope he’d be selected for a fight.

He was going to need it for absolution, because what he was about to do to Derelie would be unforgivable.

Chapter Eleven

Shona wanted to know how the love experiment was going and Derelie wasn’t sure what to tell her. For the millionth time she looked wistfully in the direction of Artie Chan’s empty cubicle. There was no more inspiration there than in her notepad.

The walking dinkus had given her nothing she could use. If she had to write the story today it would be a commentary on meeting people in the city, how different it was from where she’d grown up, where you talked to strangers and made friends with passersby and even your enemies were polite and didn’t make you want to poison their coffee.