“I’m Lillian DePaul,” she said, once she had a grip on him. “And my associate and I—” she tilted her head back toward Daoud behind the windshield, “would like to speak with you.”

She saw him about to ask a question, then think better of it, before he followed her back to the car.

“Good evening, Mr. Kostos,” said Daoud, when the radio host climbed in. “I am Daoud Qassan.” They shook hands over the seat. “I work for Cross-Costa Imports, and I have a lead you may find interesting.”

“Cross-Costa,” said Kostos. “Why is that familiar?”

“You spoke with my … erstwhile employer, several weeks ago. Aristide Makricosta.”

“Yeah,” said Kostos. “He wanted me to get in on some scheme of his. WCRC was moving drugs, he said. But the Catwalk blew the proof and my editor wouldn’t let me touch it.”

Lillian turned the key in the ignition. “I thought we’d chat on the move.”

In the rearview mirror, Kostos caught her gaze. “Nervous,” he said. “I don’t blame you. I’ll wager your doorstep is three feet deep in scullers. And you come to me.”

She half-smiled, and kept her eyes on the road. Let him think this was an offer, if it kept him listening.

“WCRC was moving drugs,” said Daoud. “Ours. Cross-Costa’s. Lisoan poppy tar, to be exact. Frye blew the warehouse after Makricosta approached her with a mix of blackmail and bribery—there is evidence of a sizable campaign donation, you will find.”

“But not much else,” said Kostos. “I already turned this story down.”

“There is me,” said Daoud. “I am evidence. I am offering to go on air with you and discuss it.”

Leather creaked. Lillian risked a glance in the rearview and saw Kostos vehemently shaking his head.

“News,” he said. “I told Makricosta I report news, not half-cooked rumors still raw in the middle. That’s asking to get sacked.”

“Nonsense.” Lillian flicked up the stalk to indicate and took them onto a side street that led away from the Keller Tower and its neighbors, toward the harbor, under the warmly lit windows of tenement buildings. Few people were out, despite the mild weather—winter habits, perhaps, keeping them inside.

“Nonsense?” Kostos asked. “Who works in the wireless, here?”

“Exactly. People like a story.” Guilt pinged off of her like hail, leaving dents. She should talk to Rinko. She would talk to Rinko. Once she had this business sorted out. “They don’t care if it’s true—this one is, by the way—they just want something to chat about on the trolley.”

“I’m not some gossiping grandmother,” he protested. “I’m in the market for facts.”

“But you’ve got sponsors to keep, and your current model isn’t cutting it. Marlowe Flanders has already filled the fast-talking, no-nonsense news anchor slot. You need another angle.”

Silence told her she’d struck her mark with Flanders.