The bar Melanie—or this other person—picked is not very spy movie. The vibe is more standard Manhattan post-work drink: low lights, lounge music, expensive cocktails. I follow the table numbering to eighteen where a woman in her middle/late thirties is sitting, a dry martini in front of her. Brown hair, blue eyes, dark suit—I lower my gaze—cool shoes. We’ll get along just fine.

“Hello.” I stop next to the table. “I’m Blair Walker, Melanie’s friend.”

“Oh, hi.” The woman gets up to shake my hand. “I’m Alison.”

I sit opposite her and order a diet Coke, wanting to keep a clear head. To break the ice, we do a small round of get-to-know-you chitchat until she seems relaxed enough, and I move on to the real reason for this meeting.

“So, Maison Vanderbilt. Mind if I take notes?” I ask, fishing in my bag for a notepad and a pen. How old-fashioned of me. I almost went and bought a tape recorder but it seemed a bit much, and I wasn’t sure a bar with music would’ve been the best place to use one.

“Please, go ahead,” Alison says.

“Okay, ready to get started?”

She nods and takes a sip of her cocktail.

“First, I need to know if you’d rather have your name on the record or if you want to remain an anonymous source.”

“Anonymous.”

“Good.” It’s not good. Anonymous sources pose an issue of credibility, and Richard is already all over me with this investigation. I hope at least Alison has some definitive proof. “So, Melanie didn’t tell me much over the phone. She only said you’re the one who came to her with a potential story two years ago and that she’d arrange this meeting.”

“Yeah, Melanie and I were roommates in college and I knew she worked at a magazine. Even if Mel wasn’t a reporter or anything, I thought she could be interested in a fashion house scandal or at least pass the info on to a real journalist.” Alison keeps fidgeting with the stem of her glass. “But she didn’t. She told me her Editor-in-Chief had killed the story and forbidden her to pass it on. I was surprised when she called me. I was sure no one at Northwestern would touch the info with a ten-foot pole.”

“Oh, I’m not with Northwestern. Not anymore.”

Alison lets out a nervous laugh. “That explains the call then. Where do you work?”

“At an online-only outlet. Here, let me show you.” I use my tablet to show her the homepage.

“And how come you’re interested in this story?”

“If the Vanderbilts are committing tax fraud the public has… a right to know.”

Alison gives me a long, piercing stare. “Care to share the real reason now?”

If I want her to trust me, I should return the courtesy.