“Meaning the scheme might not be in place anymore. Or that it could be under completely different names and shell companies.”

“It doesn’t matter. The scheme did exist and we have everything we need to expose Maison Vanderbilt.”

“Except hard evidence.”

“We don’t need hard evidence. The IRS can get them after we tip them off with the exposé, and once the tax police start looking, they’ll find something. Because the fraud did happen.”

“So says you.”

“So says their ex-accountant.”

“Oh, please. Your source is just some sour ex-employee who was fired and who has a big, fat chip on their shoulder. Same as you.”

That last comment strikes where it hurts. Nostrils flaring, I say, “Chip or not, the facts remain. Neither of us is lying.”

“I can’t publish a story based on hearsay.”

I clench my fists and try not to grind my teeth. “So you’re pulling the plug?”

Richard massages his temples. “Not yet. We’re going to get a second opinion.”

***

Two days later, we head to the-middle-of-nowhere, upstate New York, to meet with an “expert” financial reporter.

The drive is no less an aphrodisiac than the other night, only this time much longer. My hormones are all over the place. Chevron is going crazy in the backseat, too, only she’s crazy happy, not randy. My dog enjoys her speed and luxury cars.

Richard’s contact, Michael, welcomes us at the gates of his house—a mansion in the middle of a forest.

Very scenic, only mildly unpractical.

Our host is in his late forties, but fit for his age, with salt-and-pepper hair, and intelligent blue eyes. After Richard parks the car and lets Chevron loose in the fenced backyard, Michael shows us inside to his study.

The walls are lined with bookshelves, and everything—desk, shelves, chairs—is in dark walnut. The floor is covered in rugs, and there’s a big, oval table in the center of the room. Very English country quarters.

Michael’s wife appears five minutes later with tea and cookies. “Hi, I’m Susan,” she greets us, dropping the tray on the table.

“Blair. Nice to meet you.”

“Richard.”

“Oh, the pleasure is all mine. I just wanted to bring you some treats before the meeting started.”

“Thank you,” Richard and I both say.

“The cookies are homemade,” Susan explains, “dairy-free, and the eggs come straight from our hens, so don’t worry, they’re happy chickens.”

Where do I sign to have Michael and Susan adopt me?

Next to me, Richard almost chokes on a bite of cookie. I smile and give the boss a stare that says, “See, everyone is concerned with chicken welfare.”

Susan leaves and Michael turns to us. “Richard, why don’t you tell me what this story we couldn’t discuss over the phone is? I’m intrigued.”

Richard doesn’t reply.

I raise my gaze from the table and catch them both looking at me. Oh, the boss expects me to do the talking. And here I was, too busy deciding how many cookies I could eat without appearing like a total pig.