Paranoia (109 of 170)

—of —
by Joseph Finder
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Macmillan: Paranoia

Paranoia by Joseph Finder. Copyright 2004 by Joseph Finder.
All Rights Reserved. Sharing not permitted.


Camilletti saw me as he walked away but didn't seem to notice me; I could have been a piece of office furniture. Goddard caught my eye and his brows shot up questioningly. Flo began talking to him, and I did the index-finger-in-the-air thing that Goddard always did, indicating I just needed a minute of his time. He did a quick signal to Flo, then beckoned me in.

"How'd I do?" he asked.

"Excuse me?"

"My little speech to the company."

He actually cared about what I thought? "You were terrific," I said.

He smiled, looked relieved. "I always credit my old college drama coach. Helped me enormously in my career, interviews, public speaking, all that. You ever do any acting, Adam?"

My face went hot. Yeah, like every day. Jesus, what was he hinting at? "No, actually."

"Really puts you at ease. Oh, heavens, not that I'm Cicero or anything, but ... anyway, you had something on your mind?"

"It's about that Wall Street Journal article," I said.

"Okay ...?" he said, puzzled.

"I've discovered who the leaker was."

He looked at me as if he didn't understand, so I went on: "Remember, we thought it had to be someone inside the company who was leaking information to the Journal report—"

"Yes, yes," he said impatiently.

"It's—well, it's Paul. Camilletti."

"What are you talking about?"

"I know it's hard to believe. But it's all here, and it's pretty unambiguous." I slid the printouts across his desk. "Check out the e-mail on top."

He took his reading glasses from the chain around his neck and put them on. Scowling, he inspected the papers. When he looked up his face was dark. "Where's this from?"

I smiled. "IT." I fudged just a bit and said, "I asked IT for phone records of all calls from anyone at Trion to the Wall Street Journal. Then when I saw all those calls from Paul's phone, I thought it might be an admin or something, so I requested copies of his e-mails."

Goddard didn't look at all happy, which was understandable. In fact, he looked fairly upset, so I added, "I'm sorry. I know this must come as a shock." The cliché just came barreling out of my mouth. "I don't really understand it, myself."

"Well, I hope you're pleased with yourself," Goddard said.

I shook my head. "Pleased? No, I just want to get to the bottom of—"

"Because I'm disgusted," he said. His voice shook. "What the hell do you think you're doing? What do you think this is, the goddamned Nixon White House?" Now he was almost shouting, and spittle flew from his mouth.

The room collapsed around me: it was just me and him, across a four-foot expanse of desk. Blood roared in my ears. I was too stunned to say anything.

"Invading people's privacy, digging up dirt, getting private phone records and private e-mails and for all I know steaming open envelopes! I find that kind of underhandedness reprehensible, and I don't ever want you doing that again. Now get the hell out of here."

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