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33.
A serious discussion occurred over coffee and cereal at the Simon household the next morning. Linsey and Jack sat on the patio overlooking Point Loma rooftops and the broad, gunmetal blue Pacific with its rolling breakers and glinting sunshine seen through a heavy marine layer. It was her turn to cook breakfast, and she made a classic American breakfast of eggs, sunny side up, on toast, with bacon and sausage. Instead of ketchup, they put slices of tomato over everything, British style. It was a habit Jack had picked up during his years as a U.S. Navy liaison officer in London, and later as a traveling journalist in various countries.
"Jack, I know you smell a story here," Linsey said as she poured them each a hot, fragrant cup of coffee.
"I smell coffee," he said with a coy expression, rolling his eyes. "Smells good."
She sat down. He was teasing her and being extra thick, and she wasn't biting. "I am not going to let you annoy me. You know what? If you become impossible, I'll have you arrested."
"Oh really. I've heard that before."
They started eating.
"Jack, this is a very serious case. I'll tell you that much. If you behave yourself, I'll give you an exclusive."
"Okay, start giving me an exclusive. Is the Federal government involved?"
"Yes, dodo. I'm working on a task force that includes the FBI. If you leak even a word of this, I'll never speak with you again. We'll make love in private. From separate rooms."
He laughed. "Okay, okay, I'm underwhelmed. What do you want me to do?" He raised his cup to sip.
"I want you to keep quiet about this investigation until we get a break. Then I'll make sure you have a scoop."
"I'll tell you what," he said, setting the cup down with a definitive clink. "I'll follow my nose, and I'll decide when and how to release what I find. But I promise you that I won't jump the gun with anything I learn from you."
"I have to watch you every minute, don't I?"
He laughed. "Oh, come on, Linsey. I'm not going to forget that you're my wife and the love of my life. I'm just not going to forget that I also have a job to do."
She glowered at him.
"Linsey, in the end you'll thank me."
"If I don't spank you first."
* * * *
Jack was hoping to have lunch with colleagues at a Chinese restaurant in Mission Valley, but a story intervened. By the time he wrapped it up, it was two in the afternoon. Jovia came and brought him a half a sandwich and a cold perspiring can of cola, for which he profusely thanked her. She said: "That Chinese food was great. Have you ever eaten there?"
He said absently "Long ago" while unwrapping the plastic wrap to discover a tuna salad on rye with pickle and pepper. "Oh God, this looks good."
Jovia hovered in the doorway. "Did you ever get hold of Maggie Matthews?"
"Oh yeah. Dylan's still hitting the sauce. She sounds sad."
"That is really sad. What about that other guy?"
"Oh, what's his name." Mouth full, Jack dug around among the papers on his desk until he found her tattered note from days ago. "Oh yes, Robertson. Here it is."
Jovia said something pleasant and wandered away, while Jack devoured his sandwich and dialed the phone number. A man answered. "Yes?"
"Mr. Robertson?"
"Yes."
"This is Jack Simon at the San Diego Times. You called here a few days ago about those planes spraying Mission Valley."
"Oh yes. I have some information that may help."
"Are you involved in the spraying, Mr. Robertson?"
"No."
"I'm a newspaper reporter. Why me? Why not the police?"
"Because there are broader issues involved and I don't want to end up in extremely bad shape."
"What do you mean?"
"Dead."
"Oh come on." Jack nearly hung up.
"Please, Mr. Simon. You are an investigative reporter. You are well known in the region and quite famous for your exposés."
"I'll give you thirty seconds."
"Does the name Collwood mean anything to you?"
"Collwood, Collwood." Jack tapped his foot impatiently. Then he stopped. "You mean the guy who owns Anaconda."
"That's him. My father and I met him a few years ago. My father has passed away since, but Mr. Colwood has some information about Peruvian fungi that we both felt was going to the wrong hands. My father was desperate and had to trust him."
"Are you bullshitting me, Mr. Robertson?"
"What could I possibly gain if this weren't true?'
"Okay, you have my interest. Can we meet?"
"Yes. Want me to come to your office?"
They made a date, for tomorrow afternoon, to have James Robertson Jr. drive from the East County into the City of San Diego and meet Jack at the newspaper's Mission Valley offices. Jack was reluctant about it, because he'd had such meetings that usually fizzled when it turned out he was dealing with some opportunist wanting to capitalize on an ongoing disaster of some kind. Nevertheless, it paid to leave no stone unturned, particularly when the guy was willing to come to him.
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