George MacClelland

Part Eight

I called MacClelland.

“Miss Stone,” he said. “Is it already time for another round of twenty questions?”

Well, that certainly sounded promising. At the very least, he hadn’t hung up yet.

“Would you give me twenty answers?”

“Well that depends on the questions,” he replied. Dropping into a more serious tone, he said, “Same deal as before. Nothing gets attached to my name and I won’t give you anything that needs to stay secret.”

“That’s more than reasonable,” I said. It wasn’t the same deal – MacClelland had shifted from refusing to leak anything secret to refusing to leak anything that should be secret. It was a subtle distinction, and I doubted that he was even consciously aware he had changed his position. It suggested that he might be experiencing some cognitive dissonance of his own – maybe of the kind that arises when ideals and principles contradict?

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Part Six

With Friday’s traffic delay still fresh in my mind, I got up and drove downtown almost an hour early and camped out in the lobby of the Wexler Building so I could ambush Kurt as he came in. I used the time spent waiting to finish compiling my notes.

Kurt saw me before I saw him – I had my head down in my laptop, confident that I’d be able to smell him the moment he stepped in the building. It hadn’t quite occurred to me that what I considered Kurt’s scent was mostly the smell of his coffee.

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