After slopping coffee into our cups, the waitress wandered off to chat with a coworker, without even stopping to wipe up the splatter.

“What’s so damned important that I had to fly thirteen hundred miles to Wisconsin to meet you in this dump? You said it was juicy. Come on, spill it.”

He smiled, the big silly grin brightening his stubbly face.

“Well?” I prompted.

“It’s Verigro,” he said, as if that explained everything.

I waited. He continued to smile. I opened a creamer and poured it slowly.

“Aren’t you going to ask me about it?” he asked, the smile falling ever so slightly.

“You’re getting to it, I’m sure.” I sipped my coffee. It tasted liked it had been burning for hours.

Nick huffed. “You take all the fun out of things, you know that, Lotte?”

I decided to take pity on him. “Okay, fine. Gee, Nick,” I said with mock enthusiasm, “what about Verigro?”

The smile returned. “There’s something going on. Something big. Peter Youngs wants to talk to you.”

“Who’s that?” I had never heard of him.

“Oh, just the Chief Operating Officer.”

“Hold on!” I said. Nick shushed me and looked around as if CNN was sitting on his shoulder. “Hold on,” I repeated, more softly this time. “The COO? Why the hell would he want to talk to us?”

“No, not us. He wants to talk to you. Asked for you specifically. Wouldn’t say what it was. I doubt he wants to show you pictures from his last vacation.”

I sat back in my seat, which made flatulent noises as I shifted. Verigro was the largest biotech firm in the country, maybe the world. It made Monsanto look like a high school chemistry class, and Du Pont look like a baking-soda volcano. If I remembered correctly, Peter Youngs was Verigro’s rising star. He was billed as young, brilliant, and powerful. If he had something to say, and he had to tell it to an investigative reporter from Seattle, it must be one hell of a scandal.

“Do we have a meeting?” I asked, keeping my voice almost to a whisper.

“About two hours from now. Some restaurant on Third Street. He originally suggested he meet you at Lake Park, but I told him it was too cloak and dagger.”

“Did you do a background?”

“Right here,” he said, handing over his portable. I paged through some basic stuff: Verigro’s history, its current stock price, its board of directors—and I stopped. Errol Foster—the owner of Foster Media Network, in other words, our boss—held a position on their board.

“Did you see this?” I said, turning the portable so that he could look.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. The smile was plastered to his face again.

“You know he’s going to go apeshit if he gets a hold of the fact that we are following this story.”

“If it pans out, it’ll be the biggest scoop in years. He’s got to see that the story is better for the network than whatever he’s got invested in Verigro shares. He’s always been a health food kinda guy. Not exactly a biotech fanatic.” He took a sip of his coffee and lowered his eyes. “Besides,” he said into the cup, “you can always sweet-talk him into running it.”

“Nick,” I said, raising my voice again, “I’ve told you before to drop it. Foster and I haven’t had anything to do with each other in years. I doubt I could sweet-talk him into checking his watch.”

“All right,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

I glowered at him, then went back to paging through Nick’s research. Verigro began as a participant in the Human Genome Project back in the 1990s. Fifteen years ago, they pioneered the technology for selective codon sequencing of DNA, which allowed them to write codons to order. They could now insert foreign genes precisely into the DNA sequence of nearly any organism and do it cheaply. If it came down to it, they could rewrite the entire genome of an organism from the files they had in their database. I kept waiting for them to start programming Tyrannosaurs, but that wasn’t the business they were in. They made transgenic foods—mostly crops, but some transgenic animals as well—economical and safe, with little chance of replicative fading. Verigro’s flagship product was BioStar, a gene from some unpronounceable thermophilic deep-sea bacteria which programs crops to stay fresh without refrigeration and maintain the nutritional value of foods after cooking. BioStar was hailed as a miracle, especially in third world counties. No more famine. Verigro was the hero of the biotech world.

“You think it’s about BioStar?” I asked. The waitress approached to refill our coffee cups, and Nick leaned back in the booth as nonchalantly as he could muster.

Once the waitress had retreated behind the counter, Nick moved forward again, conspiratorially. “Yeah, I do,” he said simply.

I looked at him for a moment, trying to remember. “Isn’t their CEO running for Senate?”

“Yeah, Jackie Hughes is the front-runner, and is supposed to win in a landslide.”

“If we run this story, it will destroy Hughes’s political career.”

“Yep,” Nick said.

“Fuck,” I said quietly. If there was something wrong with BioStar, then this really was a Pulitzer waiting to happen.

“I know the feeling,” Nick said.

“The meeting’s in two hours you said?”

“Yeah. Macchione’s Italian Garden. Just you two.”

“But you got us a truck, right? In case he wants to talk on the record?”

“No. No truck. We’re flying under the radar on this one.”

“What do you mean, no truck? Didn’t you get this cleared with Jared?” Jared was our news director in Seattle.

“Nope. I wanted to see what we had before I stuck our necks out. There is a small but real chance that Youngs just wants to air some corporate dirty laundry.”

“You unmitigated ass,” I said, and I meant it. “Your plan was to get the story, then have me use my feminine wiles to persuade Foster to run a piece that could possibly cost him several million dollars in stock? Is that about right?”

“Well, when you put it that way…” he trailed off.

“You have to tell Jared. Call him right now!” I commanded.

“Look, Lotte. I’m the producer. This is my call. If we screw up, it will be my ass, not yours. You have to trust me, okay?”

I sighed. I seemed to be doing that a lot lately. “I do trust you, Nick. But this is crazy, even for you.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, the smile returning.

“Did you at least get me a hotel room? I’ll need to freshen up before I meet with Youngs.”

“Next door.” I looked out the window to see a large, modern-looking hotel. “Parking’s underground. The key is waiting at the front desk. I brought you a suit. It’s in your room.”

“At least you did something right,” I grumbled.

“I heard that,” Nick said sweetly.

I headed for my car with visions of a shower and a quick nap in my future.

After slopping coffee into our cups, the waitress wandered off to chat with a coworker, without even stopping to wipe up the splatter.

“What’s so damned important that I had to fly thirteen hundred miles to Wisconsin to meet you in this dump? You said it was juicy. Come on, spill it.”

He smiled, the big silly grin brightening his stubbly face.

“Well?” I prompted.

“It’s Verigro,” he said, as if that explained everything.

I waited. He continued to smile. I opened a creamer and poured it slowly.

“Aren’t you going to ask me about it?” he asked, the smile falling ever so slightly.

“You’re getting to it, I’m sure.” I sipped my coffee. It tasted liked it had been burning for hours.

Nick huffed. “You take all the fun out of things, you know that, Lotte?”

I decided to take pity on him. “Okay, fine. Gee, Nick,” I said with mock enthusiasm, “what about Verigro?”

The smile returned. “There’s something going on. Something big. Peter Youngs wants to talk to you.”

“Who’s that?” I had never heard of him.

“Oh, just the Chief Operating Officer.”

“Hold on!” I said. Nick shushed me and looked around as if CNN was sitting on his shoulder. “Hold on,” I repeated, more softly this time. “The COO? Why the hell would he want to talk to us?”

“No, not us. He wants to talk to you. Asked for you specifically. Wouldn’t say what it was. I doubt he wants to show you pictures from his last vacation.”

I sat back in my seat, which made flatulent noises as I shifted. Verigro was the largest biotech firm in the country, maybe the world. It made Monsanto look like a high school chemistry class, and Du Pont look like a baking-soda volcano. If I remembered correctly, Peter Youngs was Verigro’s rising star. He was billed as young, brilliant, and powerful. If he had something to say, and he had to tell it to an investigative reporter from Seattle, it must be one hell of a scandal.

“Do we have a meeting?” I asked, keeping my voice almost to a whisper.

“About two hours from now. Some restaurant on Third Street. He originally suggested he meet you at Lake Park, but I told him it was too cloak and dagger.”

“Did you do a background?”

“Right here,” he said, handing over his portable. I paged through some basic stuff: Verigro’s history, its current stock price, its board of directors—and I stopped. Errol Foster—the owner of Foster Media Network, in other words, our boss—held a position on their board.

“Did you see this?” I said, turning the portable so that he could look.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. The smile was plastered to his face again.

“You know he’s going to go apeshit if he gets a hold of the fact that we are following this story.”

“If it pans out, it’ll be the biggest scoop in years. He’s got to see that the story is better for the network than whatever he’s got invested in Verigro shares. He’s always been a health food kinda guy. Not exactly a biotech fanatic.” He took a sip of his coffee and lowered his eyes. “Besides,” he said into the cup, “you can always sweet-talk him into running it.”

“Nick,” I said, raising my voice again, “I’ve told you before to drop it. Foster and I haven’t had anything to do with each other in years. I doubt I could sweet-talk him into checking his watch.”

“All right,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

I glowered at him, then went back to paging through Nick’s research. Verigro began as a participant in the Human Genome Project back in the 1990s. Fifteen years ago, they pioneered the technology for selective codon sequencing of DNA, which allowed them to write codons to order. They could now insert foreign genes precisely into the DNA sequence of nearly any organism and do it cheaply. If it came down to it, they could rewrite the entire genome of an organism from the files they had in their database. I kept waiting for them to start programming Tyrannosaurs, but that wasn’t the business they were in. They made transgenic foods—mostly crops, but some transgenic animals as well—economical and safe, with little chance of replicative fading. Verigro’s flagship product was BioStar, a gene from some unpronounceable thermophilic deep-sea bacteria which programs crops to stay fresh without refrigeration and maintain the nutritional value of foods after cooking. BioStar was hailed as a miracle, especially in third world counties. No more famine. Verigro was the hero of the biotech world.

“You think it’s about BioStar?” I asked. The waitress approached to refill our coffee cups, and Nick leaned back in the booth as nonchalantly as he could muster.

Once the waitress had retreated behind the counter, Nick moved forward again, conspiratorially. “Yeah, I do,” he said simply.

I looked at him for a moment, trying to remember. “Isn’t their CEO running for Senate?”

“Yeah, Jackie Hughes is the front-runner, and is supposed to win in a landslide.”

“If we run this story, it will destroy Hughes’s political career.”

“Yep,” Nick said.

“Fuck,” I said quietly. If there was something wrong with BioStar, then this really was a Pulitzer waiting to happen.

“I know the feeling,” Nick said.

“The meeting’s in two hours you said?”

“Yeah. Macchione’s Italian Garden. Just you two.”

“But you got us a truck, right? In case he wants to talk on the record?”

“No. No truck. We’re flying under the radar on this one.”

“What do you mean, no truck? Didn’t you get this cleared with Jared?” Jared was our news director in Seattle.

“Nope. I wanted to see what we had before I stuck our necks out. There is a small but real chance that Youngs just wants to air some corporate dirty laundry.”

“You unmitigated ass,” I said, and I meant it. “Your plan was to get the story, then have me use my feminine wiles to persuade Foster to run a piece that could possibly cost him several million dollars in stock? Is that about right?”

“Well, when you put it that way…” he trailed off.

“You have to tell Jared. Call him right now!” I commanded.

“Look, Lotte. I’m the producer. This is my call. If we screw up, it will be my ass, not yours. You have to trust me, okay?”

I sighed. I seemed to be doing that a lot lately. “I do trust you, Nick. But this is crazy, even for you.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, the smile returning.

“Did you at least get me a hotel room? I’ll need to freshen up before I meet with Youngs.”

“Next door.” I looked out the window to see a large, modern-looking hotel. “Parking’s underground. The key is waiting at the front desk. I brought you a suit. It’s in your room.”

“At least you did something right,” I grumbled.

“I heard that,” Nick said sweetly.

I headed for my car with visions of a shower and a quick nap in my future.