“I assure you his ego is fit as a fiddle.”
“Noted.”
“You heard about Phipps Van Gent?” She wanted this conversation away from her personal life.
“Let’s see. Four notifications on my phone, one very loud ‘I knew it’ coming from Farrell’s office, every other story on the CNN crawl… Yes, I heard something about it.”
“Farrell wants 2,000 words by the end of the day. And that’s a follow up to the article I posted yesterday,” Calliope added.
“He’s in a real follow the money mood. I guess he figured if it worked for Woodward and Bernstein, it’ll work for him,” Terrence shrugged.
Calliope and Terrence paused their conversation as three suited men and one woman marched in lockstep past her cubicle.
“You know those windbreakers they wear with the big yellow letters on the back? They should have them sewn onto their suits. Very Gucci.”
“I imagine they want to talk to me.”
“So vivid, that imagination of yours.” Terrence stood and re-buttoned his jacket. “I’m off to the diamond district.”
“Shopping? Or does Farrell have a theory about conflict diamonds and the Hasidim?”
“Neither. I have a theory, but I need to do a bit more research before it’s fully formed.” He blew her a kiss. “Ciao.”
Never one to procrastinate or nurture drama, Calliope stood, grabbed the original flash drive from her bag, smoothed her apricot wrap dress, and headed down the hall to Farrell’s office where four dour federal agents stood waiting.