This book is based on real events. Only the people, places, and events are fictionalized. The stupidity is 100% real.
The following morning, Cynthia found a new folder on her desktop. The only reason she saw it through the unorganized mob of years-old work reports, photos, and memes was because, superimposed across her screen were five bright red arrows pointing to it from all directions along with the words, “NEW FILE CLEAN UP YOUR DESKTOP!!!” that disappeared when she double-clicked it.
bluebunny had apparently deemed Cynthia sufficiently trustworthy to share something substantial.
She was hoping for a cache of incriminating emails, recorded conversations, and/or a detailed strategy document laying out Santos’ nefarious mission, vision, objectives, key performance indicators, and SWOT analysis. Instead, what she got was an enormous call list. No names or descriptions, just numbers dialed out of the governor’s office with corresponding time stamps that went back a full year.
“OK, Cynthia, this is why you majored in journalism,” she told herself. “Do the work.”
So, she started the week before the Bulge bulged, when the first news came out of Seabreeze Ridge that something might be wrong in the neighborhood, and input every number into an online directory. There were thousands of numbers to hundreds of lobbyists, state and federal agencies, congresspeople, and other governors, as well as several calls to a Palm Beach plastic surgeon.
Cynthia meticulously logged everything into a sprawling Excel spreadsheet. Santos seemed to place a premium on structure and repetition, so it didn’t take long until she began noticing patterns. The governor always called the state’s Department of Health at exactly 11:05 AM, the Department of Education at 1:15 PM, a New Jersey-based astrologer at 7 PM, and a South Korean megachurch cult leader at 9:30 PM. She also never made any calls before 9:30 AM, after which Cynthia assumed she had finished her morning briefing. Nevertheless, nothing in the call log seemed out of the ordinary. Cynthia couldn’t find a smoking gun.
It took until well past midnight, before Cynthia got to the morning after the Bulging. She copied the first number the governor called that day, pasted it into the directory, and almost fell off the couch when she saw the result.
Upon learning about an unprecedented natural disaster that unhoused thousands of Floridians, before calling the White House, FEMA, the National Guard, or even Fox News, Santos decided to ring up Griffin Ventures. Cynthia knew the company as the personal fiefdom of Griffin Elzos, the scion of one of the world’s richest 100 families who, through pure grit, smarts, and can-do-itiveness, transformed himself into one of the world’s ten richest men. A methodical, dispassionate, callous capitalist, Elzos recently moved his entire enormous real estate investment, venture capital, and private equity conglomerate from Silicon Valley to Florida just for the tax benefits—and maybe to also stick it to California.
The Bulge had suddenly become the most valuable real estate in Florida, maybe even the country. It was a climate-proof enclave in a red-hot real estate market with a looming medium-term climate crisis. Santos clearly wanted to dangle its exclusive redevelopment rights in front of Elzos in return for what?
Cynthia rolled her eyes.
Money. It’s always money. Politicians of all stripes and calibers were primarily, exclusively, pathologically focused on reelection. And for that, they needed funds. This was no 4-D chess match. Elzos was famously tight-fisted with his purse strings, especially when it came to donating to elected officials. Santos wanted to grease them open with the Bulge and it probably wouldn’t hurt if the billionaire hired some of her family and close political associates into upper management as he went. Elzos would be a fool not to take the deal. Now Cynthia just needed to prove it.
Once more, the Pulitzer materialized tantalizingly within reach like the Holy Grail before King Arthur’s court. She was going to get that damn award and she didn’t care what bridges she needed to burn along the way.
She called Harry Trask, her old newspaper editor. He picked up after three rings.
“Cynthia?” he sounded annoyed. “Do you have any idea what time it…”
“It’s 12:40,” she interrupted. “And I knew you’d pick up because you always spend Saturday nights with your mistress.”
“What? Huh?” came his flabbergasted response. “I don’t…”
“Yes, you do, Harry,” she cut him off again. “Her name is Melissa Gomez. She’s 18 years younger than you and works in advertising. You made me pick up her dry cleaning enough times to figure it out. I’m going to cut to the chase. I want you to share your source in the governor’s office. I need it for a story I’m working on about the Bulge.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
He was incensed.
“First of all, it took me years to cultivate that contact. Secondly, you don’t even work at the paper anymore. And even if you did, I don’t owe you shit. I’m not giving you shit!”
“OK, Harry, I’ll play it your way,” she replied coolly. “First of all, you have like five people left on staff, none of whom can investigate the Bulge, so there’s nothing you can do with your contact. Secondly, you owe me three and a half years of nonstop sexual harassment. In fact, I still have those weirdly lit photos of your dick you liked to send me on the weekends. A whole folder of them. So, if you don’t give me your contact, I’m going to share the pics with every tabloid rag and two-bit blogger in the city.”
Cynthia heard heavy mouth breathing on the line.
“Did you hear me?” she asked. “Or do you need me to repeat myself?”
“I heard you, you fucking bitch,” he answered. “I’ll send you the contact. Fuck you.”
“Thanks, Harry!” she said in an overly friendly tone. “I owe you one!”
She dropped her sarcastic smile and hung up.
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