LITMIR.BIZ

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trying to figure that out. Basically, I’ll look into a few things.”

      “Like what?”

      I explained why it made sense to talk with John Hamilton. “The problem is I need a credible reason to go up there.” I glanced down at the Gazette. “This aquaculture place. It’s John Hamilton’s business.”

      “So?”

      “Here’s my reason. I’ll say I want to know more about the super-seaweed for my Oceanography class. You know, local sustainability ventures. Students love that stuff.”

      Angelo ran his fingers through his hair. “Seems like a long shot to me, talking to this John Hamilton. What could aquaculture have to do with Peter’s death? But I don’t see what harm’s in it.”

      I was up at five the next morning and seated at my office desk by seven. It hadn’t been the most restful night. Peter and I had discovered the Prospect Institute email only a few hours before the buoy debacle, and that crisis overshadowed everything else. During the night, worries about the email hacking and its implications for my career resurfaced with a vengeance.

      I poked my head into the hallway. Ted’s door, five offices down, wasn’t open. MOI had lured Ted from Duke University because of his pioneering work on ocean acidification and marine organisms. We’d only spoken briefly on the cruise, but he seemed like a good guy and had offered to help me. This was my chance to get to know him.

      I returned to my desk and emailed him.

       Morning, Ted. Wondering when you’ll be in. I need the name of your contact at the Portland Ledger.

      Three minutes later, he responded.

       Be there by eight.

      At 7:55, Ted walked in and placed a cup next to my computer.

      “Thanks. What is it?”

      “Decaf latte. I emailed you from the Neap Tide and asked Sally what you usually had.”

      I opened the lid and sipped the milky brew. “Mmm…terrific.”

      Ted carried a chair over to my desk and sat down. He wore a button-down blue cotton shirt open at the neck with the sleeves rolled up, jeans, and running shoes. With one hand, he pushed dirty blond hair up off his face. His tan set off startlingly blue eyes.

      Once more, I envisioned Ted and Harvey as a striking couple.

      I ran a finger down my ponytail and got stuck in a tangle halfway down.

      “Haven’t seen you since we got back,” he said. “How’re you doing?”

      “It’s hard. But Harvey and Angelo—he’s my godfather—they’ve been great. How ’bout you?”

      “I told my parents what happened—they’re down in Boston. They try to be helpful but don’t understand.” He shrugged.

      “If you need to talk, don’t hesitate to stop by.”

      His smile was warm. “I might do that. You want my friend’s name. But tell me. The Prospect Institute email. What’re you most worried about?”

      I swallowed. My mouth tasted metallic and dry. “The other scientists on the list are older and established. It’s my credibility as a researcher. You know, respect. Getting grants.”

      “Colleagues know you haven’t cooked the data. But someone might believe it.”

      “Or use it against me even if they didn’t.”

      “Well, something’s just happened I’m guessing will sideline the Prospect Institute. A much bigger server hacking. Hundreds of emails between top climate change researchers from the U.S. and Britain.”

      I felt giddy with relief and guilty that I did. “Damn. I haven’t seen the news yet. Still, I’d like to talk with your friend.”

      “Bob Franklin.”

      “Thanks. Maybe he could use Prospect’s reputation against them. The so-called revelations would backfire. Bob could explain what the out-of-context phrases really mean.”

      “I like it. And so will he, I suspect.” He gave me Bob’s email and phone number, then stood. “I don’t think anything’s out about the Prospect Institute and climate researchers’ emails.”

      “Some buzz on the usual denial blogs, but that’s it. So Bob might go for this.”

      “Good luck. Gotta go. I’ve got papers to review and cruise data to look at.”

      I thanked Ted, and he headed to his office. Things were looking up. Ted might become a friend, and the idiots at Prospect might get what they deserved.

      I called the Portland Ledger and reached Franklin right away. He was excited about my take—how the Institute had turned our scientific conversations into nefarious-sounding smoking guns.

      “The editor forwarded the email to me,” he said. “I looked at their website. It screams bias against climate change research. So I need to talk to scientists on the list. Really glad you called.”

      A half-hour later, he had his headline, lead, and story. Instead of exposing climate change researchers as manufacturers of fiction, the Ledger piece would show how Prospect misused our words and phrases to promote their agenda. Done well, the article would educate people about the doubters.

      “What about the other papers?” I asked.

      “Nothing’s come out. I assume other reporters are doing the same thing. Checking the facts.”

      I hung up, grinning. This was the first good thing to happen in days.

      Two items topped my immediate to-do list: contact John Hamilton and work on the cruise data and NOAA proposal. I called Sunnyside to see if I could visit the following day. The aquaculture facility’s receptionist said Mr. Hamilton was out on the restricted pier—whatever that meant. Five minutes later he called back. No, tomorrow wouldn’t work.

      I’d have to drive up there today.

       7

      BY MID-MORNING I WAS ON Route 1 North heading to Sunnyside Aquaculture. Maine’s coast still clung to winter hibernation, and I zipped past forlorn lobster shacks, ice cream stands, and pottery shops with empty parking lots.

      When we spoke on the phone, Hamilton bought my excuse—oceanography students’ fascination with Maine aquaculture. Somehow I’d insert questions I really wanted him to address.

      South of Winslow Bay, a big sign bordered with intertwined seaweed announced “Sunnyside Aquaculture” in gold letters. A half-mile driveway snaked through spruce forest and ended at an impressively large gray-shingled, two-story building. I pulled open a wooden front door, stepped into the lobby, and gasped. A ring of skylights illuminated a floor tiled in a blue and tan fish motif. Paintings depicting marine scenes hung on cream-colored walls, and an enormous cherry art deco desk gleamed at the far end of the lobby. I turned slowly, taking it in. All this money had to come from somewhere.

      The receptionist seated behind the desk stood. “Welcome to Sunnyside, Dr. Tusconi. Mr. Hamilton is waiting for you.”

      She pointed to a tiled stairway leading to the second floor where John Hamilton greeted me at the top of the stairs. I’d spoken to him for only a moment on the ship and driving up could barely remember a thing about him. Hamilton was shorter than I recalled—hardly more than five feet—with thinning brown hair combed straight back, revealing streaks of pink scalp. As he shook my hand, I examined his face. There was nothing compelling about the man except for his brown, almost black eyes where a spark hinted of intelligence and determination.

      I followed John Hamilton into his office. The room was cozier than the reception area.

      He pointed to a

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