“No,” Gray said. “I won’t write it until I have all of it.”
   “And how long might that take?” Feldman asked.
   “A week, maybe.”
   “We don’t have a week,” Krauthammer said.
   Gray was desperate. “I can find out how much the Times knows. Give me forty-eight hours.”
   “They’re running something tomorrow or Sunday,” Feldman said again.
   “Let ‘em run it. I’ll bet money it’ll be the same story with probably the same mug shots. You guys are assuming a hell of a lot. You’re assuming they’ve got a copy of the brief, but its author doesn’t have a copy of it. We don’t have a copy of it. Let’s wait, and read their little story, then go from there.”
   The editors studied each other. Krauthammer was frustrated. Keen was anxious. But the boss was Feldman, and he said, “Okay. If they run something in the morning, we’ll meet here at noon and look at it.”
   “Fine,” Gray said quickly and reached for the door.
   “You’d better move fast, Grantham,” Feldman said. “We can’t sit on this much longer.”
   Grantham was gone.


   The limousine moved patiently in the Beltway rush hour. It was dark, and Matthew Barr read with the aid of a reading light in the ceiling. Coal sipped Perrier and watched the traffic. He had the brief memorized, and could have simply explained it to Barr, but he wanted to watch his reaction.
   Barr had no reaction until he got to the photograph, then slowly shook his head. He laid it on the seat, and thought about it for a moment. “Very nasty,” he said.
   Coal grunted.
   “How true is it?” Barr asked.
   “I’d love to know.”
   “When did you first see it?”
   “Tuesday of last week. It came over from the FBI in one of their daily reports.”
   “What’d the President say?”
   “He was not that happy with it, but there was no cause for alarm. It’s just another wild shot in the dark, we thought. He talked to Voyles about it, and Voyles agreed to leave it alone for a while. Now I’m not so sure.”
   “Did the President ask Voyles to back off?” Barr asked the question slowly.
   “Yes.”
   “That’s awfully close to obstruction of justice, assuming of course the brief turns out to be true.”
   “And what if it’s true?”
   “Then the President has problems. I’ve got one conviction for obstruction, so I’ve been there. It’s like mail fraud. It’s broad and wide and fairly easy to prove. Were you in on it?”
   “What do you think?”
   “Then I think you’ve got problems too.”
   They rode in silence and watched the traffic. Coal had thought through the obstruction angle, but he wanted Barr’s opinion. He wasn’t worried about criminal charges. The President had one brief little chat with Voyles, asked him to look elsewhere for the time being, and that was it. Hardly the work of felons. But Coal was terribly concerned with reelection, and a scandal involving a major contributor like Mattiece would be devastating. The thought was sickening-a man the President knew and took millions from paid money to have two Supreme Court Justices knocked off so his pal the President could appoint more reasonable men to the bench so that the oil could be harvested. The Democrats would fall in the streets howling with glee. Every subcommittee in Congress would hold hearings. Every newspaper would run it every day for a year. The Justice Department would be forced to investigate. Coal would be forced to take the blame and resign. Hell, everyone in the White House, except the President, would have to go.
   It was a nightmare of horrific proportions.
   “We’ve got to find out if the brief is true,” Coal said to the window.
   “If people are dying, then it’s true. Give me a better reason for killing Callahan and Verheek.”
   There was no other reason, and Coal knew it. “I want you to do something.”
   “Find the girl.”
   “No. She’s either dead or hiding in a cave somewhere. I want you to talk to Mattiece.”
   “I’m sure he’s in the yellow pages.”
   “You can find him. We need to establish a link that the President knows nothing about. We need to first determine how much of this is true.”
   “And you think Victor will take me into his confidence and tell me his secrets.”
   “Yes, eventually. You’re not a cop, remember. Assume it’s true, and he thinks he’s about to be exposed. He’s desperate and he’s killing people. What if you told him the press had the story and the end was near, and if he is inclined to disappear, then now’s the time? You’re coming to him from Washington, remember? From the inside. From the President, or so he thinks. He’ll listen to you.”
   “Okay. What if he tells me it’s true? What’s in it for us?”
   “I’ve got some ideas, all in the category of damage control. The first thing we’ll do is immediately appoint two nature lovers to the Court. I mean, wild-eyed radical bird watchers. It would show that down deep we’re good little environmentalists. And it would kill Mattiece and his oil field, etc. We could do this in a matter of hours. Almost simultaneously, the President will call in Voyles and the Attorney General and Justice and demand an immediate investigation into Mattiece. We’ll leak copies of the brief to every reporter in town, then hunker down and ride out the storm.”
   Barr was smiling with admiration.
   Coal continued. “It won’t be pretty, but it’s far better than sitting back and hoping the brief is a work of fiction.”
   “How do you explain that photograph?”
   “You can’t. It’ll hurt for a while, but it was seven years ago, and people go crazy. We’ll portray Mattiece as a good citizen back then, but now he’s a madman.”
   “He is a madman.”
   “Yes, he is. And right now he’s like a wounded dog backed in a corner. You must convince him to throw in the towel, and haul ass. I think he’ll listen to you. And I think we’ll find out from him if it’s true.”
   “So how do I find him?”
   “I’ve got a man working on that. I’ll pull some strings, and make a contact. Be ready to go on Sunday.”
   Barr smiled to the window. He would like to meet Mattiece.
   The traffic slowed. Coal slowly sipped his water. “Anything on Grantham?”
   “Not really. We’re listening and watching, but nothing exciting. He talks to his mother and a couple of gals, but nothing worth reporting. He works a lot. He left town Wednesday and returned Thursday.”
   “Where did he go?”
   “New York. Probably working on some story.”


   Cleve was supposed to be at the corner of Rhode Island and Sixth at exactly 10 P.M., but he wasn’t. Gray was supposed to race down Rhode Island until Cleve caught him, so that if anyone was indeed following him they would think he was simply a dangerous driver. He raced down Rhode Island, through Sixth at fifty miles per hour, and watched for blue lights. There were none. He looped around, and fifteen minutes later barreled down Rhode Island again. There! He saw blue lights and pulled to the curb.
   It was not Cleve. It was a white cop who was very agitated. He jerked Gray’s license, examined it, and asked if he’d been drinking. No, sir, he said. The cop wrote the ticket, and proudly handed it to Gray, who sat behind the wheel staring at the ticket until he heard voices coming from the rear bumper.
   Another cop was on the scene, and they were arguing. It was Cleve, and he wanted the white cop to forget the ticket, but the white cop explained it had already been written and besides the idiot was doing fifty-six miles an hour through the intersection. He’s a friend, Cleve said. Then teach him how to drive before he kills somebody, the white cop said as he got in his patrol car and drove away.
   Cleve was snickering as he looked in Gray’s window. “Sorry about that,” he said with a smile.
   “It’s all your fault.”
   “Slow it down next time.”
   Gray threw the ticket on the floorboard. “Let’s talk quick. You said Sarge said the boys in the West Wing are talking about me. Right?”
   “Right.”
   “Okay, I need to know from Sarge if they’re talking about any other reporters, especially from the New York Times. I need to know if they think anybody else is hot on the story.”
   “Is that all?”
   “Yes. I need it quick.”
   “Slow it down,” Cleve said loudly and walked to his car.


   Darby paid for the room for the next seven days, in part because she wanted a familiar place to return to if necessary, and in part because she wanted to leave some new clothes she had purchased. It was sinful, this running and leaving everything behind. The clothes were nothing fancy, sort of upscale safari law school, but they cost even more in New York, and it would be nice to keep them. She would not take risks over clothes, but she liked the room and she liked the city and she wanted the clothes.
   It was time to run again, and she would travel light. She carried a small canvas bag when she darted from the St. Moritz into a waiting cab. It was almost 11 P.M., Friday, and Central Park South was busy. Across the street, a line of horses and carriages waited for customers and brief excursions through the park.
   The cab took ten minutes to get to Seventy-second and Broadway, which was the wrong direction, but this entire journey should be hard to follow. She walked thirty feet, and disappeared into the subway. She had studied a map and a book of the system, and she hoped it would be easy. The subway was not appealing because she’d never used it and she’d heard the stories. But this was the Broadway line, the most commonly used train in Manhattan, and it was rumored to be safe, at times. And things weren’t so swell above the ground. The subway could hardly be worse.
   She waited in the correct spot with a group of drunk but well-dressed teenagers, and the train arrived in a couple of minutes. It wasn’t crowded, and she took a seat near the center doors. Stare at the floor and hold the bag, she kept telling herself. She looked at the floor, but from behind the dark shades, she studied the people. It was her lucky night. No street punks with knives. No beggars. No perverts, at least none she could spot. But for a novice, it was nerve-racking anyway.
   The drunk kids exited at Times Square, and she got off quickly at the next stop. She had never seen Penn Station, but this was not the time to sightsee. Maybe one day she could return and spend a month and admire the city without watching for Stump and Thin Man and who knows who else who was out there. But not now.
   She had five minutes, and found her train as it was boarding. Again, she sat in the rear and watched every passenger. There were no familiar faces. Surely, please, surely, they had not stuck to her on this jagged escape. Once again, her mistake had been credit cards. She had bought four tickets at O’Hare with American Express, and somehow they knew she was in New York. She was certain Stump had not seen her, but he was in the city, and of course he had friends. There could be twenty of them. But then, she was not certain of anything.
   The train left six minutes late. It was half empty. She pulled a paperback from the bag and pretended to read it.
   Fifteen minutes later, they stopped in Newark, and she got off. She was a lucky girl. There were cabs lined up outside the station, and ten minutes later she was at the airport.


   It was Saturday morning, and the Queen was in Florida taking money from the rich, and it was clear and cool outside. He wanted to sleep late, then play golf whenever he woke up. But it was seven, and he was sitting at his desk wearing a tie, listening to Fletcher Coal suggest what they ought to do about this and about that. Richard Horton, the Attorney General, had talked to Coal, and now Coal was alarmed.
   Someone opened the door and Horton entered alone. They shook hands and Horton sat across the desk. Coal stood nearby, and this really irritated the President.
   Horton was dull but sincere. He was not dumb or slow, he just thought carefully about everything before he acted. He thought about each word before he said it. He was loyal to the President, and could be trusted for sound judgment.
   “We are seriously considering a formal grand jury investigation into the deaths of Rosenberg and Jensen,” he announced gravely. “In light of what’s happened in New Orleans, we think this should be pursued immediately.”
   “The FBI is investigating,” the President said. “They’ve got three hundred agents on the case. Why should we get involved?”
   “Are they investigating the pelican brief?” Horton asked. He knew the answer. He knew Voyles was in New Orleans at this moment with hundreds of agents. He knew they had talked to hundreds of people, collected a pile of useless evidence. He knew the President had asked Voyles to back off, and he knew Voyles was not telling the President everything.
   Horton had never mentioned the pelican brief to the President, and the fact that he even knew about the damned thing was exasperating. How many more knew about it? Probably thousands.
   “They are pursuing all leads,” Coal said. “They gave us a copy of it almost two weeks ago, so we assume they’re pursuing it.”
   Exactly what Horton expected out of Coal. “I feel strongly that the Administration should investigate this matter at once.” He spoke as though this was all memorized, and this irritated the President.
   “Why?” asked the President.
   “What if the brief is on target? If we do nothing, and the truth eventually surfaces, the damage will be irreparable.”
   “Do you honestly believe there’s any truth to it?” the President asked.
   “It’s awfully suspicious. The first two men who saw it are dead, and the person who wrote it has disappeared. It is perfectly logical, if one is so inclined to kill Supreme Court Justices. There are no other compelling suspects. From what I hear, the FBI is baffled. Yes, it needs to be pursued.”
   Horton’s investigations leaked worse than the White House basement, and Coal was terrified of this clown impaneling a grand jury and calling witnesses. Horton was an honorable man, but the Justice Department was filled with lawyers who talked too much.
   “Don’t you think it’s a bit premature?” Coal asked.
   “I don’t think so.”

   “Have you seen the papers this morning?” Coal asked.
   Horton had glanced at the front page of the Post, and read the sports section. It was Saturday, after all. He had heard that Coal read eight newspapers before dawn, so he didn’t like this question.
   “I’ve read a couple of them,” he said.
   “I’ve looked at several,” Coal said modestly. “And there’s not a word anywhere about those two dead lawyers or the girl or Mattiece or anything related to the brief. If you start a formal investigation at this point, it’ll be front-page news for a month.”
   “Do you think it will simply go away?” Horton asked Coal.
   “It might. For obvious reasons, we hope so.”
   “I think you’re optimistic, Mr. Coal. We don’t normally sit back and wait for the press to do our investigating.”
   Coal grinned and almost laughed at this one. He smiled at the President, who shot him a quick look, and Horton started a slow burn.
   “What’s wrong with waiting a week?” asked the President.
   “Nothing,” shot Coal.
   Just that quick the decision was made to wait a week, and Horton knew it. “Things could blow up in a week,” he said without conviction.
   “Wait a week,” the President ordered. “We’ll meet here next Friday, and go from there. I’m not saying no, Richard, just wait seven days.”
   Horton shrugged. This was more than he expected. He’d covered his rear. He would go straight to his office and dictate a lengthy memo detailing everything he could remember about this meeting, and his neck would be protected.
   Coal stepped forward and handed him a sheet of paper.
   “What’s this?”
   “More names. Do you know them?”
   It was the bird-watcher list—four judges who were much too liberal for comfort, but Plan B called for radical environmentalists on the Court.
   Horton blinked several times and studied it hard. “You must be kidding.”
   “Check ‘em out,” said the President.
   “These guys are off-the-wall liberals,” Horton mumbled.
   “Yes, but they worship the sun and moon, and trees and birds,” Coal explained helpfully.
   Horton caught on, and suddenly smiled. “I see. Pelican lovers.”
   “They’re almost extinct, you know,” the President said.
   Coal headed for the door. “I wish they’d been wiped out ten years ago.”


   She hadn’t called by nine when Gray arrived at his desk in the newsroom. He’d read the Times and there was nothing in it. He spread the New Orleans paper over the clutter and skimmed it. Nothing. They had reported all they knew. Callahan, Verheek, Darby, and a thousand unanswered questions. He had to assume the Times and maybe the Times-Picayune in New Orleans had seen the brief or heard about it, and thus knew of Mattiece. And he had to assume they were clawing like cats to verify it. But he had Darby, and they would find Garcia, and if Mattiece could be verified, they would do it.
   At the moment, there was no alternative plan. If Garcia was gone or refused to help, they would be forced to explore the dark and murky world of Victor Mattiece. Darby would not last long at that, and he didn’t blame her. He was uncertain how long he would last.
   Smith Keen appeared with a cup of coffee and sat on the desk. “If the Times had it, would they hold off until tomorrow?”
   Gray shook his head. “No. If they had more than the Times-Picayune, it would’ve run today.”
   “Krauthammer wants to run what we’ve got. He thinks we can name Mattiece.”
   “I don’t follow.”
   “He’s leaning on Feldman. His angle is that we can run the whole story about Callahan and Verheek getting killed over this brief, which happens to name Mattiece who happens to be a friend of the President’s, without directly accusing Mattiece. He says we can be extremely cautious and make sure the story says Mattiece is named in the brief, but not named by us. And since the brief is causing all this death, then it has been verified to some extent.”
   “He wants to hide behind the brief.”
   “Exactly.”
   “But it’s all speculation until it’s confirmed. Krauthammer’s losing it. Assume for a second that Mr. Mattiece is in no way involved with this. Completely innocent. We run the story with his name in it, and then what? We look like fools, and we get sued for the next ten years. I’m not writing the story.”
   “He wants someone else to write it.”
   “If this paper runs a pelican story not written by me, the girl is gone, okay? I thought I explained that yesterday.”
   “You did. And Feldman heard you. He’s on your side, Gray, and I am too. But if this thing’s true, it’ll blow up in a matter of days. We all believe that. You know how Krauthammer hates the Times, and he’s afraid those bastards’ll run it.”
   “They can’t run it, Smith. They may have a few more facts than the Times-Picayune, but they can’t name Mattiece. Look, we’ll verify before anyone. And when it’s nailed down, I’ll write the story with everyone’s name along with that cute little picture of Mattiece and his friend in the White House, and the fat lady will sing.”
   “We? You said it again. You said, ‘We’ll verify it.’”
   “My source and I, okay?” Gray opened a drawer and found the photo of Darby and the Diet Coke. He handed it to Keen, who admired it.
   “Where is she?” he asked.
   “I’m not sure. I think she’s on her way here from New York.”
   “Don’t get her killed.”
   “We’re being very cautious.” Gray looked over both shoulders and leaned closer. “In fact, Smith, I think I’m being followed. I just wanted you to know.”
   “Who might they be?”
   “It came from a source at the White House. I’m not using my phones.”
   “I’d better tell Feldman.”
   “Okay. I don’t think it’s dangerous, yet.”
   “He needs to know.” Keen jumped to his feet and disappeared.
   She called within minutes. “I’m here,” she said. “I don’t know how many I’ve brought with me, but I’m here, and alive, for the moment.”
   “Where are you?”
   “Tabard Inn on N Street. I saw an old friend on Sixth Avenue yesterday. Remember Stump, who was grievously wounded on Bourbon Street? Did I tell you that story?”
   “Yes.”
   “Well, he’s walking again. A slight limp, but he was wandering around Manhattan yesterday. I don’t think he saw me.”
   “Are you serious! That’s scary, Darby.”
   “It’s worse than scary. I left six trails when I left last night, and if I see him in this city, limping along a sidewalk somewhere, I intend to surrender. I’ll walk up to him and turn myself in.”
   “I don’t know what to say.”
   “Say as little as possible, because these people have radar. I’ll play private eye for three days, and I’m out of here. If I live to see Wednesday morning, I’m on a plane to Aruba or Trinidad or some place with a beach. When I die, I want to be on a beach.”
   “When do we meet?”
   “I’m thinking about that. I want you to do two things.”
   “I’m listening.”
   “Where do you park your car?”
   “Close to my apartment.”
   “Leave it there, and go rent another one. Nothing fancy, just a generic Ford or something. Pretend someone’s watching you through a rifle scope. Go to the Marbury Hotel in Georgetown and get a room for three nights. They’ll take cash—I’ve already checked. Do it under another name.”
   Grantham took notes and shook his head.
   “Can you sneak out of your apartment after dark?” she asked.
   “I think so.”
   “Do it, and take a cab to the Marbury. Have them deliver the rental car to you there. Take two cabs to the Tabard Inn, and walk into the restaurant at exactly nine tonight.”
   “Okay. Anything else?”
   “Bring clothes. Plan to be away from your apartment for at least three days. And plan to stay away from the office.”
   “Really, Darby, I think the office is safe.”
   “I’m not in the mood to argue. If you’re going to be difficult, Gray, I’ll simply disappear. I’m convinced I’ll live longer the sooner I get out of the country.”
   “Yes, ma’am.”
   “That’s a good boy.”
   “I assume there’s a master plan rattling around somewhere in your brain.”
   “Maybe. We’ll talk about it over dinner.”
   “Is this sort of like a date?”
   “Let’s eat a bite and call it business.”
   “Yes, ma’am.”
   “I’m hanging up now. Be cautious, Gray. They’re watching.” She was gone.


   She was sitting at table thirty-seven, in a dark corner of the tiny restaurant when he found her at exactly nine. The first thing he noticed was the dress, and as he walked to the table he knew the legs were under it but he couldn’t see them. Maybe later when she stood. He wore a coat and tie, and they were an attractive couple.
   He sat close to her in the darkness so they could both watch the small crowd. The Tabard Inn appeared old enough to have served food to Thomas Jefferson. A rowdy crowd of Germans laughed and talked on the patio outside the restaurant. The windows were open and the air was cool, and for one brief moment it was easy to forget why they were hiding.
   “Where’d you get the dress?”
   “You like it?”
   “It’s very nice.”
   “I shopped a little this afternoon. Like most of my recent wardrobe, it’s disposable. I’ll probably leave it in the room the next time I flee for my life.”
   The waiter was before them with menus. They ordered drinks. The restaurant was quiet and harmless.
   “How’d you get here?” he asked.
   “Around the world.”
   “I’d like to know.”
   “I took a train to Newark, a plane to Boston, a plane to Detroit, and a plane to Dulles. I was up all night, and twice I forgot where I was.”
   “How could they follow that?”
   “They couldn’t. I paid with cash, something I’m running out of.”
   “How much do you need?”
   “I’d like to wire some from my bank in New Orleans.”
   “We’ll do it Monday. I think you’re safe, Darby.”
   “I’ve thought that before. In fact, I felt very safe when I was getting on the boat with Verheek, except it wasn’t Verheek. And I felt very safe in New York. Then Stump waddled down the sidewalk, and I haven’t eaten since.”
   “You look thin.”
   “Thanks. I guess. Have you eaten here?” She looked at her menu.
   He looked at his. “No, but I hear the food is great. You changed your hair again.” It was light brown, and there was a trace of mascara and blush. And lipstick.
   “It’s going to fall out if I keep seeing these people.”
   The drinks arrived, and they ordered.
   “We expect something in the Times in the morning.” He would not mention the New Orleans paper because it had pictures of Callahan and Verheek. He assumed she’d seen it.
   This didn’t seem to interest her. “Such as?” she asked, looking around.
   “We’re not sure. We hate to get beat by the Times. It’s an old rivalry.”
   “I’m not interested in that. I know nothing about journalism, and don’t care to learn. I’m here because I have one, and only one, idea about finding Garcia. And if it doesn’t work, and quickly, I’m out of here.”
   “Forgive me. What would you like to talk about?”
   “Europe. What’s your favorite place in Europe?”
   “I hate Europe, and I hate Europeans. I go to Canada and Australia, and New Zealand occasionally. Why do you like Europe?”
   “My grandfather was a Scottish immigrant, and I’ve got a bunch of cousins over there. I’ve visited twice.”
   Gray squeezed the lime in his gin and tonic. A party of six entered from the bar and she watched them carefully. When she talked her eyes darted quickly around the room.
   “I think you need a couple of drinks to relax,” Gray said.

   She nodded but said nothing. The six were seated at a nearby table and began speaking in French. It was pleasant to hear.
   “Have you ever heard Cajun French?” she asked.
   “No.”
   “It’s a dialect that’s rapidly disappearing, just like the wetlands. They say it cannot be understood by Frenchmen.”
   “That’s fair. I’m sure the Cajuns can’t understand the French.”
   She took a long drink of white wine. “Did I tell you about Chad Brunei?”
   “I don’t think so.”
   “He was a poor Cajun boy from Eunice. His family survived by trapping and fishing in the marshes. He was a very bright kid who attended LSU on a full academic scholarship, then was admitted to law school at Stanford, where he finished with the highest grade point average in the school’s history. He was twenty-one when he was admitted to the California bar. He could have worked for any law firm in the country, but he took a job with an environmental defense outfit in San Francisco. He was brilliant, a real legal genius who worked very hard and was soon winning huge lawsuits against oil and chemical companies. At the age of twenty-eight, he was a highly polished courtroom lawyer. He was feared by big oil and other corporate polluters.” She took a sip of wine. “He made a lot of money, and established a group to preserve the Louisiana wetlands. He wanted to participate in the pelican case, as it was known, but had too many other trial commitments. He gave Green Fund a lot of money for litigation expenses. Shortly before the trial started in Lafayette, he announced he was coming home to assist the Green Fund lawyers. There were a couple of stories about him in the New Orleans paper.”
   “What happened to him?”
   “He committed suicide.”
   “What?”
   “A week before the trial, they found him in a car with the engine running. A garden hose ran from the exhaust pipe into the front seat. Just another simple suicide from carbon monoxide poisoning.”
   “Where was the car?”
   “In a wooded area along Bayou Lafourche near the town of Galliano. He knew the area well. Some camping gear and fishing equipment were in the trunk. No suicide note. The police investigated, but found nothing suspicious. The case was closed.”
   “This is incredible.”
   “He had had some problems with alcohol, and had been treated by an analyst in San Francisco. But the suicide was a surprise.”
   “Do you think he was murdered?”
   “A lot of people do. His death was a big blow to Green Fund. His passion for the wetlands would’ve been potent in the courtroom.”
   Gray finished his drink and rattled the ice. She inched closer to him. The waiter appeared, and they ordered.


   The lobby of the Marbury Hotel was empty at 6 A.M. Sunday when Gray found a copy of the Times. It was six inches deep and weighed twelve pounds, and he wondered how much thicker they planned to make it. He raced back to his room on the eighth floor, spread the paper on the bed, and hovered over it as he skimmed intensely. The front page was empty, and this was crucial. If they had the big story, it would of course be there. He feared large photographs of Rosenberg, Jensen, Callahan, Verheek, maybe Darby and Khamel, who knows, maybe they had a nice picture of Mattiece, and all of these would be lined up on the front page like a cast of characters, and the Times had beat them again. He had dreamed of this while he had slept, which had not been for long.
   But there was nothing. And the less he found, the faster he skimmed until he was down to sports and classifieds, and he stopped and sort of danced to the phone. He called Smith Keen, who was awake. “Have you seen it?” he asked.
   “Ain’t it beautiful,” Keen said. “I wonder what happened.”
   “They don’t have it, Smith. They’re digging like hell, but they don’t have it yet. Who did Feldman talk to?”
   “He never says. But it was supposed to be reliable.” Keen was divorced and lived alone in an apartment not far from the Marbury.
   “Are you busy?” Gray asked.
   “Well, not exactly. It’s almost six-thirty on Sunday morning.”
   “We need to talk. Pick me up outside the Marbury Hotel in fifteen minutes.”
   “The Marbury Hotel?”
   “It’s a long story. I’ll explain.”
   “Ah, the girl. You lucky stiff.”
   “I wish. She’s in another hotel.”
   “Here? In Washington?”
   “Yes. Fifteen minutes.”
   “I’ll be there.”
   Gray nervously sipped coffee from a paper cup and waited in the lobby. She’d made him paranoid, and he half expected thugs to be hiding on the sidewalk with automatic weapons. This frustrated him. He saw Keen’s Toyota ease by on M Street, and he walked quickly to it.
   “What would you like to see?” Keen said as he drove away from the curb.
   “Oh, I don’t know. It’s a beautiful day. How about Virginia?”
   “As you wish. Did you get kicked out of your apartment?”
   “Not exactly. I’m following orders from the girl. She thinks like a field marshal, and I’m here because I was told to be here. I must stay until Tuesday, or until she gets jumpy and moves me again. I’m in room eight-thirty-three if you need me, but don’t tell anyone.”
   “I assume you want the Post to pay for this,” Keen said with a smile.
   “I’m not thinking about money right now. The same people who tried to kill her in New Orleans turned up in New York on Friday, or so she thinks. They have amazing talent in pursuit, and she’s being painfully cautious.”
   “Well, if you’re being followed by someone, and she’s being followed by someone, then perhaps she knows what she’s doing.”
   “Oh, listen, Smith, she knows exactly what she’s doing. She’s so good it’s scary, and she’s leaving here Wednesday morning for good. So we’ve got two days to find Garcia.”
   “What if Garcia’s overrated? What if you find him and he won’t talk, or what if he knows nothing? Have you thought about that?”
   “I’ve had nightmares about that. I think he knows something big. There’s a document or a piece of paper, something tangible, and he’s got it. He referred to it a time or two, and when I pressed him he wouldn’t admit it. But the day we were supposed to meet, he planned to show it to me. I’m convinced of that. He’s got something, Smith.”
   “And if he won’t show it to you?”
   “I’ll break his neck.”
   They crossed the Potomac and cruised by Arlington Cemetery. Keen lit his pipe and cracked a window. “What if you can’t find Garcia?”
   “Plan B. She’s gone and the deal’s off. Once she leaves the country, I have permission to do anything with the brief except use her name as a source. The poor girl is convinced she’s dead regardless of whether we get the story, but she wants as much protection as possible. I can never use her name, not even as the author of the brief.”
   “Does she talk much about the brief?”
   “Not the actual writing of it. It was a wild idea, she pursued it, and had almost dismissed it when bombs started going off. She’s sorry she wrote the damned thing. She and Callahan were really in love, and she’s loaded down with a lot of pain and guilt.”
   “So what’s Plan B?”
   “We attack the lawyers. Mattiece is too devious and slippery to penetrate without subpoenas and warrants and things we can’t dispense, but we know his lawyers. He’s represented by two big firms here in town, and we go after them. A lawyer or a group of them carefully analyzed the Supreme Court, and suggested the names of Rosenberg and Jensen. Mattiece wouldn’t know who to kill. So his lawyers told him. It’s a conspiracy angle.”
   “But you can’t make them talk.”
   “Not about a client. But if the lawyers are guilty, and we start asking questions, something’ll break. We’ll need a dozen reporters making a million phone calls to lawyers, paralegals, law clerks, secretaries, copy room clerks, everybody. We assault these bastards.”
   Keen puffed his pipe and was noncommittal. “Who are the firms?”
   “White and Blazevich, and Brim, Stearns, and Kidlow. Check our library on them.”
   “I’ve heard of White and Blazevich. It’s a big Republican outfit.”
   Gray nodded and sipped the last of his coffee.
   “What if it’s another firm?” Keen asked. “What if the firm is not in Washington? What if the conspirators don’t break? What if there’s only one legal mind at work here and it belongs to a part-time paralegal in Shreveport? What if one of Mattiece’s in-house lawyers devised the scheme?”
   “Sometimes you irritate the hell out of me. Do you know that?”
   “These are valid questions. What if?”
   “Then we go to Plan C.”
   “And what’s that?”
   “I don’t know yet. She hasn’t gotten that far.”


   She had instructed him to stay off the streets and to eat in his room. He had a sandwich and fries in a bag, and was obediently walking to his room on the eighth floor of the Marbury. An Asian maid was pushing her cart near his room. He stopped at his door and pulled the key from his pocket.
   “You forget something, sir?” the maid asked.
   Gray looked at her. “I beg your pardon.”
   “You forget something?”
   “Well, no. Why?”
   The maid took a step closer to him. “You just left, sir, and now you are back.”
   “I left four hours ago.”
   She shook her head and took another step for a closer look. “No, sir. A man left your room ten minutes ago.” She hesitated and studied his face intently. “But, sir, now I think it was another man.”
   Gray glanced at the room number on the door. 833. He stared at the woman. “Are you certain another man was in this room?”
   “Yes, sir. Just minutes ago.”
   He panicked. He walked quickly to the stairs, and ran down eight flights. What was in the room? Nothing but clothes. Nothing about Darby. He stopped and reached into a pocket. The note with the Tabard Inn address and her phone number was in the pocket. He caught his breath, and eased into the lobby.
   He had to find her, and quick.


   Darby found an empty table in the reading room on the second floor of the Edward Bennett Williams Law Library at Georgetown. In her new hobby as a traveling critic of law school libraries, she found Georgetown’s to be the nicest so far. It was a separate five-story building across a small courtyard from Mc-Donough Hall, the law school. The library was new, sleek, and modern, but still a law library and quickly filling with Sunday students now thinking of final exams.
   She opened volume five of Martindale-Hubbell, and found the section for D.C. firms. White and Blazevich ran for twenty-eight pages. Names, birth dates, birthplaces, schools, professional organizations, distinctions, awards, committees, and publications of four hundred and twelve lawyers, the partners first, then the associates. She took notes on a legal pad.
   The firm had eighty-one partners, and the rest were associates. She grouped them by alphabet, and wrote every name on the legal pad. She was just another law student checking out law firms in the relentless chase of employment.
   The work was boring and her mind wandered. Thomas had studied here twenty years ago. He’d been a top student and claimed to have spent many hours in the library. He’d written for the law journal, a chore she would be enduring under normal circumstances.
   Death was a subject she’d analyzed from different angles in the past ten days. Except for going quietly in one’s sleep, she was undecided as to the best approach. A slow, agonizing demise from a disease was a nightmare for the victim and the loved ones, but at least there was time for preparation and farewells. A violent, unexpected death was over in a second and probably best for the deceased. But the shock was numbing for those left behind. There were so many painful questions. Did he suffer? What was his last thought? Why did it happen? And watching the quick death of a loved one was beyond description.
   She loved him more because she watched him die, and she told herself to stop hearing the explosion, and stop smelling the smoke, and stop watching him die. If she survived three more days, she would be in a place where she could lock the door and cry and throw things until the grieving was over. She was determined to make it to that place. She was determined to grieve, and to heal. It was the least she deserved.
   She memorized names until she knew more about White and Blazevich than anyone outside the firm. She eased into the darkness and caught a cab to the hotel.


   Matthew Barr went to New Orleans, where he met with a lawyer who instructed him to fly to a certain hotel in Fort Lauderdale. The lawyer was vague about what would happen at the hotel, but Barr checked in Sunday night and found a room waiting for him. A note at the desk said he would receive a call in the early a.m.
   He called Fletcher Coal at home at ten, and briefed him on the journey so far.
   Coal had other things on his mind. “Grantham’s gone crazy. He and a guy named Rifkin with the Times are making calls everywhere. They could be deadly.”
   “Have they seen the brief?”

   “I don’t know if they’ve seen it, but they’ve heard of it. Rifkin called one of my aides at home yesterday and asked what he knew about the pelican brief. The aide knew nothing, and got the impression Rifkin knew even less. I don’t think he’s seen it, but we can’t be certain.”
   “Damn, Fletcher. We can’t keep up with a bunch of reporters. Those guys make a hundred phone calls a minute.”
   “Just two. Grantham and Rifkin. You’ve already got Grantham wired. Do the same for Rifkin.”
   “Grantham’s wired, but he’s using neither the phone in his apartment nor the one in his car. I called Bailey from the airport in New Orleans. Grantham hasn’t been home in twenty-four hours, but his car’s still there. They called and knocked on his door. He’s either dead in the apartment, or he sneaked out last night.”
   “Maybe he’s dead.”
   “I don’t think so. We were following, and so were the Fibbies. I think he got wind of it.”
   “You must find him.”
   “He’ll turn up. He can’t get too far away from the newsroom on the fifth floor.”
   “I want Rifkin wired too. Call Bailey tonight and get it started, okay?”
   “Yes, sir,” Barr said.
   “What do you think Mattiece would do if he thought Grantham had the story and was about to spread it across the front page of the Washington Post?” Coal asked.
   Barr stretched on the hotel bed and closed his eyes. Months ago he had made the decision never to cross Fletcher Coal. He was an animal.
   “He’s not afraid of killing people, is he?” Barr said.
   “Do you think you’ll see Mattiece tomorrow?”
   “I don’t know. These guys are very secretive. They speak in hushed tones behind closed doors. They’ve told me little.”
   “Why do they want you in Fort Lauderdale?”
   “I do not know, but it’s much closer to the Bahamas. I think I’m going there tomorrow, or perhaps he’s coming here. I just don’t know.”
   “Perhaps you should exaggerate the Grantham angle. Mattiece will snuff out the story.”
   “I’ll think about it.”
   “Call me in the morning.”


   She stepped on the note when she opened her door. It said:


   Darby, I’m on the patio. It’s urgent,

Gray.

   She took a deep breath and crammed the note in her pocket. She locked the door, and followed the narrow, winding hallways to the lobby, then through the dark sitting room, by the bar, through the restaurant, and onto the patio. He was at a small table, partially hidden by a brick wall.
   “Why are you here?” she demanded in a whisper as she sat close to him. He looked tired and worried.
   “Where have you been?” he asked.
   “That’s not as important as why you’re here. You’re not supposed to come here unless I say so. What’s going on?”
   He gave her a quick summary of his morning, from the first phone call to Smith Keen to the maid in the hotel. He’d spent the rest of the day darting all over the city in various cabs, almost eighty bucks’ worth of cabs, and he waited until dark to sneak into the Tabard Inn. He was certain he had not been followed.
   She listened. She watched the restaurant and the entrance to the patio, and heard every word.
   “I have no idea how anyone could find my room,” he said.
   “Did you tell anyone your room number?”
   He thought for a second. “Only Smith Keen. But he’d never repeat it.”
   She was not looking at him. “Where were you when you told him your room number?”
   “In his car.”
   She shook her head slowly. “I distinctly told you not to tell anyone. Didn’t I?”
   He would not answer.
   “It’s all fun and games, isn’t it, Gray? Just another day at the beach. You’re a big stud reporter who’s had death threats before, but you’re fearless. The bullets will bounce off, won’t they? You and I can spend a few days here frolicking around town playing detective so you can win a Pulitzer and get rich and famous, and the bad guys aren’t really so bad because, hey, you’re Gray Grantham of the Washington Post and that makes you a mean son of a bitch.”
   “Come on, Darby.”
   “I’ve tried to impress upon you how dangerous these people are. I’ve seen what they can do. I know what they’ll do to me if they find me. But no, Gray, it’s all a game to you. Cops and robbers. Hide-and-seek.”
   “I’m convinced, okay?”
   “Listen, hotshot, you’d better be convinced. One more screwup and we’re dead. I’m out of lucky breaks. Do you understand?”
   “Yes! I swear I understand.”
   “Get a room here. Tomorrow night, if we’re alive, I’ll find you another small hotel.”
   “What if this place is full?”
   “Then you can sleep in my bathroom with the door closed.”
   She was dead serious. He felt like a first-grader who’d just received his first spanking. They didn’t speak for five minutes.
   “So how’d they find me?” he finally asked.
   “I would assume the phones in your apartment are tapped, and your car is bugged. And I would assume Smith Keen’s car is also wired. These people are not amateurs.”


   He spent the night in room 14 upstairs, but slept little. The restaurant opened at six, and he sneaked down for coffee, then sneaked back to his room. The inn was quaint and ancient, and had somehow been formed when three old townhouses were connected. Small doors and narrow hallways ran in all directions. The atmosphere was timeless.
   It would be a long, tiresome day, but it would all be spent with her, and he looked forward to it. He’d made a mistake, a bad one, but she’d forgiven him. At precisely eight-thirty, he knocked on the door to room 1. She quickly opened it, then closed it behind him.
   She was a law student again, with jeans and a flannel shirt. She poured him coffee, and sat at the small table where the phone was surrounded by notes from a legal pad.
   “Did you sleep well?” she asked, but only out of courtesy.
   “No.” He threw a copy of the Times on the bed. He’d already scanned it, and it was empty again.
   Darby took the phone and punched the number of the Georgetown law school. She looked at him, and listened, then said, “Placement office, please.” There was a long pause. “Yes, this is Sandra Jernigan. I’m a partner with White and Blazevich here in town, and we’re having a problem with our computers. We’re trying to reconstruct some payroll records, and the accountants have asked me to ask you for the names of your students who clerked here last summer. I think there were four of them.” She listened for a second. “Jernigan. Sandra Jernigan,” she repeated. “I see. How long will it take?” A pause. “And your name is, Joan. Thank you, Joan.” Darby covered the receiver and breathed deeply. Gray watched intently, but with an admiring grin.
   “Yes, Joan. Seven of them. Our records are a mess. Do you have their addresses and social security numbers? We need it for tax purposes. Sure. How long will it take? Fine. We have an office boy in the area. His name is Snowden, and he’ll be there in thirty minutes. Thank you, Joan.” Darby hung up and closed her eyes.
   “Sandra Jernigan?” he said.
   “I’m not good at lying,” she said.
   “You’re wonderful. I guess I’m the office boy.”
   “You could pass for an office boy. You have an aging law school dropout look about you.” And you’re sort of cute, she thought to herself.
   “I like the flannel shirt.”
   She took a long drink of cold coffee. “This could be a long day.”
   “So far, so good. I get the list, and meet you in the library. Right?”
   “Yes. The placement office is on the fifth floor of the law school. I’ll be in room 336. It’s a small conference room on the third floor. You take a cab first. I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes.”
   “Yes, ma’am.” Grantham was out the door. Darby waited five minutes, then left with her canvas bag.
   The cab ride was short but slow in the morning traffic. Life on the lam was bad enough, but running and playing detective at the same time was too much. She’d been in the cab five minutes before she thought about being followed. And maybe that was good. Maybe a hard day as an investigative reporter would take her mind off Stump and the other tormentors. She would work today, and tomorrow, and by late Wednesday she would be on a beach.
   They would start with the law school at Georgetown. If it was a dead end, they would try the one at George Washington. If there was time, they would try American University. Three strikes, and she was gone.
   The cab stopped at McDonough Hall, at the grungy base of Capitol Hill. With her bag and flannel shirt, she was just one of many law students milling about before class. She took the stairs to the third level, and closed the door to the conference room behind her. The room was used for an occasional class and on campus job interviews. She spread her notes on the table, and was just another law student preparing for class.
   Within minutes, Gray eased through the door. “Joan’s a sweet lady,” he said as he placed the list on the table. “Names, addresses, and social security numbers. Ain’t that nice?”
   Darby looked at the list and pulled a phone book from her bag. They found five of the names in the book. She looked at her watch. “It’s five minutes after nine. I’ll bet no more than half of these are in class at this moment. Some will have later classes. I’ll call these five, and see who’s at home. You take the two with no phone number, and get their class schedules from the registrar.”
   Gray looked at his watch. “Let’s meet back here in fifteen minutes.” He left first, then Darby. She went to the pay phones on the first level outside the classrooms, and dialed the number of James Maylor.
   A male voice answered, “Hello.”
   “Is this Dennis Maylor?” she asked.
   “No. I’m James Maylor.”
   “Sorry.” She hung up. His address was ten minutes away. He didn’t have a nine o’clock class, and if he had one at ten he would be home for another forty minutes. Maybe.
   She called the other four. Two answered and she confirmed, and there was no answer at the other two.
   Gray waited impatiently in the registrar’s office on the third floor. A part-time student clerk was trying to find the registrar, who was somewhere in the back. The student informed him that she wasn’t sure if they could give out class schedules. Gray said he was certain they could if they wanted to.
   The registrar walked suspiciously around a corner. “May I help you?”
   “Yes, I’m Gray Grantham with the Washington Post, and I’m trying to find two of your students, Laura Kaas and Michael Akers.”
   “Is there a problem?” she asked nervously.
   “Not at all. Just a few questions. Are they in class this morning?” He was smiling, and it was a warm, trusting smile that he flashed usually at older women. It seldom failed him.
   “Do you have an ID or something?”
   “Certainly.” He opened his wallet and slowly waved it at her, much like a cop who knows he’s a cop and doesn’t care to spell it out.
   “Well, I really should talk to the dean, but—”
   “Fine. Where’s his office?”
   “But he’s not here. He’s out of town.”
   “I just need their class schedules so I can find them. I’m not asking for home addresses or grades or transcripts. Nothing confidential or personal.”
   She glanced at the part-time student clerk, who sort of shrugged, like “What’s the big deal?”
   “Just a minute,” she said, and disappeared around the corner.
   Darby was waiting in the small room when he laid the computer printouts on the table. “According to these, Akers and Kaas should be in class right now,” he said.
   Darby looked at the schedules. “Akers has criminal procedure. Kaas has administrative law—both from nine to ten. I’ll try to find them.” She showed Gray her notes. “Maylor, Reinhart, and Wilson were at home. I couldn’t get Ratliff and Linney.”
   “Maylor’s the closest. I can be there in a few minutes.”
   “What about a car?” Darby asked.
   “I called Hertz. It’s supposed to be delivered to the Post parking lot in fifteen minutes.”


   Maylor’s apartment was on the third floor of a warehouse converted for students and others on very low budgets. He answered the door shortly after the first knock. He spoke through the chain.
   “Looking for James Maylor,” Gray said like an old pal.
   “That’s me.”
   “I’m Gray Grantham with the Washington Post. I’d like to ask you a couple of very quick questions.”
   The door was unchained and opened. Gray stepped inside the two-room apartment. A bicycle was parked in the center, and took up most of the space.
   “What’s up?” Maylor asked. He was intrigued by this, and appeared eager to answer questions.
   “I understand you clerked for White and Blazevich last summer.”
   “That’s correct. For three months.”

   Gray scribbled on his notepad. “What section were you in?”
   “International. Mostly grunt work. Nothing glamorous. A lot of research and rough drafting of agreements.”
   “Who was your supervisor?”
   “No single person. There were three associates who kept me busy. The partner above them was Stanley Coopman.”
   Gray pulled a photograph from his coat pocket. It was Garcia on the sidewalk. “Do you recognize this face?”
   Maylor held the picture and studied it. He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Who is he?”
   “He’s a lawyer, I think with White and Blazevich.”
   “It’s a big firm. I was stuck in the corner of one section. It’s over four hundred lawyers, you know.”
   “Yeah, so I’ve heard. You’re sure you haven’t seen him?”
   “Positive. They cover twelve floors, most of which I never went on.”
   Gray placed the photo in his pocket. “Did you meet any other clerks?”
   “Oh. Sure. A couple from Georgetown that I already knew, Laura Kaas and JoAnne Ratliff. Two guys from George Washington, Patrick Franks and a guy named Vanlandingham; a girl from Harvard named Elizabeth Larson; a girl from Michigan named Amy MacGregor; and a guy from Emory named Moke, but I think they fired him. There are always a lot of clerks in the summer.”
   “You plan to work there when you finish?”
   “I don’t know. I’m not sure I’m cut out for the big firms.”
   Gray smiled and stuck the notepad in his rear pocket. “Look, you’ve been in the firm. How would I find this guy?”
   Maylor pondered this for a second. “I assume you can’t go there and start asking around.”
   “Good assumption.”
   “And all you’ve got is the picture?”
   “Yep.”
   “Then I guess you’re doing the right thing. One of the clerks will recognize him.”
   “Thanks.”
   “Is the guy in trouble?”
   “Oh no. He may have witnessed something. It’s probably a long shot.” Gray opened the door. “Thanks again.”


   Darby studied the fall listing of classes on the bulletin board across the lobby from the phones. She wasn’t exactly sure what she’d do when the nine o’clock classes were over, but she was trying like hell to think of something. The bulletin board was exactly like the one at Tulane—class listings tacked neatly in a row; notices for assignments; ads for books, bikes, rooms, roommates, and a hundred other necessities stuck haphazardly about; announcements of parties, intramural games, and club meetings. A young woman with a backpack and hiking books stopped nearby and looked at the board. She was undoubtedly a student.
   Darby smiled at her. “Excuse me. Would you happen to know Laura Kaas?”
   “Sure.”
   “I need to give her a message. Could you point her out?”
   “Is she in class?”
   “Yeah, she’s in administrative law under Ship, room 207.”
   They walked and chatted in the direction of Ship’s admin law. The lobby was suddenly busy as four classrooms emptied. The hiker pointed to a tall, heavyset girl walking toward them. Darby thanked her, and followed Laura Kaas until the crowd thinned and scattered.
   “Excuse me, Laura. Are you Laura Kaas?” The big girl stopped and stared. “Yes.”
   This was the part she didn’t like—the lying. “I’m Sara Jacobs, and I’m working on a story for the Washington Post. Can I ask you a few questions?” She selected Laura Kaas first because she did not have a class at ten. Michael Akers did. She would try him at eleven.
   “What about?”
   “It’ll just take a minute. Could we step in here?” Darby was nodding and walking to an empty classroom. Laura followed slowly.
   “You clerked for White and Blazevich last summer.”
   “I did.” She spoke slowly, suspiciously.
   Sara Jacobs fought to control her nerves. This was awful. “What section?”
   “Tax.”
   “You like tax, huh?” It was a weak effort at small talk.
   “I did. Now I hate it.”
   Darby smiled like this was the funniest thing she’d heard in years. She pulled a photo from her pocket, and handed it to Laura Kaas.
   “Do you recognize this man?”
   “No.”
   “I think he’s a lawyer with White and Blazevich.”
   “There are plenty of them.”
   “Are you certain?”
   She handed it back. “Yep. I never left the fifth floor. It would take years to meet everyone, and they come and go so fast. You know how lawyers are.”
   Laura glanced around, and the conversation was over. “I really appreciate this,” Darby said.
   “No problem,” Laura said on her way out the door.


   At exactly ten-thirty, they met again in room 336. Gray had caught Ellen Reinhart in the driveway as she was leaving for class. She had worked in the litigation section under a partner by the name of Daniel O’Malley, and spent most of the summer in a class action trial in Miami. She was gone for two months, and spent little time in the Washington office. White and Blazevich had offices in four cities, including Tampa. She did not recognize Garcia, and she was in a hurry.
   Judith Wilson was not at her apartment, but her roommate said she would return around one.
   They scratched off Maylor, Kaas, and Reinhart. They whispered their plans, and split again. Gray left to find Edward Linney, who according to the list had clerked the past two summers at White and Blazevich. He was not in the phone book, but his address was in Wesley Heights, north of Georgetown’s main campus.
   At ten forty-five, Darby found herself loitering again in front of the bulletin board, hoping for another miracle. Akers was a male, and there were different ways to approach him. She hoped he was where he was supposed to be—in room 201 studying criminal procedure. She eased that way and waited a moment or two until the door opened and fifty law students emptied into the hall. She could never be a reporter. She could never walk up to strangers and start asking a bunch of questions. It was awkward and uncomfortable. But she walked up to a shy-looking young man with sad eyes and thick glasses, and said, “Excuse me. Do you happen to know Michael Akers? I think he’s in this class.”
   The guy smiled. It was nice to be noticed. He pointed at a group of men walking toward the front entrance. “That’s him, in the gray sweater.”
   “Thanks.” She left him standing there. The group disassembled as it left the building, and Akers and a friend were on the sidewalk.
   “Mr. Akers,” she called after him.
   They both stopped and turned around, then smiled as she nervously approached them. “Are you Michael Akers?” she asked.
   “That’s me. Who are you?”
   “My name is Sara Jacobs, and I’m working on a story for the Washington Post. Can I speak to you alone?”
   “Sure.” The friend took the hint and left.
   “What about?” Akers asked.
   “Did you clerk for White and Blazevich last summer?”
   “Yes.” Akers was friendly and enjoying this.
   “What section?”
   “Real estate. Boring as hell, but it was a job. Why do you want to know?”
   She handed him the photo. “Do you recognize this man? He works for White and Blazevich.”
   Akers wanted to recognize him. He wanted to be helpful and have a long conversation with her, but the face did not register.
   “Kind of a suspicious picture, isn’t it?” he said.
   “I guess. Do you know him?”
   “No. I’ve never seen him. It’s an awfully big firm. The partners wear name badges to their meetings. Can you believe it? The guys who own the firm don’t know each other. There must be a hundred partners.”
   “Eighty-one, to be exact. Did you have a supervisor?”
   “Yeah, a partner named Walter Welch. A real snot. I didn’t like the firm, really.”
   “Do you remember any other clerks?”
   “Sure. The place was crawling with summer clerks.”
   “If I needed their names, could I get back with you?”
   “Anytime. This guy in trouble?”
   “I don’t think so. He may know something.”
   “I hope they all get disbarred. A bunch of thugs, really. It’s a rotten place to work. Everything’s political.”
   “Thanks.” She smiled, and turned away. He admired the rear view, and said, “Call me anytime.”
   “Thanks.”
   Darby, the investigative reporter, walked next door to the library building, and climbed the stairs to the fifth floor where the Georgetown Law Journal had a suite of crowded offices. She’d found the most recent edition of the Journal in the library, and noticed that JoAnne Ratliff was an assistant editor. She suspected most law reviews and law journals were much the same. The top students hung out there and prepared their scholarly articles and comments. They were superior to the rest of the students, and were a clannish bunch who appreciated their brilliant minds. They hung out in the law journal suite. It was their second home.
   She stepped inside and asked the first person where she might find JoAnne Ratliff. He pointed around a corner. Second door on the right. The second door opened into a cluttered workroom lined with rows of books. Two females were hard at work.
   “JoAnne Ratliff,” Darby said.
   “That’s me,” an older woman of maybe forty responded.
   “Hi. My name is Sara Jacobs, and I’m working on a story for the Washington Post. Can I ask you a few quick questions?”
   She slowly laid her pen on the table, and frowned at the other woman. Whatever they were doing was terribly important, and this interruption was a real pain in the ass. They were significant law students.
   Darby wanted to smirk and say something smart. She was number two in her class, dammit!, so don’t act so high and mighty.
   “What’s the story about?” Ratliff asked.
   “Could we speak in private?”
   They frowned at each other again.
   “I’m very busy,” Ratliff said.
   So am I, thought Darby. You’re checking citations for some meaningless article, and I’m trying to nail the man who killed two Supreme Court Justices.
   “I’m sorry,” Darby said. “I promise I’ll just take a minute.”
   They stepped into the hall. “I’m very sorry to disturb you, but I’m in sort of a rush.”
   “And you’re a reporter with the Post?” It was more of a challenge than a question, and she was forced to lie some more. She told herself she could lie and cheat and steal for two days, then it was off to the Caribbean and Grantham could have it.
   “Yes. Did you work for White and Blazevich last summer?”
   “I did. Why?”
   Quickly, the photo. Ratliff took it and analyzed it.
   “Do you recognize him?”
   She shook her head slowly. “I don’t think so. Who is he?”
   This bitch’ll make a fine lawyer. So many questions. If she knew who he was, she wouldn’t be standing in this tiny hallway acting like a reporter and putting up with this haughty legal eagle.
   “He’s a lawyer with White and Blazevich,” Darby said as sincerely as possible. “I thought you might recognize him.”
   “Nope.” She handed the photo back.
   Enough of this. “Well, thanks. Again, sorry to bother.”
   “No problem,” Ratliff said as she disappeared through the door.

   She jumped into the new Hertz Pontiac as it stopped at the corner, and they were off in traffic. She had seen enough of the Georgetown Law School.
   “I struck out,” Gray said. “Linney wasn’t home.”
   “I talked to Akers and Ratliff, and both said no. That’s five of seven who don’t recognize Garcia.”
   “I’m hungry. You want some lunch?”
   “That’s fine.”
   “Is it possible to have five clerks work three months in a law firm and not one of them recognize a young associate?”
   “Yeah, it’s not only possible, it’s very probable. This is a long shot, remember. Four hundred lawyers means a thousand people when you add secretaries, paralegals, law clerks, office clerks, copy room clerks, mail room clerks, all kinds of clerks and support people. The lawyers tend to keep to themselves in their own little sections.”
   “Physically, are the sections on separate territory?”
   “Yes. It’s possible for a lawyer in banking on the third floor to go weeks without seeing an acquaintance in litigation on the tenth floor. These are very busy people, remember.”
   “Do you think we’ve got the wrong firm?”
   “Maybe the wrong firm, maybe the wrong law school.”
   “The first guy, Maylor, gave me two names of George Washington students who clerked there last summer. Let’s get them after lunch.” He slowed and parked illegally behind a row of small buildings.
   “Where are we?” she asked.
   “A block off Mount Vernon Square, downtown. The Post is six blocks that way. My bank is four blocks that way. And this little deli is just around the corner.”
   They walked to the deli, which was filling fast with lunch traffic. She waited at a table by the window as he stood in line and ordered club sandwiches. Half the day had flown by, and though she didn’t enjoy this line of work, it was nice to stay busy and forget about the shadows. She wouldn’t be a reporter, and at the moment a career in law looked doubtful. Not long ago, she’d thought of being a judge after a few years in practice. Forget it. It was much too dangerous.
   Gray brought a tray of food and iced tea, and they began eating.
   “Is this a typical day for you?” she asked.
   “This is what I do for a living. I snoop all day, write the stories late in the afternoon, then dig until late at night.”
   “How many stories a week?”
   “Sometimes three or four, sometimes none. I pick and choose, and there’s little supervision. This is a bit different. I haven’t run one in ten days.”
   “What if you can’t link Mattiece? What’ll you write about the story?”
   “Depends on how far I get. We could’ve run that story about Verheek and Callahan, but why bother? It was a big story, but they had nothing to go with it. It scratched the surface and stopped.”
   “And you’re going for the big bang.”
   “Hopefully. If we can verify your little brief, then we’ll run one helluva story.”
   “You can see the headlines, can’t you?”
   “I can. The adrenaline is pumping. This will be the biggest story since—”
   “Watergate?”
   “No. Watergate was a series of stories that started small and kept getting bigger. Those guys chased leads for months and kept pecking away until the pieces came together. A lot of people knew different parts of the story. This, my dear, is very different. This is a much bigger story, and the truth is known only by a very small group. Watergate was a stupid burglary and a bungled cover-up. These are masterfully planned crimes by very rich and smart people.”
   “And the cover-up?”
   “That comes next. After we link Mattiece to the killings, we run the big story. The cat’s out of the bag, and a half a dozen investigations will crank up overnight. This place will be shell-shocked, especially at the news that the President and Mattiece are old friends. As the dust is settling, we go after the Administration and try to determine who knew what and when.”
   “But first, Garcia.”
   “Ah, yes. I know he’s out there. He’s a lawyer in this city, and he knows something very important.”
   “What if we stumble across him, and he won’t talk?”
   “We have ways.”
   “Such as?”
   “Torture, kidnapping, extortion, threats of all types.”
   A burly man with a contorted face was suddenly beside the table. “Hurry up!” he yelled. “You’re talkin’ too much!”
   “Thanks, Pete,” Gray said without looking up. Pete was lost in the crowd, but could be heard yelling at another table. Darby dropped her sandwich.
   “He owns the place,” Gray explained. “It’s part of the ambience.”
   “How charming. Does it cost extra?”
   “Oh no. The food’s cheap, so he depends on volume. He refuses to serve coffee because he doesn’t want socializing. He expects us to eat like refugees and get out.”
   “I’m finished.”
   Gray looked at his watch. “It’s twelve-fifteen. We need to be at Judith Wilson’s apartment at one. Do you want to wire the money now?”
   “How long will it take?”
   “We can start the wire now, and pick the money up later.”
   “Let’s go.”
   “How much do you want to wire?”
   “Fifteen thousand.”


   Judith Wilson lived on the second floor of a decaying old house filled with two-room student apartments. She was not there at one, and they drove around for an hour. Gray became a tour guide. He drove slowly by the Montrose Theatre, still boarded and burned out. He showed her the daily circus at Dupont Circle.
   They were parked on the street at two-fifteen when a red Mazda stopped in the narrow driveway. “There she is,” Gray said, and got out. Darby stayed in the car.
   He caught Judith near the front steps. She was friendly enough. They chatted, he showed her the photo, she looked at it for a few seconds and began shaking her head. Moments later he was in the car.
   “Zero for six,” he said.
   “That leaves Edward Linney, who probably is our best shot because he clerked there two summers.”
   They found a pay phone at a convenience store three blocks away, and Gray called Linney’s number. No answer. He slammed the phone down and got in the car. “He wasn’t at home at ten this morning, and he’s not at home now.”
   “Could be in class,” Darby said. “We need his schedule. You should’ve picked it up with the others.”
   “You didn’t suggest it then.”
   “Who’s the detective here? Who’s the big-shot investigative reporter with the Washington Post? I’m just a lowly ex-law student who’s thrilled to be sitting here in the front seat watching you operate.”
   What about the backseat? he almost said. “Whatever. Where to?”
   “Back to the law school,” she said. “I’ll wait in the car while you march in there and get Linney’s class schedule.”
   “Yes, ma’am.”


   A different student was behind the desk in the registrar’s office. Gray asked for the class schedule for Edward Linney, and the student went to look for the registrar. Five minutes later, the registrar walked slowly around the corner and glared at him.
   He flashed the smile. “Hi, remember me? Gray Grantham with the Post. I need another class schedule.”
   “The dean says no.”
   “I thought the dean was out of town.”
   “He is. The assistant dean says no. No more class schedules. You’ve already gotten me in a lot of trouble.”
   “I don’t understand. I’m not asking for personal records.”
   “The assistant dean says no.”
   “Where is the assistant dean?”
   “He’s busy.”
   “I’ll wait. Where’s his office?”
   “He’ll be busy for a long time.”
   “I’ll wait for a long time.”
   She dug in and folded her arms. “He will not allow you to have any more class schedules. Our students are entitled to privacy.”
   “Sure they are. What kind of trouble have I caused?”
   “Well, I’ll just tell you.”
   “Please do.”
   The student clerk eased around the corner and disappeared.
   “One of the students you talked to this morning called White and Blazevich, and they called the assistant dean, and the assistant dean called me and said no more class schedules will be given to reporters.”
   “Why should they care?”
   “They care, okay? We’ve had a long relationship with White and Blazevich. They hire a lot of our students.”
   Gray tried to look pitiful and helpless. “I’m just trying to find Edward Linney. I swear he’s not in trouble. I just need to ask him a few questions.”
   She smelled victory. She had backed down a reporter from the Post, and she was quite proud. So offer him a crumb. “Mr. Linney is no longer enrolled here. That’s all I can say.”
   He backed toward the door, and mumbled, “Thanks.”
   He was almost to the car when someone called his name. It was the student from the registrar’s office.
   “Mr. Grantham,” he said as he ran to him. “I know Edward. He’s sort of dropped out of school for a while. Personal problems.”
   “Where is he?”
   “His parents put him in a private hospital. He’s being detoxified.”
   “Where is it?”
   “Silver Spring. A place called Parklane Hospital.”
   “How long’s he been there?”
   “About a month.”
   Grantham shook his hand. “Thanks. I won’t tell anyone you told me.”
   “He’s not in trouble, is he?”
   “No. I promise.”
   They stopped at the bank, and Darby left with fifteen thousand in cash. Carrying the money scared her. Linney scared her. White and Blazevich suddenly scared her.


   Parklane was a detox center for the rich, or for those with expensive insurance. It was a small building, surrounded by trees and sitting alone a half mile off the highway. This might be difficult, they decided.
   Gray entered the lobby first, and asked the receptionist for Edward Linney.
   “He is a patient here,” she said rather officially.
   He used his best smile. “Yes. I know he is a patient. They told me at the law school that he was a patient. What room is he in?”
   Darby entered the lobby and strolled to the water fountain for a very long drink.
   “He’s in room 22, but you can’t see him.”
   “They told me at the law school I could see him.”
   “And who might you be?”
   He was so friendly. “Gray Grantham, with the Washington Post. They told me at the law school I could ask him a couple of questions.”
   “I’m sorry they told you that. You see, Mr. Grantham, we run this hospital, and they run their law school.”
   Darby picked up a magazine and sat on a sofa.
   His smile faded considerably, but was still there. “I understand that,” he said, still courteous. “Could I see the administrator?”
   “Why?”
   “Because this is a very important matter, and I must see Mr. Linney this afternoon. If you won’t allow it, then I have to talk to your boss. I will not leave here until I speak to the administrator.”
   She gave him her best go-to-hell look, and backed away from the counter. “Just a moment. You may have a seat.”
   “Thank you.”
   She left and Gray turned to Darby. He pointed to a set of double doors that appeared to lead to the only hallway. She took a deep breath, and walked quickly through them. They opened into a large junction from which three sterile corridors branched out. A brass plate pointed to rooms 18 through 30. It was the center wing of the hospital, and the hall was dark and quiet with thick, industrial carpet and floral wallpaper.
   This would get her arrested. She would be tackled by a large security guard or a heavy nurse and taken to a locked room where the cops would rough her up when they arrived, and her sidekick out there would stand and watch helplessly as they led her away in shackles. Her name would be in the paper, the Post, and Stump, if he was literate, would see it, and they’d get her.
   As she crept along by these closed doors, the beaches and pina coladas seemed unreachable. The door to number 22 was closed and had the names Edward L. Linney and Dr. Wayne McLatchee tacked on it. She knocked.

   The administrator was more of an ass than the receptionist. But then, he was paid well for it. He explained they had strict policies about visitation. These were very sick and delicate people, his patients, and they had to protect them. And their doctors, who were the finest in their field, were very strict about who could see the patients. Visitation was allowed only on Saturdays and Sundays, and even then only a carefully selected group of people, usually just family and friends, could sit with the patients, and then only for thirty minutes. They had to be very strict.
   These were fragile people, and they certainly could not withstand interrogation by a reporter, regardless of how grave the circumstances.
   Mr. Grantham asked when Mr. Linney might be discharged. Absolutely confidential, the administrator exclaimed. Probably when the insurance expired, suggested Mr. Grantham, who was talking and stalling and halfway expecting to hear loud and angry voices coming from behind the double doors.
   This mention of insurance really agitated the administrator. Mr. Grantham asked if he, the administrator, would ask Mr. Linney if he would answer two questions from Mr. Grantham, and the whole thing would take less than thirty seconds.
   Out of the question, snapped the administrator. They had strict policies.


   A voice answered softly, and she stepped into the room. The carpet was thicker and the furniture was made from wood. He sat on the bed in a pair of jeans, no shirt, reading a thick novel. She was struck by his good looks.
   “Excuse me,” she said warmly as she closed the door behind her.
   “Come in,” he said with a soft smile. It was the first nonmedical face he’d seen in two days. What a beautiful face. He closed the book.
   She walked to the end of the bed. “I’m Sara Jacobs, and I’m working on a story for the Washington Post.”
   “How’d you get in?” he asked, obviously glad she was in.
   “Just walked. Did you clerk last summer for White and Blazevich?”
   “Yes, and the summer before. They offered me a job when I graduate. If I graduate.”
   She handed him the photo. “Do you recognize this man?”
   He took it and smiled. “Yeah. His name is, uh, wait a minute. He works in the oil and gas section on the ninth floor. What’s his name?”
   Darby held her breath.
   Linney closed his eyes hard and tried to think. He looked at the photo, and said, “Morgan. I think his name is Morgan. Yep.”
   “His last name is Morgan?”
   “That’s him. I can’t remember his first name. It’s something like Charles, but that’s not it. I think it starts with a C.”
   “And you’re certain he’s in oil and gas?” Though she couldn’t remember the exact number, she was certain there was more than one Morgan at White and Blazevich.
   “Yeah.”
   “On the ninth floor?”
   “Yeah. I worked in the bankruptcy section on the eighth floor, and oil and gas covers half of eight and all of nine.”
   He handed the photo back.
   “When are you getting out?” she asked. It would be rude to run from the room.
   “Next week, I hope. What’s this guy done?”
   “Nothing. We just need to talk to him.” She was backing away from the bed. “I have to run. “Thanks. And good luck.”
   “Yeah. No problem.”
   She quietly closed the door behind her, and scooted toward the lobby. The voice came from behind her.
   “Hey! You! What’re you doing?”
   Darby turned and faced a tall, black security guard with a gun on his hip. She looked completely guilty.
   “What’re you doing?” he demanded again as he backed her into the wall.
   “Visiting my brother,” she said. “And don’t yell at me again.”
   “Who’s your brother?”
   She nodded at his door. “Room 22.”
   “You can’t visit right now. This is off limits.”
   “It was important. I’m leaving, okay?”
   The door to 22 opened, and Linney looked at them.
   “This your sister?” the guard demanded.
   Darby pleaded with her eyes.
   “Yeah, leave her alone,” Linney said. “She’s leaving.”
   She exhaled and smiled at Linney. “Mom will be up this weekend.”
   “Good,” Linney said softly.
   The guard backed off, and Darby almost ran to the double doors. Grantham was preaching to the administrator about the cost of health care. She walked quickly through the doors, into the lobby, and was almost to the front door when the administrator spoke to her.
   “Miss! Oh, miss! Can I have your name?”
   Darby was out the front door, headed for the car. Grantham shrugged at the administrator, and casually left the building. They jumped in, and sped away.
   “Garcia’s last name is Morgan. Linney recognized him immediately, but he had trouble with the name. First name starts with a C.” She was digging through her notes from Martindale-Hubbell. “Said he works in oil and gas on the ninth floor.”
   Grantham was speeding away from Parklane. “Oil and gas!”
   “That’s what he said.” She found it. “Curtis D. Morgan, oil and gas section, age twenty-nine. There’s another Morgan in litigation, but he’s a partner and, let’s see, he’s fifty-one.”
   “Garcia is Curtis Morgan,” Gray said with relief. He looked at his watch. “It’s a quarter till four. We’ll have to hurry.”
   “I can’t wait.”


   Rupert picked them up as they turned out of Parklane’s driveway. The rented Pontiac was flying all over the street. He drove like an idiot just to keep up, then radioed ahead.


   Matthew Barr had never experienced a speedboat before, and after five hours of a bone-jarring voyage through the ocean he was soaked and in pain. His body was numb, and when he saw land he said a prayer, the first in decades. Then he resumed his nonstop cursing of Fletcher Coal.
   They docked at a small marina near a city that he believed to be Freeport. The captain had said something about Freeport to the man known as Larry when they left Florida. No other word was spoken during the ordeal. Larry’s role in the journey was uncertain. He was at least six-six, with a neck as thick as a utility pole, and he did nothing but watch Barr, which was okay at first but after five hours became quite a nuisance.
   They stood awkwardly when the boat stopped. Larry was the first one out, and he motioned for Barr to join him. Another large man was approaching on the pier, and together they escorted Barr to a waiting van. The van was suspiciously short of windows.
   At this point, Barr preferred to say good-bye to his new pals, and simply disappear in the direction of Freeport. He’d catch a plane to D.C., and slap Coal the moment he saw his shining forehead. But he had to be cool. They wouldn’t dare hurt him.
   The van stopped moments later at a small airstrip, and Barr was escorted to a black Lear. He admired it briefly before following Larry up the steps. He was cool and relaxed—just another job. After all, he was at one time one of the best CIA agents in Europe. He was an ex-Marine. He could take care of himself.
   He sat by himself in the cabin. The windows were covered, and this annoyed him. But he understood. Mr. Mattiece treasured his privacy, and Barr could certainly respect that. Larry and the other heavyweight were at the front of the cabin, flipping through magazines and completely ignoring him.
   Thirty minutes after takeoff, the Lear began its descent, and Larry lumbered toward him.
   “Put this on,” he demanded as he handed over a thick, cloth blindfold. At this point, a rookie would panic. An amateur would start asking questions. But Barr had been blindfolded before, and while he was having serious doubts about this mission, he calmly took the blindfold and covered his eyes.


   The man who removed the blindfold introduced himself as Emil, an assistant to Mr. Mattiece. He was a small, wiry type with dark hair and a thin mustache winding around the lip. He sat in a chair four feet away and lit a cigarette.
   “Our people tell us you are legitimate, sort of,” he said with a friendly smile. Barr looked around the room. There were no walls, only windows in small panes. The sun was bright and pierced his eyes. A plush garden surrounded a series of fountains and pools outside the room. They were in the rear of a very large house.
   “I’m here on behalf of the President,” Barr said.
   “We believe you.” Emil nodded. He was undoubtedly a Cajun.
   “May I ask who you are?” Barr said.
   “I’m Emil, and that’s enough. Mr. Mattiece is not feeling well. Perhaps you should leave your message with me.”
   “I have orders to speak directly to him.”
   “Orders from Mr. Coal, I believe.” Emil never stopped smiling.
   “That’s correct.”
   “I see. Mr. Mattiece prefers not to meet you. He wants you to talk to me.”
   Barr shook his head. Now, if push came to shove, if things got out of hand, then he would gladly talk to Emil if it was necessary. But for now, he would hold firm.
   “I am not authorized to talk to anyone but Mr. Mattiece,” Barr said properly.
   The smile almost disappeared. Emil pointed beyond the pools and fountains to a large gazebo-shaped building with tall windows from floor to ceiling. Rows of perfectly manicured shrubs and flowers surrounded it. “Mr. Mattiece is in his gazebo. Follow me.”
   They left the sun room and walked slowly around a wading pool. Barr had a thick knot in his stomach, but he followed his little friend as if this was simply another day at the office. The sound of falling water echoed through the garden. A narrow boardwalk led to the gazebo. They stopped at the door.
   “I’m afraid you must remove your shoes,” Emil said with a smile. Emil was barefoot. Barr untied his shoes and placed them next to the door.
   “Do not step on the towels,” Emil said gravely.
   “The towels?
   Emil opened the door for Barr, who stepped in alone. The room was perfectly round, about fifty feet in diameter. There were three chairs and a sofa, all covered with white sheets. Thick cotton towels were on the floor in perfect little trails around the room. The sun shone brightly through skylights. A door opened, and Victor Mattiece emerged from a small room.
   Barr froze and gawked at the man. He was thin and gaunt, with long gray hair and a dirty beard. He wore only a pair of white gym shorts, and walked carefully on the towels without looking at Barr.
   “Sit over there,” he said, pointing at a chair. “Don’t step on the towels.”
   Barr avoided the towels and took his seat. Mattiece turned his back and faced the windows. His skin was leathery and dark bronze. His bare feet were lined with ugly veins. His toenails were long and yellow. He was crazy as hell.
   “What do you want?” he asked quietly to the windows.
   “The President sent me.”
   “He did not. Fletcher Coal sent you. I doubt if the President knows you’re here.”
   Maybe he wasn’t crazy. He spoke without moving a muscle in his body.
   “Fletcher Coal is the President’s chief of staff. He sent me.”
   “I know about Coal. And I know about you. And I know about your little Unit. Now, what do you want?”
   “Information.”
   “Don’t play games with me. What do you want?”
   “Have you read the pelican brief?” Barr asked.
   The frail body did not flinch. “Have you read it?”
   “Yes,” Barr answered quickly.
   “Do you believe it to be true?”
   “Perhaps. That’s why I’m here.”
   “Why is Mr. Coal so concerned about the pelican brief?”
   “Because a couple of reporters have wind of it. And if it’s true, then we need to know immediately.”
   “Who are these reporters?”
   “Gray Grantham with the Washington Post. He picked it up first, and he knows more than anyone. He’s digging hard. Coal thinks he’s about to run something.”
   “We can take care of him, can’t we?” Mattiece said to the windows. “Who’s the other one?”
   “Rifkin with the Times.”
   Mattiece still had not moved an inch. Barr glanced around at the sheets and towels. Yes, he had to be crazy. The place was sanitized and smelled of rubbing alcohol. Maybe he was ill.
   “Does Mr. Coal believe it to be true?”
   “I don’t know. He’s very concerned about it. That’s why I’m here, Mr. Mattiece. We have to know.”
   “What if it’s true?”
   “Then we have problems.”
   Mattiece finally moved. He shifted his weight to the right leg, and folded his arms across his narrow chest. But his eyes never moved. Sand dunes and sea oats were in the distance, but not the ocean.
   “Do you know what I think?” he said quietly.
   “What?”

   “I think Coal is the problem. He gave the brief to too many people. He handed it to the CIA. He allowed you to see it. This really disturbs me.”
   Barr could think of no response. It was ludicrous to imply that Coal wanted to distribute the brief. The problem is you, Mattiece. You killed the justices. You panicked and killed Callahan. You’re the greedy bastard who was not content with a mere fifty million.
   Mattiece turned slowly and looked at Barr. The eyes were dark and red. He looked nothing like the photo with the Vice President, but that was seven years ago. He’d aged twenty years in the last seven, and perhaps gone off the deep end along the way.
   “You clowns in Washington are to blame for this,” he said, somewhat louder.
   Barr could not look at him. “Is it true, Mr. Mattiece? That’s all I want to know.”
   Behind Barr, a door opened without a sound. Larry, in his socks and avoiding the towels, eased forward two steps and stopped.
   Mattiece walked on the towels to a glass door, and opened it. He looked outside and spoke softly. “Of course it’s true.” He walked through the door, and closed it slowly behind him. Barr watched as the idiot shuffled along a sidewalk toward the sand dunes.
   “What now?” he thought. Perhaps Emil would come get him. Perhaps.
   Larry inched forward with a rope, and Barr did not hear or feel anything until it was too late. Mattiece did not want blood in his gazebo, so Larry simply broke the neck and choked him until it was over.


   He game plan called for her to be on this elevator at this point in the search, but she thought enough unexpected events had occurred to warrant a change in the game plan. He thought not. They had engaged in a healthy debate over this elevator ride, and here she was. He was right—this was the quickest route to Curtis Morgan. And she was right—it was a dangerous route to Curtis Morgan. But the other routes could be just as dangerous. The entire game plan was deadly.
   She wore her only dress and her only pair of heels. Gray said she looked really nice, but that was to be expected. The elevator stopped on the ninth floor, and when she walked off it there was a pain in her stomach and she could barely breathe.
   The receptionist was across a plush lobby. The name WHITE AND BLAZEVICH covered the wall behind her in thick, brass lettering. Her knees were weak, but she made it to the receptionist, who smiled properly. It was ten minutes before five.
   “May I help you?” she asked. The nameplate proclaimed her to be Peggy Young.
   “Yes,” Darby managed, clearing her throat. “I have a five o’clock appointment with Curtis Morgan. My name is Dorothy Blythe.”
   The receptionist was stunned. Her mouth fell open, and she stared blankly at Darby, now Dorothy. She couldn’t speak.
   Darby’s heart stopped. “Is something the matter?”
   “Well, no. I’m sorry. Just a moment.” Peggy Young stood quickly, and disappeared in a rush.
   Run! Her heart pounded like a drum. Run! She tried to control her breathing, but she was battling hyperventilation. Her legs were rubbery. Run!
   She looked around, trying to be nonchalant as if she was just another client waiting on her lawyer. Surely they wouldn’t gun her down here in the lobby of a law office.
   He came first, followed by the receptionist. He was about fifty with bushy gray hair and a terrible scowl. “Hi,” he said, but only because he had to. “I’m Jarreld Schwabe, a partner here. You say you have an appointment with Curtis Morgan.”
   Keep it up. “Yes. At five. Is there a problem?”
   “And your name is Dorothy Blythe?”
   Yeah, but you can call me Dot. “That’s what I said. Yes. What’s the matter?” She sounded genuinely irritated.
   He was inching closer. “When did you make the appointment?”
   “I don’t know. About two weeks ago. I met Curtis at a party in Georgetown. He told me he was an oil and gas lawyer, and I happen to need one. I called the office here, and made an appointment. Now, will you please tell me what’s going on?” She was amazed at how well these words were coming from her dry mouth.
   “Why do you need an oil and gas lawyer?”
   “I don’t think I have to explain myself to you,” she said, real bitchy-like.
   The elevator opened, and a man in a cheap suit approached quickly to join the conversation. Darby scowled at him. Her legs would give way just any second.
   Schwabe was really bearing down. “We don’t have any record of such an appointment.”
   “Then fire the appointment secretary. Do you welcome all new clients this way?” Oh, she was indignant, but Schwabe did not let up.
   “You can’t see Curtis Morgan,” he said.
   “And why not?” she demanded.
   “He’s dead.”
   The knees were jelly and about to go. A sharp pain rippled through the stomach. But, she thought quickly, it was okay to looked shocked. He was, after all, supposed to be her new lawyer.
   “I’m sorry. Why didn’t anyone call me?”
   Schwabe was still suspicious. “As I said, we have no record of a Dorothy Blythe.”
   “What happened to him?” she asked, stunned.
   “He was mugged a week ago. Shot by street punks, we believe.”
   The guy in the cheap suit took a step closer. “Do you have any identification?”
   “Who in the hell are you?” she snapped loudly.
   “He’s security,” said Schwabe.
   “Security for what?” she demanded, even louder. “Is this a law firm or a prison?”
   The partner looked at the man in the cheap suit, and it was obvious neither knew exactly what to do at this point. She was very attractive, and they had upset her, and her story was somewhat believable. They relaxed a little.
   “Why don’t you leave, Ms. Blythe?” Schwabe said.
   “I can’t wait!”
   The security man reached to assist her. “Here,” he said.
   She slapped his hand. “Touch me and I’ll sue your ass first thing tomorrow morning. Get away from me!”
   This shook them a bit. She was mad and lashing out. Perhaps they were being a bit hard.
   “I’ll see you down,” the security man said.
   “I know how to leave. I’m amazed you clowns have any clients.” She was stepping backward. Her face was red, but not from anger. It was fear. “I’ve got lawyers in four states, and I’ve never been treated like this,” she yelled at them. She was in the center of the lobby. “I paid a half a million last year in legal fees, and I’ve got a million to pay next year, but you idiots won’t get any of it.” The closer she got to the elevator, the louder she yelled. She was a crazy woman. They watched her until the elevator door opened and she was gone.


   Gray paced along the end of the bed, holding the phone and waiting for Smith Keen. Darby was stretched out on the bed with her eyes closed.
   Gray stopped. “Hello, Smith. I need you to check something quick.”
   “Where are you?” Keen asked.
   “A hotel. Look back six or seven days. I need the obituary for Curtis D. Morgan.”
   “Who’s he?”
   “Garcia.”
   “Garcia! What happened to Garcia?”
   “He died, obviously. Shot by muggers.”
   “I remember that. We ran a story last week about a young lawyer who was robbed and shot.”
   “Probably him. Can you check it for me? I need his wife’s name and address if we have it.”
   “How’d you find him?”
   “It’s a long story. We’ll try to talk to his widow tonight.”
   “Garcia’s dead. This is weird, baby.”
   “It’s more than weird. The kid knew something, and they knocked him off.”
   “Do you think you’re safe?”
   “Who knows?”
   “Where’s the girl?”
   “She’s with me.”
   “What if they’re watching his house?”
   Gray hadn’t thought about it. “We’ll have to take that chance. I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes.”
   He placed the phone on the floor and sat in an antique rocker. There was a warm beer on the table, and he took a long drink. He watched her. A forearm covered both eyes. She was in jeans and a sweatshirt. The dress was thrown in a corner. The heels had been kicked across the room.
   “You okay?” he asked softly.
   “Wonderful.”
   She was a real smartass, and he liked that in a woman. Of course, she was almost a lawyer, and they must teach smartass-ness in law school. He sipped the beer and admired the jeans.
   He enjoyed this brief moment of uninterrupted staring without getting caught.
   “Are you staring at me?” she asked.
   “Yes.”
   “Sex is the last thing on my mind.”
   “Then why’d you mention it?”
   “Because I can feel you lusting after my red toenails.”
   “True.”
   “I’ve got a headache. A real, genuine, pounding headache.”
   “You’ve worked for it. Can I get you something?”
   “Yes. A one-way ticket to Jamaica.”
   “You can leave tonight. I’ll take you to the airport right now.”
   She removed the forearm from her eyes and gently massaged both temples. “I’m sorry I cried.”
   He finished the beer with a long drink. “You earned the right.” She was in tears when she stepped off the elevator. He was waiting like an expectant father, except he had a .38 in his coat pocket—a .38 she knew nothing about.
   “So what do you think of investigative reporting?” he asked.
   “I’d rather butcher hogs.”
   “Well, in all honesty, not every day is this eventful. Some days I simply sit at my desk and make hundreds of phone calls to bureaucrats who have no comment.”
   “Sounds great. Let’s do that tomorrow.”
   He kicked his shoes off and placed his feet on the bed. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Minutes passed without a word.
   “Do you know that Louisiana is known as the Pelican State?” she asked with her eyes closed.
   “No. I didn’t know that.”
   “It’s a shame really, because the brown pelicans were virtually wiped out the the early 1960’s.”
   “What happened to them?”
   “Pesticides. They eat nothing but fish, and the fish live in river water filled with chlorinated hydrocarbons from pesticides. The rains wash the pesticides from the soil into small streams which eventually empty into rivers which eventually empty into the Mississippi. By the time the pelicans in Louisiana eat the fish, they are loaded with DDT and other chemicals which accumulate in the fatty tissues of the birds. Death is seldom immediate, but in times of stress such as hunger or bad weather, the pelicans and eagles and cormorants are forced to draw upon their reserves, and can literally be poisoned by their own fat. If they don’t die, they are usually unable to reproduce. Their eggs are so thin and fragile they crack during incubation. Did you know that?”
   “Why would I know that?”
   “In the late sixties, Louisiana began transplanting brown pelicans from southern Florida, and over the years the population has slowly increased. But the birds are still very much in danger. Forty years ago there were thousands of them. The cypress swamp that Mattiece wants to destroy is home to only a few dozen pelicans.”
   Gray pondered these things. She was silent for a long time.
   “What day is it?” she asked without opening her eyes.
   “Monday.”
   “I left New Orleans a week ago today. Thomas and Verheek had dinner two weeks ago today. That, of course, was the fateful moment when the pelican brief changed hands.”
   “Three weeks ago tomorrow, Rosenberg and Jensen were murdered.”
   “I was an innocent little law student minding my own business and having a wonderful love affair with my professor. I guess those days are gone.”
   Law school and the professor might be gone, he thought. “What’re your plans?”
   “I have none. I’m just trying to get out of this damned mess and stay alive. I’ll run off somewhere and hide for a few months, maybe a few years. I’ve got enough money to live for a long time. If and when I reach the point when I’m not looking over my shoulder, I might come back.”
   “To law school?”

   “I don’t think so. The law has lost its allure.”
   “Why’d you want to be a lawyer?”
   “Idealism, and money. I thought I could change the world and get paid for it.”
   “But there are so damned many lawyers already. Why do all these bright students keep flocking to law school?”
   “Simple. It’s greed. They want BMWs and gold credit cards. If you go to a good law school, finish in the top ten percent, and get a job with a big firm, you’ll be earning six figures in a few short years, and it only goes up. It’s guaranteed. At the age of thirty-five, you’ll be a partner raking in at least two hundred thousand a year. Some earn much more.”
   “What about the other ninety percent?”
   “It’s not such a good deal for them. They get the leftovers.”
   “Most lawyers I know hate it. They’d rather be doing something else.”
   “But they can’t leave it because of the money. Even a lousy lawyer in a small office can earn a hundred thousand a year after ten years of practice, and he may hate it, but where can he go and match the money?”
   “I detest lawyers.”
   “And I guess you think reporters are adored.”
   Good point. Gray looked at his watch, then picked up the phone. He dialed Keen’s number. Keen read him the obit, and the Post story about the senseless street killing of this young lawyer. Gray took notes.
   “A couple of other things,” Keen said. “Feldman is very concerned about your safety. He expected a briefing in his office today, and he was pissed when he didn’t get one. Make sure you report to him before noon tomorrow. Understand?”
   “I’ll try.”
   “Do more than try, Gray. We’re very nervous over here.”
   “The Times is sucking wind, isn’t it?”
   “I’m not worried about the Times right now. I’m much more concerned about you and the girl.”
   “We’re fine. Everything’s lovely. What else have you got?”
   “You have three messages in the past two hours from a man named Cleve. Says he’s a cop. Do you know him?”
   “Yes.”
   “Well, he wants to talk tonight. Says it’s urgent.”
   “I’ll call him later.”
   “Okay. You guys be careful. We’ll be here till late, so check in.”
   Gray hung up and looked at his notes. It was almost seven. “I’m going to see Mrs. Morgan. I want you to stay here.”
   She sat between the pillows and crossed her arms on her knees. “I’d rather go.”
   “What if they’re watching the house?” he asked.
   “Why would they watch the house? He’s dead.”
   “Maybe they’re suspicious now, because a mysterious client appeared today looking for him. Even though he’s dead, he’s attracting attention.”
   She thought about this for a minute. “No. I’m going.”
   “It’s too risky, Darby.”
   “Don’t talk to me about risks. I’ve survived in the minefields for twelve days. This is easy.”
   He waited on her by the door. “By the way, where am I staying tonight?”
   “Jefferson Hotel.”
   “Do you have the phone number?”
   “What do you think?”
   “Dumb question.”


   The private jet with Edwin Sneller aboard landed at National in Washington a few minutes after seven. He was delighted to leave New York. He’d spent six days there bouncing off the walls in his suite at the Plaza. For almost a week, his men had checked hotels and watched airports and walked streets, and they knew damned well they were wasting their time, but orders were orders. They were told to stay there until something broke and they could move on. It was silly trying to find the girl in Manhattan, but they had to stay close in case she made a mistake like a phone call or a plastic transaction that could be traced, and suddenly they were needed.
   She made no mistakes until two-thirty this afternoon when she needed money and went to the account. They knew this would happen, especially if she planned to leave the country and was afraid to use plastic. At some point, she would need cash, and she’d have to wire it since the bank was in New Orleans and she wasn’t. Sneller’s client owned eight percent of the bank—not a lot, but a nice little twelve-million-dollar holding that could make things happen. A few minutes after three, he’d received a call from Freeport.
   They did not suspect her to be in Washington. She was a smart girl who was running away from trouble, not to it. And they certainly didn’t expect her to link up with the reporter. They had no idea, but now it seemed so logical. And it was worse than critical.
   Fifteen thousand went from her account to his, and suddenly Sneller was back in business. He had two men with him. Another private jet was en route from Miami. He had asked for a dozen men immediately. It would be a quick job, or no job at all. There was not a second to spare.
   Sneller was not hopeful. With Khamel on the team, everything seemed possible. He had killed Rosenberg and Jensen so cleanly, then disappeared without a trace. Now he was dead, shot in the head because of one little innocent female law student.


   The Morgan house was in a neat suburb in Alexandria. The neighborhood was young and affluent, with bikes and tricycles in every yard.
   Three cars were parked in the drive. One had Ohio plates. Gray rang the doorbell and watched the street. Nothing suspicious.
   An older man opened the door slightly. “Yes,” he said softly.
   “I’m Gray Grantham with the Washington Post, and this is my assistant, Sara Jacobs.” Darby forced a smile. “We would like to speak with Mrs. Morgan.”
   “I don’t think so.”
   “Please. It’s very important.”
   He looked at them carefully. “Wait a minute.” He closed the door and disappeared.
   The house had a narrow wooden porch with a small veranda over it. They were in the darkness and could not be seen from the street. A car passed slowly.
   He opened the door again. “I’m Tom Kupcheck, her father, and she doesn’t want to talk.”
   Gray nodded as if this was understandable. “We won’t be five minutes. I promise.”
   He walked onto the porch and closed the door behind him. “I guess you’re hard of hearing. I said she doesn’t want to talk.”
   “I heard you, Mr. Kupcheck. And I respect her privacy, and I know what she’s been through.”
   “Since when do you guys respect anyone’s privacy?”
   Evidently, Mr. Kupcheck had a short fuse. It was about to blow.
   Gray kept calm. Darby backed away. She’d been involved in enough altercations for one day.
   “Her husband called me three times before he died. I talked to him on the phone, and I don’t believe his death was a random killing by street punks.”
   “He’s dead. My daughter is upset. She doesn’t want to talk. Now get the hell out of here.”
   “Mr. Kupcheck,” Darby said warmly. “We have reason to believe your son-in-law was a witness to some highly organized criminal activity.”
   This calmed him a bit, and he glared at Darby. “Is that so? Well, you can’t ask him about it, can you? My daughter knows nothing. She’s had a bad day and she’s on medication. Now leave.”
   “Can we see her tomorrow?” Darby asked.
   “I doubt it. Call first.”
   Gray handed him a business card. “If she wants to talk, use the number on the back. I’m staying at a hotel. I’ll call around noon tomorrow.”
   “You do that. For now, just leave. You’ve already upset her.”
   “We’re sorry,” Gray said, as they walked off the porch. Mr. Kupcheck opened the door but watched them as they left. Gray stopped, and turned to him. “Has any other reporter called or stopped by?”
   “A bunch of them called the day after he was killed. They wanted all sorts of stuff. Rude people.”
   “But none in the past few days?”
   “No. Now leave.”
   “Any from the New York Times?”
   “No.” He stepped inside and slammed the door.
   They hurried to the car parked four doors down. There was no traffic on the street. Gray zigzagged through the short suburban streets, and crisscrossed his way out of the neighborhood. He watched the mirror until he was convinced they were not being followed.
   “End of Garcia,” Darby said as they entered 395 and headed for the city.
   “Not yet. We’ll make one final, dying gasp tomorrow, and maybe she’ll talk to us.”
   “If she knew something, her father would know. And if her father knew, why wouldn’t he cooperate? There’s nothing there, Gray.”
   This made perfect sense. They rode in silence for a few minutes. Fatigue was setting in.
   “We can be at the airport in fifteen minutes,” he said. “I’ll drop you off, and you can be out of here in thirty minutes. Take a plane anywhere, just vanish.”
   “I’ll leave tomorrow. I need some rest, and I want to think about where to go. Thanks.”
   “Do you feel safe?”
   “At this moment, yes. But it’s subject to change in seconds.”
   “I’ll be glad to sleep in your room tonight. Just like in New York.”
   “You didn’t sleep in my room in New York. You slept on a sofa in the sitting room.” She was smiling, and this was a good sign.
   He was smiling too. “Okay. I’ll sleep in the sitting room tonight.”
   “I don’t have a sitting room.”
   “Well, well. Then where can I sleep?”
   Suddenly, she was not smiling. She bit her lip and her eyes watered. He had pushed too far. It was Callahan again.
   “I’m just not ready,” she said.
   “When might you be ready?”
   “Gray, please. Just leave it alone.”
   She watched the traffic ahead and said nothing. “I’m sorry,” he said.
   Slowly, she lay down in the seat and placed her head in his lap. He gently rubbed her shoulder, and she clutched his hand. “I’m scared to death,” she said quietly.


   He had left her room around ten, after a bottle of wine and egg rolls. He had called Mason Paypur, the night police reporter for the Post, and asked him to check with his sources about the Morgan street killing. It had happened downtown in an area not noted for killings—just a few muggings and beatings.
   He was tired and discouraged. And he was unhappy because she would leave tomorrow. The Post owed him six weeks of vacation, and he was tempted to leave with her. Mattiece could have his oil. But he was afraid he’d never come back, which wouldn’t be the end of his world except for the troublesome fact that she had money and he didn’t. They could skip along the beaches and frolic in the sun for about two months on his money, then it would be up to her. And, more importantly, she hadn’t invited him to join in her getaway. She was grieving. When she mentioned Thomas Callahan, he could feel the pain.
   He was now at the Jefferson Hotel on Sixteenth, pursuant, of course, to her instructions. He called Cleve at home.
   “Where are you?” Cleve asked, irritated.
   “A hotel. It’s a long story. What’s up?”
   “They put Sarge on medical leave for ninety days.”
   “What’s wrong with him?”
   “Nothing. He says they want him out of the place for a while. It’s like a bunker over there. Everybody’s been told to shut up and speak to no one. They’re scared to death. They made Sarge leave at noon today. He thinks you could be in serious danger. He’s heard your name a thousand times in the past week. They’re obsessed with you and how much you know.”
   “Who’s they?”
   “Coal, of course, and his aide Birchfield. They run the West Wing like the Gestapo. Sometimes they include, what’s his name, the little squirrel with the bow tie? Domestic affairs?”
   “Emmitt Waycross.”
   “That’s him. It’s mainly Coal and Birchfield making the threats and plotting strategy.”
   “What kind of threats?”
   “No one in the White House, except for the President, can talk to the press on the record or off without Coal’s approval. This includes the press secretary. Coal clears everything.”
   “That’s incredible.”
   “They’re terrified. And Sarge thinks they’re dangerous.”
   “Okay. I’m hiding.”
   “I stopped by your apartment late last night. I wish you’d tell me when you disappear.”
   “I’ll check in tomorrow night.”
   “What’re you driving?”
   “A rented Pontiac with four doors. Very sporty.”
   “I checked the Volvo this afternoon. It’s fine.”
   “Thanks, Cleve.”
   “You okay?”
   “I think so. Tell Sarge I’m fine.”
   “Call me tomorrow. I’m worried.”

   He slept four hours and was awake when the phone rang. It was dark outside, and would remain that way for at least two hours. He stared at the phone, and picked it up on the fifth ring.
   “Hello,” he said suspiciously.
   “Is this Gray Grantham?” It was a very timid female.
   “Yes. Who is this?”
   “Beverly Morgan. You stopped by last night.”
   Gray was on his feet, listening hard, wide awake. “Yes. I’m sorry if we upset you.”
   “No. My father is very protective. And angry. The reporters were awful after Curtis was killed. They called from everywhere. They wanted old pictures of him and new photos of me and the child. They called at all hours. It was terrible, and my father got tired of it. He pushed two of them off the porch.”
   “I guess we were lucky.”
   “I hope he didn’t offend you.” The voice was hollow and detached, yet trying to be strong.
   “Not at all.”
   “He’s asleep now, downstairs on the sofa. So we can talk.”
   “Why aren’t you asleep?” he asked.
   “I’m taking some pills to make me sleep, and I’m all out of sync. I’ve been sleeping days and rambling nights.” It was obvious she was awake and wanted to talk.
   Gray sat on the bed and tried to relax. “I can’t imagine the shock of something like this.”
   “It takes several days for it to become real. At first, the pain is horrible. Just horrible. I couldn’t move my body without hurting. I couldn’t think because of the shock and disbelief. I went through the motions to get through the funeral, which now seems like a bad dream. Is this boring?”
   “Not at all.”
   “I’ve got to get off these pills. I sleep so much I don’t get to talk to adults. Plus, my father tends to run people off. Are you taping this?”
   “No. I’m just listening.”
   “He was killed a week ago tonight. I thought he was working very late, which was not unusual. They shot him and took his wallet, so the cops couldn’t identify him. I saw on the late news where a young lawyer had been murdered downtown, and I knew it was Curtis. Don’t ask me how they knew he was a lawyer without knowing his name. It’s strange, all the little weird things that go with a murder.”
   “Why was he working late?”
   “He worked eighty hours a week, sometimes more. White and Blazevich is a sweatshop. They try to kill the associates for seven years, and if they can’t kill them they make them partners. Curtis hated the place. He was tired of being a lawyer.”
   “How long was he there?”
   “Five years. He was making ninety thousand a year, so he put up with the hassle.”
   “Did you know he called me?”
   “No. My father told me you said that, and I’ve thought about it all night. What did he say?”
   “He never identified himself. He used the code name of Garcia. Don’t ask how I learned his identity—it’ll take hours. He said he possibly knew something about the assassinations of Justices Rosenberg and Jensen, and he wanted to tell me what he knew.”
   “Randy Garcia was his best friend in elementary school.”
   “I got the impression he had seen something at the office, and perhaps someone at the office knew he had seen it. He was very nervous, and always called from pay phones. He thought he was being followed. We had planned to meet early Saturday before last, but he called that morning and said no. He was scared, and said he had to protect his family. Did you know any of this?”
   “No. I knew he was under a great deal of stress, but he’d been that way for five years. He never brought the office home with him. He hated the place, really.”
   “Why’d he hate the place?”
   “He worked for a bunch of cutthroats, a bunch of thugs who’d watch you bleed for a buck. They spend tons of money on this marvelous façade of respectability, but they are scum. Curtis was a top student and had his pick of jobs. They were such a great bunch of guys when they recruited him, and complete monsters to work with. Very unethical.”
   “Why did he stay with the firm?”
   “The money kept getting better. He almost left a year ago, but the job offer fell through. He was very unhappy, but he tried to keep it to himself. I think he felt guilty for making such a big mistake. We had a little routine around here. When he came home, I would ask him how his day went. Sometimes this was at ten at night, so I knew it was a bad day. But he always said the day had been profitable—that was the word, profitable. And then we talked about our baby. He didn’t want to talk about the office, and I didn’t want to hear it.”
   “Well, so much for Garcia. He’s dead, and he told his wife nothing. Who cleaned out his desk?”
   “Someone at the office. They brought his stuff Friday, all neatly packaged and taped in three cardboard boxes. You’re welcome to go through it.”
   “No, thanks. I’m sure it’s been sanitized. How much life insurance did he have?”
   She paused for a second. “You’re a smart man, Mr. Grantham. Two weeks ago, he bought a million-dollar term policy with double indemnity for accidental death.”
   “That’s two million dollars.”
   “Yes, sir. I guess you’re right. I guess he was suspicious.”
   “I don’t think he was killed by muggers, Mrs. Morgan.”
   “I can’t believe this.” She choked a little, but fought it off.
   “Have the cops asked you a lot of questions?”
   “No. It’s just another D.C. mugging that went one step further. No big deal. Happens every day.”
   The insurance bit was interesting, but useless. Gray was getting tired of Mrs. Morgan and her unhurried monotone. He was sorry for her, but if she knew nothing, it was time to say good-bye.
   “What do you think he knew?” she asked.
   This could take hours. “I don’t know,” Gray answered, glancing at his watch. “He said he knew something about the killings, but that’s as far as he would go. I was convinced we would meet somewhere and he would spill his guts and show me something. I was wrong.”
   “How would he know anything about those dead judges?”
   “I don’t know. He just called me out of the blue.”
   “If he had something to show you, what would it be?” she asked.
   He was the reporter. He was supposed to ask the questions. “I have no idea. He never hinted.”
   “Where would he hide such a thing?” The question was sincere, but irritating. Then it hit him. She was going somewhere with this.
   “I don’t know. Where did he keep his valuable papers?”
   “We have a lockbox at the bank for deeds and wills and stuff. I’ve always known about the lockbox. He handled all the legal business, Mr. Grantham. I looked at the lockbox last Thursday with my father, and there was nothing unusual in it.”
   “You didn’t expect anything unusual, did you?”
   “No. Then Saturday morning, early, it was still dark, I was going through his papers in his desk in the bedroom. We have this antique rolltop desk that he used for his personal correspondence and papers, and I found something a bit unusual.”
   Gray was on his feet, holding the phone, and staring wildly at the floor. She had called at four in the morning. She had chitchatted for twenty minutes. And she waited until he was ready to hang up to drop the bomb.
   “What is it?” he asked as coolly as possible.
   “It’s a key.”
   He had a lump in his throat. “A key to what?”
   “Another lockbox.”
   “Which bank?”
   “First Columbia. We’ve never banked there.”
   “I see. And you knew nothing about this other lockbox?”
   “Oh no. Not until Saturday morning. I was puzzled by it, still am, but I found all of our legal papers in the old lockbox, so I had no reason to check this one. I figured I’d run by when I felt like it.”
   “Would you like me to check it for you?”
   “I thought you would say that. What if you find what you’re looking for?”
   “I don’t know what I’m looking for. But what if I find something he left behind, and this something proves to be very, let’s say, newsworthy?”
   “Use it.”
   “No conditions?”
   “One. If it disparages my husband in any way, you can’t use it.”
   “It’s a deal. I swear.”
   “When do you want the key?”
   “Do you have it in your hand?”
   “Yes.”
   “If you’ll stand on the front porch, I’ll be there in about three seconds.”


   The private jet from Miami had brought only five men, so Edwin Sneller had only seven to plan with. Seven men, no time, and precious little equipment. He had not slept Monday night. His hotel suite was a mini-command center as they stared at maps through the night, and tried to plan the next twenty-four hours. A few things were certain. Grantham had an apartment, but he was not there. He had a car he was not using. He worked at the Post, and it was on Fifteenth Street. White and Blazevich was in a building on Tenth near New York, but she would not return there. Morgan’s widow lived in Alexandria. Beyond that, they were searching for two people out of three million.
   These were not the type of men you could rustle out of the bunkhouse and send in to fight. They had to be found and hired, and he’d been promised as many as possible by the end of the day.
   Sneller was no novice at the killing game, and this was hopeless. This was desperation. The sky was falling. He would do his best under the circumstances, but Edwin Sneller had one foot out the back door.
   She was on his mind. She had met Khamel on his terms, and walked away from it. She had dodged bullets and bombs, and evaded the best in the business. He would love to see her, not to kill her, but to congratulate her. A rookie running loose and living to tell about it.
   They would concentrate on the Post building. It was the one spot he had to come back to.


   The downtown traffic was bumper to bumper, and that suited Darby just fine. She was in no hurry. The bank lobby opened at nine-thirty, and some time around seven, over coffee and untouched bagels in her room, he had convinced her that she should be the one to visit the vault. She was not really convinced, but a woman should do it, and there weren’t many available. Beverly Morgan told Gray that her bank, First Hamilton, froze their box as soon as they learned of Curtis’s death, and that she was allowed only to view the contents and make an inventory. She was also allowed to copy the will, but the original was placed back in the box and secured in the vault. The box would be released only after the tax auditors finished their work.
   So the immediate question was whether or not First Columbia knew he was dead. The Morgans had never banked there. Beverly had no idea why he chose it. It was a huge bank with a million customers, and they decided that the odds were against it.
   Darby was tired of playing the odds. She’d blown a wonderful opportunity last night to get on a plane, and now here she was about to be Beverly Morgan matching wits with First Columbia so she could steal from a dead man. And what was her sidekick going to do? He was going to protect her. He had this gun, which scared her to death and had the same effect on him though he wouldn’t admit it, and he planned to play bodyguard by the front door while she pilfered the lockbox.
   “What if they know he’s dead,” she asked, “and I tell them he isn’t?”
   “Then slap the bitch in the face and run like hell. I’ll catch you at the front door. I’ve got a gun, and we’ll blast our way down the sidewalk.”
   “Come on, Gray. I don’t know if I can do this.”
   “You can do it, okay? Play it cool. Be assertive. Be a smartass. It should come natural.”
   “Thanks so much. What if they call security on me? I have this sudden phobia of security guards.”
   “I’ll rescue you. I’ll come blazing through the lobby like a SWAT team.”
   “We’ll all be killed.”
   “Relax, Darby. It’ll work.”
   “Why are you so chipper?”
   “I smell it. Something’s in that lockbox, Darby. And you have to bring it out, kid. It’s all riding on you.”
   “Thanks for easing the pressure.”
   They were on E Street near Ninth. Gray slowed the car, then parked illegally in a loading zone forty feet from the front entrance of First Columbia. He jumped out. Darby’s exit was slower. Together, they walked quickly to the door. It was almost ten. “I’ll wait here,” he said, pointing to a marble column. “Go do it.”
   “Go do it,” she mumbled as she disappeared inside the revolving door. She was always the one being fed to the lions. The lobby was as big as a football field, with columns and chandeliers and fake Persian rugs.