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"What's his name?"
"Thomas Callahan."
Olson looked at the first cop. "That's what the computer said. Now, who's this Rupert?"
Darby screamed, "He said he was a cop!"
Olson looked sympathetic. "I'm sorry. There's no cop named Rupert."
She was sobbing loudly. Olson helped her to the hood of Rupert's car, and held her shoulders while the crying subsided and she fought to regain control.
"Check the plates," Olson told the second cop, who quickly scribbled down the tag number from Rupert's car and called it in.
Olson gently held both her shoulders with his hands and looked at her eyes. "Were you with Callahan?"
She nodded, still crying but much quieter. Olson glanced at the first cop.
"How did you get in this car?" Olson asked slowly and softly.
She wiped her eyes with her finger and stared at Olson. "This guy Rupert, who said he was a cop, came and got me from over there, and brought me over here. He put me in the car, and this other cop with cowboy boots starting asking questions. Another cop car pulled up, and they left. Then I guess I passed out. I don't know. I would like to see a doctor."
"Get my car," Olson said to the first cop.
The second cop was back with a puzzled look. "The computer has no record of this tag number. Must be fake tags."
Olson took her arm and led her to his car. He spoke quickly to the two cops. "I'm taking her to Charity. Wrap this up and meet me there. Impound the car. We'll check it later."
She sat in Olson's car listening to the radio squawk and staring at the parking lot. Four cars had burned. The Porsche was upside down in the center, nothing but a crumpled frame. A handful of firemen and other emergency types milled about. A cop was stringing yellow crime-scene tape around the lot.
She touched the knot on the back of her head. No blood. Tears dripped off her chin.
Olson slammed his door, and they eased through the parked cars and headed for St. Charles. He had the blue lights on, but no sirens.
"Do you feel like talking?" he asked.
They were on St. Charles. "I guess," she said. "He's dead, isn't he?"
"Yes, Darby. I'm sorry. I take it he was the only one in the car."
"Yes."
"How'd you get hurt?"
He gave her a handkerchief, and she wiped her eyes. "I fell or something. There were two explosions, and I think the second one knocked me down. I don't remember everything. Please, tell me who Rupert is."
"I have no idea. I don't know a cop named Rupert, and there was no cop here with cowboy boots."
She thought about this for a block and a half.
"What did Callahan do for a living?"
"A law professor at Tulane. I'm a student there."
"Who would want to kill him?"
She stared at the traffic lights and shook her head. "You're certain it was intentional?"
"No doubt about it. It was a very powerful explosive. We found a piece of a foot stuck in a chain-link fence eighty feet away. I'm sorry, okay? He was murdered."
"Maybe someone got the wrong car."
"That's always possible. We'll check out everything. I take it you were supposed to be in the car with him."
She tried to speak, but could not hold the tears. She buried her face in the handkerchief.
He parked between two ambulances near the emergency entrance at Charity, and left the blue lights on. He helped her quickly inside to a dirty room where fifty people sat in various degrees of pain and discomfort. She found a seat by the water fountain. Olson talked to the lady behind the window, and he raised his voice but Darby couldn't understand him. A small boy with a bloody towel around his foot cried in his mother's lap. A young black girl was about to give birth. There was not a doctor or nurse in sight. No one was in a hurry.
Olson crouched in front of her. "It'll be a few minutes. Sit tight. I'm gonna move the car, and I'll be back in a minute. Do you feel like talking?"
"Yeah, sure."
He was gone. She checked again for blood, and found none. The double doors opened wide, and two angry nurses came after the girl in labor. They sort of dragged her away, back through the doors and down the hall.
Darby waited, then followed. With the red eyes and handkerchief, she looked like some child's mother. The hall was a zoo with nurses and orderlies and the wounded yelling and moving about. She turned a corner and saw an EXIT sign. Through the door, into another hall, much quieter, another door, and she was on a loading dock. There were lights in the alley. Don't run. Be strong. It's okay. No one's watching. She was on the street, walking briskly. The cool air cleared her eyes. She refused to cry.
Olson would take his time, and when he returned he would figure they had called her name and she was back there getting worked on. He would wait. And wait.
She turned corners, and saw Rampart. The Quarter was just ahead. She could get lost there. There were people on Royal, tourist types strolling along. She felt safer. She entered the Holiday Inn, paid with plastic, and got a room on the fifth floor.
After the door was bolted and chained, she curled up on the bed with all the lights on.
Mrs. Verheek rolled her plump but rich ass away from the center of the bed, and grabbed the phone. "It's for you, Gavin!" she yelled into the bathroom. Gavin emerged with shaving cream on half his face, and took the receiver from his wife, who burrowed deep into the bed. Like a hog rutting in mud, he thought.
"Hello," he snapped.
It was a female voice he'd never heard before. "This is Darby Shaw. Do you know who I am?"
He smiled instantly, and for a second thought of the string bikini on St. Thomas. "Well, yes. I believe we have a mutual friend."
"Did you read the little theory I wrote?"
"Ah, yes. The pelican brief, as we refer to it."
"And who is we?"
Verheek sat in a chair by the night table. This was no social call. "Why are you calling, Darby?"
"I need some answers, Mr. Verheek. I'm scared to death."
"It's Gavin, okay?"
"Gavin. Where is the brief now?"
"Here and there. What's wrong?"
"I'll tell you in a minute. Just tell me what you did with the brief."
"Well, I read it, then sent it to another division, and it was seen by some folks within the Bureau, then shown to Director Voyles, who sort of liked it."
"Has it been seen outside the FBI?"
"I can't answer that, Darby."
"Then I won't tell you what's happened to Thomas."
Verheek pondered this for a long minute. She waited patiently. "Okay. Yes, it's been seen outside the FBI. By whom and by how many, I don't know."
"He's dead, Gavin. He was murdered around ten last night. Someone planted a car bomb for both of us. I got lucky, but now they're after me."
Verheek was hovering over the phone, scribbling notes. "Are you hurt?"
"Physically, I'm okay."
"Where are you?"
"New Orleans."
"Are you certain, Darby? I mean, I know you're certain, but, dammit, who would want to kill him?"
"I met a couple of them."
"How'd you - "
"It's a long story. Who saw the brief, Gavin? Thomas gave it to you Monday night. It's been passed around, and forty-eight hours later he's dead. And I'm supposed to be dead with him. It fell into the wrong hands, wouldn't you say?"
"Are you safe?"
"Who the hell knows?"
"Where are you staying? What's your phone number?"
"Not so fast, Gavin. I'm moving real slow right now. I'm at a pay phone, so no cute stuff."
"Come on, Darby! Give me a break! Thomas Callahan was my best friend. You've got to come in."
"And what might that mean?"
"Look, Darby, give me fifteen minutes, and we'll have a dozen agents pick you up. I'll catch a flight and be there before noon. You can't stay on the streets."
"Why, Gavin? Who's after me? Talk to me, Gavin."
"I'll talk to you when I get there."
"I don't know. Thomas is dead because he talked to you. I'm not that anxious to meet you right now."
"Darby, look, I don't know who or why, but I assure you you're in a very dangerous situation. We can protect you."
"Maybe later."
He breathed deeply and sat on the edge of the bed. "You can trust me, Darby."
"Okay, I trust you. But what about those other people? This is heavy, Gavin. My little brief has someone awfully upset, wouldn't you say?"
"Did he suffer?"
