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"Not yet. Maybe later. I'm afraid to. Thomas went to the FBI, and two days later we were supposed to be dead."
"So the FBI is after you?"
"I don't think so. They started talking, and someone was listening very closely, and it found the wrong ears."
"Talked about what? Come on, Darby. It's me. Your best friend. Stop playing games."
Darby took the first tiny swallow from the bottle. Eye contact was avoided. She stared at the table. "Please, Alice. Allow me to wait. There's no sense telling you something that could get you killed." A long pause. "If you want to help, go to the memorial service tomorrow. Watch everything. Spread the word that I called you from Denver where I'm staying with an aunt with a name you don't know, and that I've dropped out this semester but I'll be back in the spring. Make sure that rumor gets started. I think some people will be listening carefully."
"Okay. The paper mentioned a white female near the scene when he was killed, as if she might be a suspect or something."
"Or something. I was there and I was supposed to be a victim. I'm reading the papers with a magnifying glass. The cops are clueless."
"Okay, Darby. You're smarter than I am. You're smarter than every person I've ever met. So what now?"
"First, go out the back door. There's a white door at the end of the hall where the rest rooms are. It goes into a storage room, then to the kitchen, then out the back door. Don't stop. The alley leads to Royal. Catch a cab and ride back to your car. Watch your rear."
"Are you serious?"
"Look at this hair, Alice. Would I mutilate myself like this if I was playing games?"
"Okay, okay. Then what?"
"Go to the service tomorrow, start the rumor, and I'll call you within two days."
"Where are you staying?"
"Here and there. I move around a lot."
Alice stood and pecked her on the cheek. Then she was gone.
For two hours, Verheek stomped the floor, picking up magazines, tossing them around, ordering room service, unpacking, stomping. Then for the next two hours, he sat on the bed, sipping a hot beer and staring at the phone. He would do this until midnight, he told himself, and then, well, then what?
She said she would call.
He could save her life if she would only call.
At midnight, he threw another magazine and left the room. An agent in the New Orleans office had helped a little, and given him a couple of law school hangouts close to campus. He would go there and mix and mingle, drink a beer, and listen. The students were in town for the game. She wouldn't be there, and it wouldn't matter because he'd never seen her. But maybe he would hear something, and he could drop a name, leave a card, make a friend who knew her or maybe knew someone who knew her. A long shot, but a helluva lot more productive than staring at the phone.
He found a seat at the bar in a joint called Barrister's, three blocks from campus. It had a nice little varsity look to it with football schedules and pinups on the walls. The crowd was rowdy and under thirty.
The bartender looked like a student. After two beers, the crowd thinned and the bar was half empty. There would be another wave in a moment.
Verheek ordered number three. It was one-thirty. "Are you a law student?" he asked the bartender.
"Afraid so."
"It's not that bad, is it?"
He was wiping around the peanuts. "I've had more fun."
Verheek longed for the bartenders who served his beer in law school. Those guys knew the art of conversation. Never met a stranger. Talk about anything.
"I'm a lawyer," Verheek said in desperation.
Oh, hey, wow, this guy's a lawyer. How rare. Someone special. The kid walked off.
Little son of a bitch. I hope you flunk out. Verheek grabbed his bottle and turned to face the tables. He felt like a grandfather amid the children. Though he hated law school and the memories of it, there had been some long Friday nights in the bars of Georgetown with his pal Callahan. Those were good memories.
"So what kind of law?" The bartender was back. Gavin turned to the bar, and smiled.
"Special counsel, FBI."
He was still wiping. "So you're in Washington?"
"Yeah, in town for the game Sunday. I'm a Redskins freak." He hated the Redskins and every other organized football team. Don't get the kid started on football. "Where do you go to school?"
"Here. Tulane. I'll finish in May."
"Then where?"
"Probably Cincinnati for a clerkship for a year or two."
"You must be a good student."
He shrugged it off. "You need a beer?"
"No. Did you have Thomas Callahan?"
"Sure. You know him?"
"I was in law school with him at Georgetown." Verheek pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to the kid. "I'm Gavin Verheek." The kid looked at it, then politely laid it next to the ice. The bar was quiet and the kid was tired of chitchat.
"Do you know a student by the name of Darby Shaw?"
The kid glanced at the tables. "No. I haven't met her, but I know who she is. I think she's second year." A long, rather suspicious pause. "Why?"
"We need to talk to her." We, as in FBI. Not simply he, as in Gavin Verheek. The "we" part sounded much graver. "Does she hang out in here?"
"I've seen her a few times. She's hard to miss."
"I've heard." Gavin looked at the tables. "Do you think these guys might know her?"
"Doubt it. They're all first year. Can't you tell? They're over there arguing property rights and search and seizure."
"Yeah, those were the days." Gavin pulled a dozen cards from his pocket and laid them on the bar. "I'll be at the Hilton for a few days. If you see her, or hear anything, drop one of these."
"Sure. There was a cop in last night asking questions. You don't think she was involved in his death?"
"No, not at all. We just need to talk to her."
"I'll keep my eyes open."
Verheek paid for the beer, thanked the kid again, and was on the sidewalk. He walked three blocks to the Half Shell. It was almost two. He was dead tired, half drunk, and a band cranked up the second he walked through the door. The place was dark, packed, and fifty fraternity joes with their sorority sues were immediately dancing on tables. He weaved through the uprising and found safety in the back near the bar. They were three deep, shoulder to shoulder, and no one moved. He clawed his way forward, got a beer to be cool, and realized again he was by far the oldest one there. He retreated to a dark but crowded corner. It was hopeless. He couldn't hear himself think, let alone carry on a conversation.
He watched the bartenders - all young, all students. The oldest looked late twenties, and he rang up check after check as if he was closing out. His moves were hurried, as if it was time to go. Gavin studied every move.
He quickly untied his apron, flung it in a corner, ducked under the bar, and was gone. Gavin elbowed through the mob, and caught him as he stepped through the kitchen door. He had an FBI business card ready. "I'm sorry. I'm with the FBI." He stuck the card in his face. "Your name is?"
The kid froze, and looked wildly at Verheek. "Uh, Fountain. Jeff Fountain."
"Fine, Jeff. Look, nothing's wrong, okay? Just a couple of questions." The kitchen had shut down hours ago, and they were alone. "Just take a second."
"Well, okay. What's up?"
"You're a law student, right?" Please say yes. His friend said most of the bartenders here were law students.
"Yes. At Loyola."
"Loyola! Where the hell! Yeah, well, that's what I thought. You've heard about Professor Callahan at Tulane. Funeral's tomorrow."
"Sure. It's all over the papers. Most of my friends go to Tulane."
"Do you know a second-year student there by the name of Darby Shaw? Very attractive female."
Fountain smiled. "Yeah, she dated a friend of mine last year. She's in here occasionally."
"How long ago?"
"It's been a month or two. What's wrong?"
"We need to talk to her." He handed Fountain a stack of cards. "Hang on to these. I'll be at the Hilton for a few days. If you see her around, or if you hear anything, drop one of these."
"What might I hear?"
"Something about Callahan. We need to see her real bad, okay?"
"Sure." He stuck the cards in a pocket.
Verheek thanked him and returned to the revelry. He inched through the mob, listening to the attempts at conversation. A fresh mob was entering, and he wrestled his way out the door. He was too old for this.
Six blocks away, he parked illegally in front of a fraternity house next to the campus. His last stop for the night would be a dark little pool hall, which, at the moment, was not crowded. He paid for beer at the bar, and surveyed the place. There were four pool tables and the action was light. A young man in a T-shirt walked to the bar and ordered another beer. The shirt was green and gray with the words TULANE LAW SCHOOL stamped across the front with what appeared to be an inmate identification number under the words.
