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He took the recorder from under the bed, and ran the telephone wire directly into the wall. He punched a button, listened, and there she was. He turned off the television.
Every job was different. He had once stalked his prey for three weeks in Mexico City, then caught him in bed with two prostitutes. It was a dumb mistake, and during his career he had been assisted by numerous dumb mistakes by the opposition. This guy was a dumb mistake, a stupid lawyer pilfering around running his mouth, passing out cards with his room number on the back. He had stuck his nose into the world of big-league killing, and look at him now.
With a little luck, the cops would look around the room for a few minutes and declare it to be another suicide. They would go through the motions and ask themselves a couple of questions they could not answer, but there were always some of those. Because he was an important FBI lawyer, an autopsy would be done in a day or so, and probably by Tuesday an examiner would suddenly discover it was not a suicide.
By Tuesday, the girl would be dead and he would be in Managua.
His usual, official sources at the White House denied any knowledge of the pelican brief. Sarge had never heard of it. Long-shot phone calls to the FBI produced nothing. A friend at Justice denied ever hearing about it. He dug all weekend, and had nothing to show for it. The story about Callahan was verified when he found a copy of the New Orleans paper. When her call came in at the newsroom Monday, he had nothing fresh to tell her. But at least she called.
The Pelican said she was at a pay phone, so don't bother.
"I'm still digging," he said. "If there's such a brief in town, it's being closely protected."
"I assure you it's there, and I understand why it's being protected."
"I'm sure you can tell me more."
"Lots more. The brief almost got me killed yesterday, so I may be ready to talk sooner than I thought. I need to spill my guts while I'm still alive."
"Who's trying to kill you?"
"Same people who killed Rosenberg and Jensen, and Thomas Callahan."
"Do you know their names?"
"No, but I've seen at least four of them since Wednesday. They're here in New Orleans, snooping around, hoping I'll do something stupid and they can kill me."
"How many people know about the pelican brief?"
"Good question. Callahan took it to the FBI, and I think from there it went to the White House where it evidently caused quite a fuss, and from there who knows. Two days after he handed it to the FBI, Callahan was dead. I, of course, was supposed to have been killed with him."
"Were you with him?"
"I was close, but not close enough."
"So you're the unidentified female on the scene?"
"That's how the paper described me."
"Then the police have your name?"
"My name is Darby Shaw. I am a second-year law student at Tulane. Thomas Callahan was my professor and lover. I wrote the brief, gave it to him, and you know the rest. Are you getting all this?"
Grantham scribbled furiously. "Yes. I'm listening."
"I'm rather tired of the French Quarter, and I plan to leave today. I'll call you from somewhere tomorrow. Do you have access to presidential campaign disclosure forms?"
"It's public record."
"I know that. But how quickly can you get the information?"
"What information?"
"A list of all major contributors to the President's last election."
"That's not difficult. I can have it by this afternoon."
"Do that, and I'll call you in the morning."
"Okay. Do you have a copy of the brief?"
She hesitated. "No, but it's memorized."
"And you know who's doing the killing?"
"Yes, and as soon as I tell you, they'll put your name on the hit list."
"Tell me now."
"Let's take it slow. I'll call you tomorrow."
Grantham listened hard, then hung up. He took his notepad and zigzagged through the maze of desks and people to the glass office of his editor, Smith Keen. Keen was a hale and hearty type with an open-door policy that ensured chaos in his office. He was finishing a phone chat when Grantham barged in and closed the door.
"That door stays open," Keen said sharply.
"We have to talk, Smith."
"We'll talk with the door open. Open the damned door."
"I'll open it in just a second." Grantham spoke with both palms facing the editor. Yes, it was serious. "Let's talk."
"Okay. What is it?"
"It's big, Smith."
"I know it's big. You shut the damned door, so I know it's big."
"I just finished my second phone conversation with a young lady by the name of Darby Shaw, and she knows who killed Rosenberg and Jensen."
Keen sat slowly and glared at Grantham. "Yes, son, that's big. But how do you know? How does she know? What can you prove?"
"I don't have a story yet, Smith, but she's talking to me. Read this." Grantham handed over a copy of the newspaper account of Callahan's death. Keen read it slowly.
"Okay. Who's Callahan?"
"One week ago today, he handed a little paper known as the pelican brief to the FBI here in town. Evidently, the brief implicates an obscure person in the killings. The brief gets passed around, then sent to the White House, then beyond that no one knows. Two days later, Callahan cranks his Porsche for the last time. Darby Shaw claims to be the unidentified female mentioned there. She was with Callahan, and was supposed to die with him."
"Why was she supposed to die?"
"She wrote the brief, Smith. Or she claims she did."
Keen sank deeper into his seat and placed his feet on the desk. He studied the photo of Callahan. "Where's the brief?"
"I don't know."
"What's in it?"
"Don't know that either."
"Then we don't have anything, do we?"
"Not yet. But what if she tells me everything that's in it?"
"And when will she do this?"
Grantham hesitated. "Soon, I think. Real soon."
Keen shook his head and threw the copy on the desk. "If we had the brief, we'd have a helluva story, Gray, but we couldn't run it. There's gotta be some heavy, painful, flawless, and accurate verification before we can run it."
"But I've got the green light?"
"Yeah, but you keep me posted every hour. Don't write a word until we talk."
Grantham smiled and opened the door.
This was not forty-bucks-an-hour work. Not even thirty, or twenty. Croft knew he'd be lucky to squeeze fifteen out of Grantham for this needle-in-the-haystack Mickey Mouse crap. If he'd had other work, he'd have told Grantham to find someone else, or better yet, do it himself.
But things had been slow, and he could do a lot worse than fifteen bucks an hour. He finished a joint in the last stall, flushed it, and opened the door. He stuck the dark sunglasses over his ears, and entered the hallway that led to the atrium where four escalators carried a thousand lawyers up to their little rooms, where they would spend the day bitching and threatening by the hour. He had Garcia's face memorized. He was even dreaming of this kid with the bright face and good looks, the slim physique draped with an expensive suit. He would know him if he saw him.
He stood by a pillar, holding a newspaper and trying to watch everyone from behind the dark shades. Lawyers everywhere, scurrying upward with their smug little faces and carrying their smug little attache cases. Man, how he hated lawyers. Why did they all dress alike? Dark suits. Dark shoes. Dark faces. An occasional nonconformist with a daring little bow tie. Where did they all come from? Shortly after his arrest with the drugs, the first lawyers had been a group of angry mouthpieces hired by the Post. Then he hired his own, an overpriced moron who couldn't find the courtroom. Then, the prosecutor was of course a lawyer. Lawyers, lawyers.
Two hours in the morning, two hours at lunch, two hours during the evening, and then Grantham would have another building for him to patrol. Ninety bucks a day was cheap, and he would give this up as soon as he got a better deal. He told Grantham this was hopeless, just shooting in the dark. Grantham agreed, but said to keep shooting. It's all they could do. He said Garcia was scared and wouldn't call anymore. They had to find him.
In his pocket he had two photos just in case, and from the directory he had made a list of the firms in the building. It was a long list. The building had twelve floors filled mainly with firms filled with nothing but these fancy little esquires. He was in a den of snakes.
By nine-thirty the rush was over, and some of the faces looked familiar coming back down the escalators, headed no doubt for the courtrooms and agencies and commissions. Croft eased through the revolving doors, and wiped his feet on the sidewalk.
Four blocks away, Fletcher Coal paced in front of the President's desk and listened intently to the phone in his ear. He frowned, then closed his eyes, then glared at the President as if to say, "Bad news, Chief. Really bad news." The President held a letter and peered at Coal over his reading glasses. Coal's pacing back and forth like Der Fuhrer really irritated him, and he made a mental note to say something about it.
Coal slammed the phone down.
"Don't slam the damned phones!" the President said.
Coal was unfazed. "Sorry. That was Zikman. Gray Grantham called thirty minutes ago, and asked if he had any knowledge of the pelican brief."
"Wonderful. Fabulous. How'd he get a copy of it?"
Coal was still pacing. "Zikman knows nothing about it, so his ignorance was genuine."
"His ignorance is always genuine. He's the dumbest ass on my staff, Fletcher, and I want him gone."
"Whatever." Coal sat in a chair across the desk and folded his hands in a little steeple in front of his chin. He was very deep in thought, and the President tried to ignore him. They thought for a moment.
"Voyles leaked it?" the President finally said.
"Maybe, if it was leaked. Grantham is known for bluffing. We can't be certain he's seen the brief. Maybe he heard about it, and he's fishing."
"Maybe, my ass. What if they run some crazy story about that damned thing? What then?" The President slapped his desk and bolted to his feet. "What then, Fletcher? That paper hates me!" He moped to the windows.
"They can't run it without another source, and there can't be another source because there's no truth to it. It's a wild idea that's gone much further than it deserves."
The President sulked for a while and stared through the glass. "How did Grantham find out about it?"
