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"Not going to tell them, and maybe they won't find out. What do they know?"
"They know Mattiece."
Trope managed a slight smile at this thought. "Where is Mr. Mattiece?"
"Who knows? In the past three years, he's been seen little in this country. He owns at least a half-dozen homes in as many countries, and he's got jets and boats, so who knows?"
Trope finished the muffin and stuffed the wrapper in the sack. "The brief nailed him, didn't it?"
"It's beautiful. And if he'd played it cool, the brief would have been ignored. But he goes berserk, starts killing people, and the more he kills the more credibility the brief has."
Trope glanced at his watch. Too long already, but this was good stuff. "Voyles says we may need your help."
Booker nodded. "Done. But this will be a very difficult matter. First, the probable gunman is dead. Second, the probable bagman is very elusive. There was an elaborate conspiracy, but the conspirators are gone. We'll try to find Mattiece."
"And the girl?"
"Yes. We'll try."
"What's she thinking?"
"How to stay alive."
"Can't you bring her in?" Trope asked.
"No. We don't know where she is, and we can't just snatch innocent civilians off the streets. She doesn't trust anyone right now."
Trope stood with his coffee and sack. "I can't blame her." He was gone.
Grantham held a cloudy fax photo sent to him from Phoenix. She was a junior at Arizona State, a very attractive twenty-year-old coed. She was listed as a biology major from Denver. He had called twenty Shaws in Denver before he stopped. The second fax was sent by an AP stringer in New Orleans. It was a copy of her freshman photo at Tulane. The hair was longer. Somewhere in the middle of the yearbook, the stringer had found a photo of Darby Shaw drinking a Diet Coke at a law school picnic. She wore a baggy sweater with faded jeans that fit just right, and it was obvious the photo was placed in the yearbook by a great admirer of Darby's. It looked like something out of Vogue. She was laughing at something or someone at the picnic. The teeth were perfect and the face was warm. He had tacked this one onto the small corkboard beside his news desk.
There was a fourth fax, a photo of Thomas Callahan, just for the record.
He placed his feet on the desk. It was almost nine-thirty, Tuesday. The newsroom hummed and rocked like a well-organized riot. He'd made eighty phone calls in the last twenty-four hours, and had nothing to show but the four photos and a stack of campaign finance forms. He was getting nowhere, and, really, why bother? She was about to tell all.
He skimmed the Post, and saw the strange story about one Gavin Verheek and his demise. The phone rang. It was Darby.
"Seen the Post?" she asked.
"I write the Post, remember?"
She was not in the mood for small talk. "The story about the FBI lawyer murdered in New Orleans, have you seen it?"
"I'm just reading it. Does it mean something to you?"
"You could say that. Listen carefully, Grantham. Callahan gave the brief to Verheek, who was his best friend. Friday, Verheek came to New Orleans for the funeral. I talked to him by phone over the weekend. He wanted to help me, but I was scared. We agreed to meet yesterday at noon. Verheek was murdered in his room around eleven Sunday night. Got all that?"
"Yeah, I got it."
"Verheek didn't show for our meeting. He was, of course, dead by then. I got scared, and left the city. I'm in New York."
"Okay." Grantham wrote furiously. "Who killed Verheek?"
"I do not know. There's a lot more to the story. I've read the Post and the New York Times from front to back, and I've seen nothing about another killing in New Orleans. It happened to a man I was talking to and I thought was Verheek. It's a long story."
"Sounds like it. When do I get this long story?"
"When can you come to New York?"
"I can be there by noon."
"That's a little quick. Let's plan on tomorrow. I'll call you at this time tomorrow with instructions. You must be careful, Grantham."
He admired the jeans and the smile on the corkboard. "It's Gray, okay? Not Grantham."
"Whatever. There are some powerful people afraid of what I know. If I tell you, it could kill you. I've seen the bodies, okay, Gray? I've heard bombs and gunshots. I saw a man's brains yesterday, and I have no idea who he was or why he was killed, except that he knew about the pelican brief. I thought he was my friend. I trusted him with my life, and he was shot in the head in front of fifty people. As I watched him die, it occurred to me that perhaps he was not my friend. I read the paper this morning, and I realize he was definitely not my friend."
"Who killed him?"
"We'll talk about it when you get here."
"Okay, Darby."
"There's one small point to cover. I'll tell you everything I know, but you can never use my name. I've already written enough to get at least three people killed, and I'm quite confident I'll be next. But I don't want to ask for more trouble. I shall always be unidentified, okay, Gray?"
"It's a deal."
"I'm putting a lot of trust in you, and I'm not sure why. If I ever doubt you, I'll disappear."
"You have my word, Darby. I swear."
"I think you're making a mistake. This is not your average investigative job. This one could get you killed."
"By the same people who killed Rosenberg and Jensen?"
"Yes."
"Do you know who killed Rosenberg and Jensen?"
"I know who paid for the killings. I know his name. I know his business. I know his politics."
"And you'll tell me tomorrow?"
"If I'm still alive." There was a long pause as both thought of something appropriate.
"Perhaps we should talk immediately," he said.
"Perhaps. But I'll call you in the morning."
Grantham hung up, and for a moment admired the slightly blurred photo of this very beautiful law student who was convinced she was about to die. For a second he succumbed to thoughts of chivalry and gallantry and rescue. She was in her early twenties, liked older men, according to the photo of Callahan, and suddenly she trusted him to the exclusion of all others. He would make it work. And he would protect her.
The motorcade moved quietly out of downtown. He was due for a speech at College Park in an hour, and he relaxed in his limo with his jacket off, reading the words Mabry had put together. He shook his head and wrote in the margins. On a normal day, this would be a pleasant drive out of the city to a beautiful campus for a light little speech, but it wasn't working out. Coal was seated next to him in the limo.
The Chief of Staff routinely avoided these trips. He treasured the moments the President was out of the White House and he had the run of the place. But they needed to talk.
"I'm tired of Mabry's speeches," the President said in frustration. "They're all sounding the same. I swear I gave this one last week at the Rotary convention."
"He's the best we've got, but I'm exploring," Coal said without looking up from his memo. He'd read the speech, and it wasn't that bad. But Mabry had been writing for six months, and the ideas were stale and Coal wanted to fire him anyway.
The President glanced at Coal's memo. "What's that?"
"The short list."
"Who's left?"
"Siler-Spence, Watson, and Calderon." Coal flipped a page.
"That's just great, Fletcher. A woman, a black, and a Cuban. Whatever happened to white men? I thought I said I wanted young white men. Young, tough, conservative judges with impeccable credentials and years to live. Didn't I say that?"
Coal kept reading. "They have to be confirmed, Chief."
"We'll get 'em confirmed. I'll twist arms until they break, but they'll be confirmed. Do you realize that nine of every ten white men in this country voted for me?"
"Eighty-four percent."
"Right. So what's wrong with white men?"
"This is not exactly patronage."
"The hell it's not. It's patronage pure and simple. I reward my friends, and I punish my enemies. That's how you survive in politics. You dance with the ones that brought you. I can't believe you want a female and a black. You're getting soft, Fletcher."
