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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."
