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"Sex is the last thing on my mind."
"Then why'd you mention it?"
"Because I can feel you lusting after my red toenails."
"True."
"I've got a headache. A real, genuine, pounding headache."
"You've worked for it. Can I get you something?"
"Yes. A one-way ticket to Jamaica."
"You can leave tonight. I'll take you to the airport right now."
She removed the forearm from her eyes and gently massaged both temples. "I'm sorry I cried."
He finished the beer with a long drink. "You earned the right." She was in tears when she stepped off the elevator. He was waiting like an expectant father, except he had a .38 in his coat pocket - a .38 she knew nothing about.
"So what do you think of investigative reporting?" he asked.
"I'd rather butcher hogs."
"Well, in all honesty, not every day is this eventful. Some days I simply sit at my desk and make hundreds of phone calls to bureaucrats who have no comment."
"Sounds great. Let's do that tomorrow."
He kicked his shoes off and placed his feet on the bed. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Minutes passed without a word.
"Do you know that Louisiana is known as the Pelican State?" she asked with her eyes closed.
"No. I didn't know that."
"It's a shame really, because the brown pelicans were virtually wiped out the the early 1960's."
"What happened to them?"
"Pesticides. They eat nothing but fish, and the fish live in river water filled with chlorinated hydrocarbons from pesticides. The rains wash the pesticides from the soil into small streams which eventually empty into rivers which eventually empty into the Mississippi. By the time the pelicans in Louisiana eat the fish, they are loaded with DDT and other chemicals which accumulate in the fatty tissues of the birds. Death is seldom immediate, but in times of stress such as hunger or bad weather, the pelicans and eagles and cormorants are forced to draw upon their reserves, and can literally be poisoned by their own fat. If they don't die, they are usually unable to reproduce. Their eggs are so thin and fragile they crack during incubation. Did you know that?"
"Why would I know that?"
"In the late sixties, Louisiana began transplanting brown pelicans from southern Florida, and over the years the population has slowly increased. But the birds are still very much in danger. Forty years ago there were thousands of them. The cypress swamp that Mattiece wants to destroy is home to only a few dozen pelicans."
Gray pondered these things. She was silent for a long time.
"What day is it?" she asked without opening her eyes.
"Monday."
"I left New Orleans a week ago today. Thomas and Verheek had dinner two weeks ago today. That, of course, was the fateful moment when the pelican brief changed hands."
"Three weeks ago tomorrow, Rosenberg and Jensen were murdered."
"I was an innocent little law student minding my own business and having a wonderful love affair with my professor. I guess those days are gone."
Law school and the professor might be gone, he thought. "What're your plans?"
"I have none. I'm just trying to get out of this damned mess and stay alive. I'll run off somewhere and hide for a few months, maybe a few years. I've got enough money to live for a long time. If and when I reach the point when I'm not looking over my shoulder, I might come back."
"To law school?"
"I don't think so. The law has lost its allure."
"Why'd you want to be a lawyer?"
"Idealism, and money. I thought I could change the world and get paid for it."
"But there are so damned many lawyers already. Why do all these bright students keep flocking to law school?"
"Simple. It's greed. They want BMWs and gold credit cards. If you go to a good law school, finish in the top ten percent, and get a job with a big firm, you'll be earning six figures in a few short years, and it only goes up. It's guaranteed. At the age of thirty-five, you'll be a partner raking in at least two hundred thousand a year. Some earn much more."
"What about the other ninety percent?"
"It's not such a good deal for them. They get the leftovers."
"Most lawyers I know hate it. They'd rather be doing something else."
"But they can't leave it because of the money. Even a lousy lawyer in a small office can earn a hundred thousand a year after ten years of practice, and he may hate it, but where can he go and match the money?"
"I detest lawyers."
"And I guess you think reporters are adored."
Good point. Gray looked at his watch, then picked up the phone. He dialed Keen's number. Keen read him the obit, and the Post story about the senseless street killing of this young lawyer. Gray took notes.
"A couple of other things," Keen said. "Feldman is very concerned about your safety. He expected a briefing in his office today, and he was pissed when he didn't get one. Make sure you report to him before noon tomorrow. Understand?"
"I'll try."
"Do more than try, Gray. We're very nervous over here."
"The Times is sucking wind, isn't it?"
"I'm not worried about the Times right now. I'm much more concerned about you and the girl."
"We're fine. Everything's lovely. What else have you got?"
"You have three messages in the past two hours from a man named Cleve. Says he's a cop. Do you know him?"
"Yes."
"Well, he wants to talk tonight. Says it's urgent."
"I'll call him later."
"Okay. You guys be careful. We'll be here till late, so check in."
Gray hung up and looked at his notes. It was almost seven. "I'm going to see Mrs. Morgan. I want you to stay here."
She sat between the pillows and crossed her arms on her knees. "I'd rather go."
"What if they're watching the house?" he asked.
"Why would they watch the house? He's dead."
"Maybe they're suspicious now, because a mysterious client appeared today looking for him. Even though he's dead, he's attracting attention."
She thought about this for a minute. "No. I'm going."
"It's too risky, Darby."
"Don't talk to me about risks. I've survived in the minefields for twelve days. This is easy."
He waited on her by the door. "By the way, where am I staying tonight?"
"Jefferson Hotel."
"Do you have the phone number?"
"What do you think?"
"Dumb question."
The private jet with Edwin Sneller aboard landed at National in Washington a few minutes after seven. He was delighted to leave New York. He'd spent six days there bouncing off the walls in his suite at the Plaza. For almost a week, his men had checked hotels and watched airports and walked streets, and they knew damned well they were wasting their time, but orders were orders. They were told to stay there until something broke and they could move on. It was silly trying to find the girl in Manhattan, but they had to stay close in case she made a mistake like a phone call or a plastic transaction that could be traced, and suddenly they were needed.
She made no mistakes until two-thirty this afternoon when she needed money and went to the account. They knew this would happen, especially if she planned to leave the country and was afraid to use plastic. At some point, she would need cash, and she'd have to wire it since the bank was in New Orleans and she wasn't. Sneller's client owned eight percent of the bank - not a lot, but a nice little twelve-million-dollar holding that could make things happen. A few minutes after three, he'd received a call from Freeport.
