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They did not suspect her to be in Washington. She was a smart girl who was running away from trouble, not to it. And they certainly didn't expect her to link up with the reporter. They had no idea, but now it seemed so logical. And it was worse than critical.
Fifteen thousand went from her account to his, and suddenly Sneller was back in business. He had two men with him. Another private jet was en route from Miami. He had asked for a dozen men immediately. It would be a quick job, or no job at all. There was not a second to spare.
Sneller was not hopeful. With Khamel on the team, everything seemed possible. He had killed Rosenberg and Jensen so cleanly, then disappeared without a trace. Now he was dead, shot in the head because of one little innocent female law student.
The Morgan house was in a neat suburb in Alexandria. The neighborhood was young and affluent, with bikes and tricycles in every yard.
Three cars were parked in the drive. One had Ohio plates. Gray rang the doorbell and watched the street. Nothing suspicious.
An older man opened the door slightly. "Yes," he said softly.
"I'm Gray Grantham with the Washington Post, and this is my assistant, Sara Jacobs." Darby forced a smile. "We would like to speak with Mrs. Morgan."
"I don't think so."
"Please. It's very important."
He looked at them carefully. "Wait a minute." He closed the door and disappeared.
The house had a narrow wooden porch with a small veranda over it. They were in the darkness and could not be seen from the street. A car passed slowly.
He opened the door again. "I'm Tom Kupcheck, her father, and she doesn't want to talk."
Gray nodded as if this was understandable. "We won't be five minutes. I promise."
He walked onto the porch and closed the door behind him. "I guess you're hard of hearing. I said she doesn't want to talk."
"I heard you, Mr. Kupcheck. And I respect her privacy, and I know what she's been through."
"Since when do you guys respect anyone's privacy?"
Evidently, Mr. Kupcheck had a short fuse. It was about to blow.
Gray kept calm. Darby backed away. She'd been involved in enough altercations for one day.
"Her husband called me three times before he died. I talked to him on the phone, and I don't believe his death was a random killing by street punks."
"He's dead. My daughter is upset. She doesn't want to talk. Now get the hell out of here."
"Mr. Kupcheck," Darby said warmly. "We have reason to believe your son-in-law was a witness to some highly organized criminal activity."
This calmed him a bit, and he glared at Darby. "Is that so? Well, you can't ask him about it, can you? My daughter knows nothing. She's had a bad day and she's on medication. Now leave."
"Can we see her tomorrow?" Darby asked.
"I doubt it. Call first."
Gray handed him a business card. "If she wants to talk, use the number on the back. I'm staying at a hotel. I'll call around noon tomorrow."
"You do that. For now, just leave. You've already upset her."
"We're sorry," Gray said, as they walked off the porch. Mr. Kupcheck opened the door but watched them as they left. Gray stopped, and turned to him. "Has any other reporter called or stopped by?"
"A bunch of them called the day after he was killed. They wanted all sorts of stuff. Rude people."
"But none in the past few days?"
"No. Now leave."
"Any from the New York Times?"
"No." He stepped inside and slammed the door.
They hurried to the car parked four doors down. There was no traffic on the street. Gray zigzagged through the short suburban streets, and crisscrossed his way out of the neighborhood. He watched the mirror until he was convinced they were not being followed.
"End of Garcia," Darby said as they entered 395 and headed for the city.
"Not yet. We'll make one final, dying gasp tomorrow, and maybe she'll talk to us."
"If she knew something, her father would know. And if her father knew, why wouldn't he cooperate? There's nothing there, Gray."
This made perfect sense. They rode in silence for a few minutes. Fatigue was setting in.
"We can be at the airport in fifteen minutes," he said. "I'll drop you off, and you can be out of here in thirty minutes. Take a plane anywhere, just vanish."
"I'll leave tomorrow. I need some rest, and I want to think about where to go. Thanks."
"Do you feel safe?"
"At this moment, yes. But it's subject to change in seconds."
"I'll be glad to sleep in your room tonight. Just like in New York."
"You didn't sleep in my room in New York. You slept on a sofa in the sitting room." She was smiling, and this was a good sign.
He was smiling too. "Okay. I'll sleep in the sitting room tonight."
"I don't have a sitting room."
"Well, well. Then where can I sleep?"
Suddenly, she was not smiling. She bit her lip and her eyes watered. He had pushed too far. It was Callahan again.
"I'm just not ready," she said.
"When might you be ready?"
"Gray, please. Just leave it alone."
She watched the traffic ahead and said nothing. "I'm sorry," he said.
Slowly, she lay down in the seat and placed her head in his lap. He gently rubbed her shoulder, and she clutched his hand. "I'm scared to death," she said quietly.
He had left her room around ten, after a bottle of wine and egg rolls. He had called Mason Paypur, the night police reporter for the Post, and asked him to check with his sources about the Morgan street killing. It had happened downtown in an area not noted for killings - just a few muggings and beatings.
He was tired and discouraged. And he was unhappy because she would leave tomorrow. The Post owed him six weeks of vacation, and he was tempted to leave with her. Mattiece could have his oil. But he was afraid he'd never come back, which wouldn't be the end of his world except for the troublesome fact that she had money and he didn't. They could skip along the beaches and frolic in the sun for about two months on his money, then it would be up to her. And, more importantly, she hadn't invited him to join in her getaway. She was grieving. When she mentioned Thomas Callahan, he could feel the pain.
He was now at the Jefferson Hotel on Sixteenth, pursuant, of course, to her instructions. He called Cleve at home.
"Where are you?" Cleve asked, irritated.
"A hotel. It's a long story. What's up?"
"They put Sarge on medical leave for ninety days."
"What's wrong with him?"
"Nothing. He says they want him out of the place for a while. It's like a bunker over there. Everybody's been told to shut up and speak to no one. They're scared to death. They made Sarge leave at noon today. He thinks you could be in serious danger. He's heard your name a thousand times in the past week. They're obsessed with you and how much you know."
"Who's they?"
"Coal, of course, and his aide Birchfield. They run the West Wing like the Gestapo. Sometimes they include, what's his name, the little squirrel with the bow tie? Domestic affairs?"
"Emmitt Waycross."
"That's him. It's mainly Coal and Birchfield making the threats and plotting strategy."
"What kind of threats?"
"No one in the White House, except for the President, can talk to the press on the record or off without Coal's approval. This includes the press secretary. Coal clears everything."
"That's incredible."
"They're terrified. And Sarge thinks they're dangerous."
"Okay. I'm hiding."
"I stopped by your apartment late last night. I wish you'd tell me when you disappear."
"I'll check in tomorrow night."
"What're you driving?"
"A rented Pontiac with four doors. Very sporty."
"I checked the Volvo this afternoon. It's fine."
"Thanks, Cleve."
"You okay?"
"I think so. Tell Sarge I'm fine."
"Call me tomorrow. I'm worried."
He slept four hours and was awake when the phone rang. It was dark outside, and would remain that way for at least two hours. He stared at the phone, and picked it up on the fifth ring.
"Hello," he said suspiciously.
