"Then it's sleazy as hell."
"Okay. It's sleazy as hell. But I did it, and there it is, and it could be our link to Mattiece."
"Our link?"
"Yes, our link. I thought you wanted to nail Mattiece."
"Did I say that? I want him to pay, but I'd rather leave him alone. He's made a believer out of me, Gray. I've seen enough blood to last me a long time. You take this ball and run with it."
He didn't hear this. He walked behind her to the window, then back to the bar. "You mentioned two firms. What's the other?"
"Brim, Stearns, and somebody. I didn't get a chance to check them out. It's sort of odd because neither firm is listed as counsel of record for any of the defendants, but both firms, especially White and Blazevich, kept popping up as I went through the file."
"How big is Brim, Stearns, and somebody?"
"I can find out tomorrow."
"As big as White and Blazevich?"
"I doubt it."
"Just guess. How big?"
"Two hundred lawyers."
"Okay. Now we're up to six hundred lawyers in two firms. You're the lawyer, Darby. How can we find Garcia?"
"I'm not a lawyer, and I'm not a private detective. You're the investigative reporter." She didn't like this "we" business.
"Yeah, but I've never been in a law office, except for the divorce."
"Then you're very fortunate."
"How can we find him?"
She was yawning again. They had been talking for almost three hours, and she was exhausted. This could resume in the morning. "I don't know how to find him, and I really haven't given it much thought. I'll sleep on it, and explain it to you in the morning."
Grantham was suddenly calm. She stood and walked to the bar for a glass of water.
"I'll get my things," he said, picking up the tapes.
"Would you do me a favor?" she asked.
"Maybe."
She paused and looked at the sofa. "Would you mind sleeping on the sofa tonight? I mean, I haven't slept well in a long time, and I need the rest. It would, well, it would be nice if I knew you were in here."
He swallowed hard, and looked at the sofa. They both looked at the sofa. It was a five-footer at most, and did not appear to be the least bit comfortable.
"Sure," he said, smiling at her. "I understand."
"I'm spooked, okay?"
"I understand."
"It's nice to have someone like you around." She smiled demurely, and Gray melted.
"I don't mind," he said. "No problem."
"Thanks."
"Lock the door, get in the bed, and sleep well. I'll be right here, and everything's all right."
"Thanks." She nodded and smiled again, then closed the door to her bedroom. He listened, and she did not lock it.
He sat on the sofa in the darkness, watching her door. Some time after midnight, he dozed and slept with his knees not far from his chin.
Her boss was Jackson Feldman, and he was the executive editor, and this was her turf, and she didn't take any crap off anyone but Mr. Feldman. Especially an insolent brat like Gray Grantham, who was standing in front of Mr. Feldman's door, guarding it like a Doberman. She glared at him, and he sneered at her, and this had been going on for ten minutes, ever since they huddled in there and closed the door. Why Grantham was waiting outside, she did not know. But this was her turf.
Her phone rang, and Grantham yelled at her. "No calls!"
Her face was instantly red, and her mouth flew open. She picked up the receiver, listened for a second, then said, "I'm sorry, but Mr. Feldman is in a meeting." She glared at Grantham, who was shaking his head as if to dare her. "Yes, I'll have him call you back as soon as possible." She hung up.
"Thanks!" Grantham said, and this threw her off guard. She was about to say something nasty, but with the "Thanks" her mind went blank. He smiled at her. And it made her even madder.
It was five-thirty, time for her to leave, but Mr. Feldman asked her to stay. He was still smirking at her over there by the door, not ten feet away. She had never liked Gray Grantham. But then, there weren't too many people at the Post she did like. A news aide approached and appeared headed for the door when the Doberman stepped in front of him. "Sorry, you can't go in right now," Grantham said.
"And why not?"
"They're in a meeting. Leave it with her." He pointed at the secretary, who despised being pointed at and despised being referred to simply as "her." She had been here for twenty-one years.
The news aide was not easily intimidated. "That's fine. But Mr. Feldman instructed me to have these papers here at precisely five-thirty. It's precisely five-thirty, here I am, and here are the papers."
"Look, we're real proud of you. But you can't go in, understand? Now just leave the papers with that nice lady over there, and the sun will come up tomorrow." Grantham moved squarely in front of the door, and appeared ready for combat if the kid insisted.
"I'll take those," the secretary said. She took them, and the news aide left.
"Thanks!" Grantham said loudly again.
"I find you to be very rude," she snapped.
"I said 'Thanks.'" He tried to look hurt.
"You're a real smartass."
"Thanks!"
The door suddenly opened, and a voice called out, "Grantham."
He smiled at her, and stepped inside. Jackson Feldman was standing behind his desk. The tie was down to the second button and the sleeves were rolled to the elbows. He was six-six, with no fat. At fifty-eight, he ran two marathons a year and worked fifteen hours a day.
Smith Keen was also standing, and holding the four-page outline of a story along with a copy of Darby's handwritten reproduction of the pelican brief. Feldman's copy was lying on the desk. They appeared dazed.
"Close the door," Feldman said to Grantham.
Gray closed the door and sat on the edge of a table. No one spoke.
Feldman rubbed his eyes roughly, then looked at Keen. "Wow," he finally said.
Gray smiled. "You mean that's it. I hand you the biggest story in twenty years, and you are so moved you say 'Wow.'"
"Where's Darby Shaw?" Keen asked.
"I can't tell you. It's part of the deal."
"What deal?" Keen asked.
"I can't tell you that either."
"When did you talk to her?"
"Last night, and again this morning."
"And this was in New York?" Keen asked.
"What difference does it make where we talked? We talked, okay? She talked. I listened. I flew home. I wrote the outline. So what do you think?"
Feldman slowly folded his thin frame and sat deep in his chair. "How much does the White House know?"
"Not sure. Verheek told Darby that it was delivered to the White House one day last week, and at the time the FBI thought it should be pursued. Then for some reason, after the White House had it, the FBI backed off. That's all I know."
"How much did Mattiece give the President three years ago?"
"Millions. Virtually all of it through a myriad of PACs that he controls. This guy is very smart. He's got all kinds of lawyers, and they figure out ways to funnel money here and there. It's probably legal."
The editors were thinking slowly. They were stunned, as if they'd just survived a bomb blast. Grantham was quite proud, and swung his feet under the table like a kid on a pier.
Feldman slowly picked up the papers clipped together and flipped through until he found the photograph of Mattiece and the President. He shook his head.
"It's dynamite, Gray," Keen said. "We just can't run without a bunch of corroboration. Hell, you're talking about the world's greatest job of verifying. This is powerful stuff, son."
"How can you do it?" Feldman asked.
"I've got some ideas."
"I'd like to hear them. You could get yourself killed with this."
Grantham jumped to his feet, and stuck his hands in his pockets. "First, we'll try to find Garcia."
"We? Who's we?" Keen asked.
"Me, okay? Me. I'll try to find Garcia."
"Is the girl in on this?" Keen asked.
"I can't answer that. It's part of the deal."
"Answer the question," Feldman said. "Look at where we are if she gets killed helping you with the story. It's much too risky. Now where is she and what have you guys got planned?"
"I'm not telling where she is. She's a source, and I always protect my sources. No, she's not helping with the investigation. She's just a source, okay?"
They stared at him in disbelief. They looked at each other, and finally Keen shrugged.
"Do you want some help?" Feldman asked.
"No. She insists on me doing it alone. She's very scared, and you can't blame her."
"I got scared just reading the damned thing," Keen said.
Feldman kicked back in his chair and crossed his feet on the desk. Size fourteens. He smiled for the first time. "You've got to start with Garcia. If he can't be found, then you could dig for months on Mattiece and not put it together. And before you start digging on Mattiece, let's have a long talk. I sort of like you, Grantham, and this is not worth getting killed over."
"I see every word you write, okay?" Keen said.
"And I want a daily report, okay?" Feldman said.
"No problem."
Keen walked to the glass wall and watched the madness in the newsroom. In the course of each day, the chaos came and went a half a dozen times. Things got crazy at five-thirty. The news was being written, and the second story conference was at six-thirty.
Feldman watched from his desk. "This could be the end of the slump," he said to Gray without looking at him. "What's it been, five, six years?"
"Try seven," Keen said.
"I've written some good stories," Gray said defensively.
"Sure," Feldman said, still watching the newsroom. "But you've been hitting doubles and triples. The last grand slam was a long time ago."
"There have been a lot of strikeouts too," Keen added helpfully.
"Happens to all of us," Gray said. "But this grand slam will be in the seventh game of the World Series." He opened the door.
Feldman glared at him. "Don't get hurt, and don't allow her to get hurt. Understand?"
Gray smiled and left the office.
He was almost to Thomas Circle when he saw the blue lights behind him. The cop did not pass, but stayed on his bumper. He was oblivious to both the speed limit and his speedometer. It would be his third ticket in sixteen months.
He parked in a small lot next to an apartment house. It was dark, and the blue lights flashed in his mirrors. He rubbed his temples.
"Step out," the cop demanded from the bumper.
Gray opened the door and did what he was told. The cop was black, and was suddenly smiling. It was Cleve. He pointed to the patrol car. "Get in."
They sat in the car under the blue lights and stared at the Volvo. "Why do you do this to me?" Gray asked.
"We have quotas, Grantham. We have to stop so many white people and harass them. Chief wants to even things out. The white cops pick on innocent poor black folks, so us black cops have to pick on innocent rich white folks."
"I suppose you're gonna handcuff me and beat the hell out of me."
"Only if you ask me to. Sarge can't talk anymore."
"I'm listening."
"He smells something around the place. He's caught a few strange looks, and he's heard a thing or two."
"Such as?"
"Such as they're talking about you, and how much they need to know what you know. He thinks they might be listening."
"Come on, Cleve. Is he serious?"
"He's heard them talk about you and how you're asking questions about the pelican something or other. You've got 'em shook up."
"What has he heard about this pelican thing?"
"Just that you're hot on it, and they're serious about it. These are mean and paranoid people, Gray. Sarge says to be careful where you go and who you talk to."
"And we can't meet anymore?"
"Not for a while. He wants to lay low, and run things through me."
"We'll do that. I need his help, but tell him to be careful. This is very touchy."
"What is this pelican business?"
"I can't say. But tell Sarge it could get him killed."
"Not Sarge. He's smarter than all of them over there."
Gray opened the door and got out. "Thanks, Cleve."
He turned off the blue lights. "I'll be around. I'm working nights for the next six months, so I'll try and keep an eye on you."
"Thanks."
Rupert paid for his cinnamon roll and sat on a bar stool overlooking the sidewalk. It was midnight, exactly midnight, and Georgetown was winding down. A few cars sped along M Street, and the remaining pedestrians headed for home. The coffee shop was busy, but not crowded. He sipped black coffee.
He recognized the face on the sidewalk, and moments later the man was sitting on the next bar stool. He was a flunkie of some sort. They had met a few days ago in New Orleans.
"So what's the score?" Rupert asked.
"We can't find her. And that worries us because we got some bad news today."
"And?"
"Well, we heard voices, unconfirmed, that the bad guys have freaked out, and that the number one bad guy wants to start killing everybody. Money is no object, and these voices tell us he'll spend whatever it takes to snuff this thing out. He's sending in big boys with big guns. Of course, they say he's deranged, but he's mean as hell and money can kill a lot of people."
This killing talk did not faze Rupert. "Who's on the list?"
"The girl. And I guess anyone else on the outside who happens to know about that little paper."
"So what's my plan?"
"Hang around. We'll meet here tomorrow night, same time. If we find the girl, it'll be your show."
"How do you plan to find her?"
"We think she's in New York. We have ways."
Rupert pulled off a piece of cinnamon roll and stuffed it in his mouth. "Where would you be?"
The messenger thought of a dozen places he might go, but, dammit, they were like Paris and Rome and Monte Carlo, places he'd seen and places everyone went to. He couldn't think of that one exotic spot where he would go and hide for the rest of his life. "I don't know. Where would you be?"
"New York City. You can live there for years and never be seen. You speak the language and know the rules. It's the perfect hiding place for an American."
"Yeah, I guess you're right. You think she's there?"
"I don't know. At times she's clever. Then she has bad moments."
The messenger was on his feet. "Tomorrow night," he said.
Rupert waved him off. What a goofy little twerp, he thought. Running around whispering important messages in coffee shops and beer joints. Then running back to his boss and reliving it all in vivid detail.
He threw the coffee cup in the trash and was on the sidewalk.
Brim, Stearns, and Kidlow had a hundred and ninety lawyers, according to the latest edition of the Martindale-Hubbell Legal Directory. And White and Blazevich had four hundred and twelve, so hopefully Garcia was only one of a possible six hundred and two. But if Mattiece used other D.C. firms, the number would be higher and they didn't have a chance.
As expected, White and Blazevich had no one named Garcia. Darby searched for another Hispanic name, but found none. It was one of those lily-white silk-stocking outfits filled with Ivy Leaguers with long names that ended in numerals. There were a few female names sprinkled about, but only two were partners. Most of the women had joined after 1980. If she lived long enough to finish law school, she would not consider working for a factory like White and Blazevich.
Grantham had suggested she check for Hispanics because Garcia was a bit unusual for an alias. Maybe the guy was Hispanic, and since Garcia is common for them, then maybe he just said it real quick. It didn't work. There were no Hispanics in this firm.
According to the directory, their clients were big and rich. Banks, Fortune 5005, and lots of oil companies. They listed four of the defendants in the lawsuit as clients, but not Mr. Mattiece. There were chemical companies and shipping lines, and White and Blazevich also represented the governments of South Korea, Libya, and Syria. Silly, she thought. Some of our enemies hire our lawyers to lobby our government. But then, you can hire lawyers to do anything.
Brim, Stearns, and Kidlow was a smaller version of White and Blazevich, but, gosh, there were four Hispanic names listed. She wrote them down. Two men and two women. She figured this firm must have been sued for race and sex discrimination. In the past ten years they had hired all kinds of people. The client list was predictable - oil and gas, insurance, banks, government relations. Pretty dull stuff.
She sat in a corner of the Fordham law library for an hour. It was Friday morning, ten in New York and nine in New Orleans, and instead of hiding in a library she'd never seen before, she was supposed to be sitting in Federal Procedure under Alleck, a professor she never liked but now missed sorely. Alice Stark would be sitting next to her. One of her favorite law nerds, D. Ronald Petrie, would be sitting behind her asking for a date and making lewd comments. She missed him too. She missed the quiet mornings on Thomas' balcony, sipping coffee and waiting for the French Quarter to shake its cobwebs and come to life. She missed the smell of cologne on his bathrobe.