This was getting old. Starting with Romey, he'd met enough strangers in the past twenty-four hours to last for months.
He was certain he'd never seen this guy before. "Who are you?" he asked cautiously.
"Slick Moeller, with the Memphis Press, you know, the newspaper. You're Mark Sway, aren't you?" "How'd you know?" "I'm a reporter. I'm supposed to know these things. How's your brother?" "He's doing great. Why do you want to know?" "Working on a story about the suicide and all, and your name keeps coming up. Cops say you know more than you're telling." "When's it gonna be in the paper?" "I don't know. Tomorrow maybe." Mark felt weak again, and stopped looking at him. "I'm not answering any questions." "That's fine." The elevator door suddenly opened and a swarm of people entered. Mark could no longer see the reporter. Seconds later it stopped on the fifth floor, and Mark darted out between two doctors... He hit the stairs and walked quickly to the sixth floor.
He'd lost the reporter. He sat on the steps in the empty stairwell, and began to cry.
FOLTRIGG, MCTHUNE, AND TRUMANN ARRIVED IN THE small but tasteful reception area of Reggie Love, Attor-ney-at-Law, at exactly 3 P. M., the appointed hour. They were met by Glint, who asked them to be seated, then offered coffee or tea, all of which they stiffly declined. Foltrigg informed Glint right properly that he was the United States Attorney for the Southern District of Louisiana, New Orleans, and that he was now present in this office and did not expect to wait. It was a mistake.
He waited for forty-five minutes. While the agents flipped through magazines on the sofa, Foltrigg paced the floor, glanced at his watch, fumed, scowled at Glint, even barked at him twice and each time was informed Reggie was on the phone with an important matter. As if Foltrigg was there for an unimportant matter. He wanted to leave so badly. But he couldn't. For one of the rare times in his life he had to absorb a subtle ass-kicking without a fight.
Finally, Glint asked them to follow him to a small conference room lined with shelves of heavy law books. Glint instructed them to be seated, and explained that Reggie would be right with them.
"She's forty-five minutes late," Foltrigg protested.
"That's quite early for Reggie, sir," Glint said with a smile as he closed the door. Foltrigg sat at one end of the table with an agent close to each side. They waited.
"Look, Roy," Trumann said with hesitation, "you need to be careful with this gal. She might be taping this." "What makes you think so?" "Well, uh, you just never-" "These Memphis lawyers do a lot of taping," Mc-Thune added helpfully. "I don't know about New Orleans, but it's pretty bad up here." "She has to tell us up front if she's taping, doesn't she?" Foltrigg asked, obviously without a clue.
"Don't bet on it," said Trumann. "Just be careful, okay." The door opened and Reggie entered, forty-eight minutes late. "Keep your seats," she said as Glint closed the door behind her. She offered a hand to Foltrigg, who was half-standing. "Reggie Love, you must be Roy Foltrigg." "I am. Nice to meet you." "Please be seated." She smiled at McThune and Trumann, and for a brief second all three of them thought about the tape. "Sorry I'm late," she said as she sat alone at her end of the conference table. They were eight feet away, huddled together like wet ducks.
"No problem," Foltrigg said loudly as if it was very much a problem.
She pulled a large tape recorder from a hidden drawer in the table and set it in front of her. "Mind if I tape this little conference?" she asked as she plugged in the microphone. The little conference would be taped whether they liked it or not. "I'll be happy to provide you with a copy of the tape." "Fine with me," Foltrigg said, pretending he had a choice.
McThune and Trumann stared at the tape recorder. How nice of her to ask! She smiled at the two of them as they smiled at her, then all three smiled at the recorder. She was as subtle as a rock through a window. The damnable micro-cassette could not be far away.
She pushed a button. "Now, what's up?" "Where's your client?" Foltrigg asked. He leaned forward and it was clear he would do all the talking.
"At the hospital. The doctor wants him to stay in the room near his brother." "When can we talk to him?" "You're assuming that you will in fact talk to him." She looked at Foltrigg with very confident eyes.
Her hair was gray and cut like a boy's. The face was quite colorful. The eyebrows were dark. The lips were soft red and meticulously painted. The skin was smooth and free of heavy makeup. It was a pretty face, with bangs, and eyes that glowed with a calm steadiness. Fol-trigg looked at her, and thought of all the misery and suffering she'd seen. She covered it well.
McThune opened a file and flipped through it. In the past two hours they had assembled a two-inch-thick dossier on Reggie Love, aka Regina L. Cardoni. They had copied the divorce papers and commitment proceedings from the clerk's office in the county courthouse. The mortgage papers and land records on her mother's home were in the folder. Two Memphis agents were attempting to obtain her law school transcripts.
Foltrigg loved the trash. Whatever the case and whoever the opponent, Foltrigg always wanted the dirt. McThune read the sordid legal history of the divorce with its allegations of adultery and alcohol and dope and unfitness and, ultimately, the attempted suicide. He read it carefully, though, without being seen. He did not, under any circumstances, want to make this woman angry.
"We need to talk to your client, Ms. Love." "It's Reggie. Okay, Roy?" "Whatever. We think he knows something, plain and simple." "Such as?" "Well, we're convinced little Mark was in the car with Jerome Clifford prior to his death. We think he spent more than a few seconds with him. Clifford was obviously planning to kill himself, and we have reason to believe he wanted to tell someone where his client, Mr. Muldanno, had disposed of the body of Senator Boyette." "What makes you think he wanted to tell?" "It's a long story, but he had contacted an assistant in my office on two occasions and hinted that he might be willing to cut some deal and get out. He was scared. And he was drinking a lot. Very erratic behavior. He was sliding off the deep end, and wanted to talk." "Why do you think he talked to my client?" "There's just a chance, okay. And we must look under every stone. Surely you understand." "I sense a bit of desperation." "A lot of desperation, Reggie. I'm leveling with you. We know who killed the senator, but, frankly, I'm not ready for trial without a corpse." He paused and smiled warmly at her. Despite his many obnoxious flaws, Roy had spent hours before juries and he knew how and when to act sincere.
And she'd spent many hours in therapy, and she could spot a fake. "I'm not telling you that you cannot talk to Mark Sway. You cannot talk to him today, but maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next day. Things are moving fast. Mr. Clifford's body is still warm. Let's slow down a bit, and take it one step at a. time. Okay?" "Okay." "Now, convince me Mark Sway was in the car with Jerome Clifford prior to the shooting." No problem. Foltrigg looked at a notepad, and reeled off the many places where fingerprints were matched. Rear taillights, trunk, front passenger door handle and lock switch, dash, gun, bottle of Jack Daniel's. There was a tentative match on the hose, but it was not definite. They were working on it. Foltrigg was the prosecutor now, building a case with indisputable evidence......