The Pelican said she was at a pay phone, so don't bother.
"I'm still digging," he said. "If there's such a brief in town, it's being closely protected."
"I assure you it's there, and I understand why it's being protected."
"I'm sure you can tell me more."
"Lots more. The brief almost got me killed yesterday, so I may be ready to talk sooner than I thought. I need to spill my guts while I'm still alive."
"Who's trying to kill you?"
"Same people who killed Rosenberg and Jensen, and Thomas Callahan."
"Do you know their names?"
"No, but I've seen at least four of them since Wednesday. They're here in New Orleans, snooping around, hoping I'll do something stupid and they can kill me."
"How many people know about the pelican brief?"
"Good question. Callahan took it to the FBI, and I think from there it went to the White House where it evidently caused quite a fuss, and from there who knows. Two days after he handed it to the FBI, Callahan was dead. I, of course, was supposed to have been killed with him."
"Were you with him?"
"I was close, but not close enough."
"So you're the unidentified female on the scene?"
"That's how the paper described me."
"Then the police have your name?"
"My name is Darby Shaw. I am a second-year law student at Tulane. Thomas Callahan was my professor and lover. I wrote the brief, gave it to him, and you know the rest. Are you getting all this?"
Grantham scribbled furiously. "Yes. I'm listening."
"I'm rather tired of the French Quarter, and I plan to leave today. I'll call you from somewhere tomorrow. Do you have access to presidential campaign disclosure forms?"
"It's public record."
"I know that. But how quickly can you get the information?"
"What information?"
"A list of all major contributors to the President's last election."
"That's not difficult. I can have it by this afternoon."
"Do that, and I'll call you in the morning."
"Okay. Do you have a copy of the brief?"
She hesitated. "No, but it's memorized."
"And you know who's doing the killing?"
"Yes, and as soon as I tell you, they'll put your name on the hit list."
"Tell me now."
"Let's take it slow. I'll call you tomorrow."
Grantham listened hard, then hung up. He took his notepad and zigzagged through the maze of desks and people to the glass office of his editor, Smith Keen. Keen was a hale and hearty type with an open-door policy that ensured chaos in his office. He was finishing a phone chat when Grantham barged in and closed the door.
"That door stays open," Keen said sharply.
"We have to talk, Smith."
"We'll talk with the door open. Open the damned door."
"I'll open it in just a second." Grantham spoke with both palms facing the editor. Yes, it was serious. "Let's talk."
"Okay. What is it?"
"It's big, Smith."
"I know it's big. You shut the damned door, so I know it's big."
"I just finished my second phone conversation with a young lady by the name of Darby Shaw, and she knows who killed Rosenberg and Jensen."
Keen sat slowly and glared at Grantham. "Yes, son, that's big. But how do you know? How does she know? What can you prove?"
"I don't have a story yet, Smith, but she's talking to me. Read this." Grantham handed over a copy of the newspaper account of Callahan's death. Keen read it slowly.
"Okay. Who's Callahan?"
"One week ago today, he handed a little paper known as the pelican brief to the FBI here in town. Evidently, the brief implicates an obscure person in the killings. The brief gets passed around, then sent to the White House, then beyond that no one knows. Two days later, Callahan cranks his Porsche for the last time. Darby Shaw claims to be the unidentified female mentioned there. She was with Callahan, and was supposed to die with him."
"Why was she supposed to die?"
"She wrote the brief, Smith. Or she claims she did."
Keen sank deeper into his seat and placed his feet on the desk. He studied the photo of Callahan. "Where's the brief?"
"I don't know."
"What's in it?"
"Don't know that either."
"Then we don't have anything, do we?"
"Not yet. But what if she tells me everything that's in it?"
"And when will she do this?"
Grantham hesitated. "Soon, I think. Real soon."
Keen shook his head and threw the copy on the desk. "If we had the brief, we'd have a helluva story, Gray, but we couldn't run it. There's gotta be some heavy, painful, flawless, and accurate verification before we can run it."
"But I've got the green light?"
"Yeah, but you keep me posted every hour. Don't write a word until we talk."
Grantham smiled and opened the door.
This was not forty-bucks-an-hour work. Not even thirty, or twenty. Croft knew he'd be lucky to squeeze fifteen out of Grantham for this needle-in-the-haystack Mickey Mouse crap. If he'd had other work, he'd have told Grantham to find someone else, or better yet, do it himself.
But things had been slow, and he could do a lot worse than fifteen bucks an hour. He finished a joint in the last stall, flushed it, and opened the door. He stuck the dark sunglasses over his ears, and entered the hallway that led to the atrium where four escalators carried a thousand lawyers up to their little rooms, where they would spend the day bitching and threatening by the hour. He had Garcia's face memorized. He was even dreaming of this kid with the bright face and good looks, the slim physique draped with an expensive suit. He would know him if he saw him.
He stood by a pillar, holding a newspaper and trying to watch everyone from behind the dark shades. Lawyers everywhere, scurrying upward with their smug little faces and carrying their smug little attache cases. Man, how he hated lawyers. Why did they all dress alike? Dark suits. Dark shoes. Dark faces. An occasional nonconformist with a daring little bow tie. Where did they all come from? Shortly after his arrest with the drugs, the first lawyers had been a group of angry mouthpieces hired by the Post. Then he hired his own, an overpriced moron who couldn't find the courtroom. Then, the prosecutor was of course a lawyer. Lawyers, lawyers.
Two hours in the morning, two hours at lunch, two hours during the evening, and then Grantham would have another building for him to patrol. Ninety bucks a day was cheap, and he would give this up as soon as he got a better deal. He told Grantham this was hopeless, just shooting in the dark. Grantham agreed, but said to keep shooting. It's all they could do. He said Garcia was scared and wouldn't call anymore. They had to find him.
In his pocket he had two photos just in case, and from the directory he had made a list of the firms in the building. It was a long list. The building had twelve floors filled mainly with firms filled with nothing but these fancy little esquires. He was in a den of snakes.
By nine-thirty the rush was over, and some of the faces looked familiar coming back down the escalators, headed no doubt for the courtrooms and agencies and commissions. Croft eased through the revolving doors, and wiped his feet on the sidewalk.
Four blocks away, Fletcher Coal paced in front of the President's desk and listened intently to the phone in his ear. He frowned, then closed his eyes, then glared at the President as if to say, "Bad news, Chief. Really bad news." The President held a letter and peered at Coal over his reading glasses. Coal's pacing back and forth like Der Fuhrer really irritated him, and he made a mental note to say something about it.