"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.