Death of a Political Plant (23 page)

L
OUISE MAY NOT HAVE BEEN AS
busy as Tom Paschen, but she, too, had her important jobs to do. She needed to get home and make a few phone calls, the most important one to Jay McCormick’s former newspaper. If Jay was back working as a reporter, the editor would know what Jay’s story was about. He might even have a duplicate disk or hard copy in hand.

It had been an interesting day, with
Tom Paschen alternately pleasant and provoking. She wondered if he had always been this way, or if his recent marital troubles had thrown him off stride. He reminded her of a wily but predatory animal: a fox, perhaps, gentle in protecting its own family, fierce in battling enemies.

And it was an eye-opener for Louise, especially that trip on the Capitol subway, where she had a chance to experience the heady atmosphere that surrounded Congress. First chance she had, she would share it with her husband.

As for the White House gardens, she only hoped she could make a return visit. Maybe the next time, however, she would bring Bill as chaperon. Louise found this feral quality in Tom to be quite attractive. Although a Harvard graduate, like Bill, and from Boston old money, Tom had lost that white-bread eastern intellectual image that sometimes still clung to her husband. Yet she hardly wanted to create a situation where Bill’s friend became sweet on her.

On the way home, she had taken out her pad and made a list of things to do, since the afternoon was still young. The key to Jay’s death must be the mysterious story on which he was working. Exactly what the story said, she didn’t know, but she needed to talk to everyone involved and pursue every single person who was interested in it. Tom Paschen had also given her a valuable lead into the Goodrich campaign. She was determined to do what she could to find Jay’s killer.

First, she poured herself a big glass of iced tea, and took the phone and pad onto the patio, sitting in one chair and propping her feet on the opposite one. She dialed Jay’s paper in Sacramento and she speeded the process of getting through to the editor, Al Kirkland, by telling the operator she might have knowledge about Jay’s death.

While she waited to be connected, she glanced around her
patio garden. The plants were perking along nicely, like happy little soldiers. They were making remarkable growth progress after the maraudings of little Sally. Her eye focused in and recorded a remaining bare spot. She’d have to fill that in with a clump of liriope.

It took a lot of talking to convince Kirkland that she was who she said she was. She ran through her credentials, including how she met Jay in graduate school at Georgetown in 1975. At last he believed her, and the suspicion in his voice disappeared.

“He spoke fondly of you, Louise,” said the editor. “But you understand I don’t immediately trust everyone who calls me about Jay. We’re not dealing with some minor affair here. This is a story with the dimensions of Watergate … well, I may be exaggerating a little, because it doesn’t involve constitutional issues, as Watergate did. Yet it’s going to be significant enough to ruin a presidential candidate—and the country’s top political consultant, too.”

She repressed a gasp. That packet of memos she had found in her toolshed was only a tiny clue: Jay must have gotten to the very heart of the matter.

The editor’s voice was dry and unsentimental, but she could tell it was a cover-up for some deeper feelings. “Now we’ve lost Jay, and I can tell you I’m sick about that. And we’ve also lost his damned story. The detective out your way, Geraghty, said Jay’s computer and all signs of his research are gone. No hard copy. Nothing.”

Louise’s heart sank. “Didn’t he ever send you anything?”

“No, that wasn’t Jay’s way of doing things. I knew the story concerned the campaign and named people like Rawlings and Upchurch—we got a good look at them when they were out here managing that fall senatorial race. That’s when Jay
first got a line on how they operated. When Rawlings went to Washington with Goodrich, he knew something like this was bound to happen in the presidential campaign. He became filled with righteous indignation, just as he used to when he was a young reporter. He asked to come on board again as a reporter. Of course, he wanted to keep an eye on his daughter out in D.C. anyway, so I rehired him and sent him there. He infiltrated, essentially burrowed right into the guts of Goodrich’s operation.”

“My God, that took nerve.”

“And under his own name, too: John McCormick. Of course, with us, his byline in the Sacramento Union was ‘Jay McCormick.’ Jay didn’t want to get hired by Rawlings under false pretenses, for fear the paper would be ruined by a big lawsuit: Juries today have zero tolerance for reporters getting stories by lying about their identity—even when it involves heinous crimes.”

“He went under his own name and took his chances.”

“Yep. Jay got in the door because he had the highest recommendations from his boss in the PR firm out here. He told the Goodrich people that ‘John,’ as he went by in the public relations business, was a quiet guy who detested the spotlight—that’s so they didn’t put him on show like a Peggy Noonan—but that he was the best speechwriter since Bill Safire. And he was. Yet Jay didn’t share the conservative view, as you know. Once in, it was frustrating for him, because he wrote some good speeches for the congressman and knew they were aiding his cause. Meanwhile he was writing his own story about Goodrich’s dirty campaign and hoping to bring him down.”

“I only wish he’d sent you some hard copy, or given some to Charlie Hurd, that assistant of his.”

The timbre of Al Kirkland’s voice changed; it became sharper, suspicious. “That guy—you know him?”

“I just met him once. He’s not very pleasant.”

“He phoned me yesterday. He’s too eager by half—in fact, seems to me he’s almost ghoulish in his disregard for the fact Jay is dead: I don’t trust him any more than Jay did. On the other hand, Jay couldn’t have done the story without someone like him—it’s just too big.”

Louise recalled the uncomfortable meeting she had with Charlie Hurd in her garage last night. “Quite a contrast between the two of them, isn’t there? Hurd acts like a bald-faced opportunist, while Jay was a kind and wonderful man.”

The editor’s voice had become a little more ragged. “I knew Jay for twenty-three years and he was very much like a son to me, if you must know. It took a lot of guts to give up a high-paying PR job and go back to reporting, but the story was going to be the crowning point of his career—a story that would really make a difference.”

She felt as if she knew the man at the other end of the phone. “Al, I want to do what I can here. For instance, when did Jay call you last?”

“Wednesday night.”

“Did he say anything that might give you a clue as to who was involved in this?”

“Nope, not that night. But the night before: Tuesday, I’m pretty sure. He’d already changed his car, ditched the rental car and got an old clunker, I think for cover, because he thought someone was tailing him. Tuesday night, he said he’d changed digs again. Didn’t like it much. Jay is kind of messy and disorganized, and it was like asking him to clean up his desk and move to another one.”

The old guilt flew in like a hawk and grasped hard on to
Louise’s shoulder. “I did that, Mr. Kirkland. I made him move across the street.”

“Well, it wasn’t good timing, Mrs. Eldridge, but I’m sure you had your reasons. I know Jay wasn’t perfect.”

“But that wasn’t why.” But he didn’t want to hear her convoluted story about not having room enough for all her houseguests.

“Anyway,” continued the editor, “he joked about the new place he was staying at. Said it was pretty fancy and he had a whole wine cellar at his disposal. ’Cept that was a joke, because Jay wasn’t much of a drinker. Then he mentioned something about how all his efforts were ‘ending up with the fishes.’ And then, damnit, he ends up with the fishes.”

Louise noted the phrase down on her list. “Was he serious when he said that?”

“No, not serious at all. It was another joke; Jay used to have lots of jokes.” The editor was silent, still grieving, as she was, over a dead friend.

“I remember.” She didn’t want this conversation to bog down in tears, so she continued briskly: “I’m glad to have talked to you. I’m going to try to find out something about what happened to Jay. I can’t stand not knowing, and I don’t know what the police can do.”

“Mrs. Eldridge, I don’t know you,” said Kirkland, “but I hope you’re careful. You have some pretty dangerous people running around Washington. As for us, we’ve sent a man out there to check things out, including that Charles Hurd. His name is Paul Mendoza. I’ll put Paul in contact with you. We here at the Sacramento Union have lost something valuable: Jay McCormick. At least, we’d like his story back.”

• • •

She was disappointed at Kirkland’s lack of information. It would have seemed natural that Jay would have discussed the story with his superior, but instead, like a prima donna—and she got the clear impression that all investigative reporters were prima donnas—he decided to keep the details of the story to himself until the very end. All that was known was the theme: a tale of dirty deeds that could bring down a presidential candidate.

She consulted her list. Nate Weinstein: Tom Paschen had said Weinstein was the office manager at the Goodrich campaign office. Calling him would at least enable her to find out what they were telling people about their missing speech-writer.

Obtaining the number from information, she placed the call. It was answered by an eager Goodrich campaign volunteer. “Hello, I’m”—Louise thought quickly—“Marie Emerson of the Bethesda campaign office. Can I speak to John McCormick?”

“Oh, sorry,” said the woman, her voice rising in a determined effort to remain optimistic even though she couldn’t produce John on the line. “He’s no longer with the campaign.”

“Oh, gee,” Louise said, “but he was there a little over a week ago. I talked to him.”

“Sure you did. John was right here, toiling away on speeches in his little back office, handling lots of little things for Mr. Upchurch. But, gosh, he left, and they told me—uh, just a minute.”

The woman put her on hold. When she came back, her voice was subdued. “I’m sorry. I have no information on him. And now I have other calls on the board. Thanks for calling the Goodrich campaign, and be sure to vote November seventh!”

“Wait,” said Louise, frantically. “Can I speak to Nate Weinstein?”

“Well, I don’t know. Hold on.” Someone obviously was giving the woman input. “Yes, actually, you can. What’s your name again?”

“Marie, from the Bethesda office.”

“One moment.”

And it only took seconds. She had certainly stirred up the place. “This is Nate Weinstein,” said a cool voice. “Who’s calling, please?”

“Marie—Erickson, from the Bethesda office.” Damn. She should write it down when she made up names.

“I don’t recognize that name. Are you a volunteer?”

“Yes, I am, and I love it.” She tried to sound as agreeable as the dynamic young woman who had answered the office’s phones. “I’m trying to reach John McCormick.”

There was a pause. “Just how do you know John? He didn’t go to the branch offices.”

“I got acquainted with him in the past few months and we became friends. I understand he’s left. Do you know where he’s gone? Is he all right?”

Weinstein was silent. Whether or not he was involved in the dirtier deeds of the campaign, he must have figured out that the dead John McCormick found in a fishpond in northern Virginia was the self-same John McCormick who had worked as a Goodrich speechwriter until he dropped out of sight nearly two weeks ago.

“Ma’am, do you read the papers? I’m pretty sure die man you’re seeking has been found dead. An accident, I believe, down in some northern Virginia neighborhood.”

Tom Paschen had vouched for this man as one of those basically decent political professionals who tried to do an honest
job in the face of today’s fiercely partisan politics. Who knew what would happen down the line? Maybe someone would need this man to tell the truth on a witness stand. It was easy for her to call up her grief over Jay’s death. In a soft tearful voice, she said, “I was afraid of that. He was an awfully decent man, and I really liked him. So—it is the same person I grew to know a little. I’m so sorry.”

“No sorrier than I am. John became invaluable around here, let me tell you. Marie, tell me your last name again.”

Suddenly nervous, she hung up, afraid he would ask for more information. She stared at the phone in her hand, and came to a realization that made her temporarily breathless. The Goodrich campaign headquarters might have a naive person answering phones, but certainly not a naive phone system: They undoubtedly had caller ID. That meant they could trace where this mysterious phone call came from.

Rawlings, Upchurch, or French—any of them might know by now that she was bent on learning something about Jay. She didn’t know which one of them she mistrusted the most. She leaned her head back on the patio chair and gave a deep sigh. In her haste to sort through all this, she had exercised her usual hubris. Had she also put herself in danger?