Private Sector (48 page)

She tossed me the key and laughed. “That’s the spirit.”

I looked up at the camera and stuck my tongue out.

More chuckles.

A few moments later I pushed the button to Hal’s office. It buzzed, I entered, and two nerdy-looking types were seated behind desks, focusing intently on their computer screens.

I explained, “I’m Drummond. I’m here to see Lord Hal.”

“In there,” one answered.

He pushed a buzzer and I pushed open Hal’s door. Merriweather was seated behind his desk, typing something into his computer.

He glanced up. “Oh . . . it’s you.”

“I thought I’d stop by and say no hard feelings.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“My sentiments exactly.” We exchanged brief yet meaningful glances of mutual hatred. “Cy told you I’m back with the firm?”

“He told me.”

“That all the charges have been dropped?”

“I heard.”

“That I’m allowed to roam the halls at will, turn on computers, and so on?”

“I heard. And I’ll be watching you, Drummond.”

And I’ll be watching you, too.
I leaned against his desk. “Hey, Hal, a question I’ve been meaning to ask. Do you recall my friend Lisa Morrow?”

“What about her?”

“Well, I have this really oddball theory that—oh, hell, you don’t want to hear it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, okay. I know this going to sound funny . . . weird, really . . . but, okay, here it is. I think her murder had to do with her work here.”

“You’re so full of shit. Try listening to the news. That serial killer got her.”

I leaned closer. “See, Hal, what I think is that the serial killer is a phony. He’s actually a hit man sent to get Lisa.”

He looked me dead in the eye. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“No?”

“I didn’t even know her,” he insisted. But his piggy eyes did get a little piggier.

“But she knew you.”

“It’s a big firm, Drummond. Are you accusing me of something?”

I chuckled. “Gee . . . Hal, you’re a hard guy to have a friendly chat with.”

“Think you’re a smart guy, don’t you?”

“It is a heavy burden having an IQ of 200. Am I letting it show?”

“You done, Drummond?”

“Definitely not with you.”

I could feel his eyes on my back as I walked out. The two guys in the outer office were still staring into their computer monitors as I passed.

I got a cup of coffee and then returned to my luxurious office. In fact, I had just flipped on my computer when there was a light knock. Sally Westin stuck her head in, saying, “I hope I’m not bothering you. Elizabeth told me you came in.”

“Not at all. How are you doing?”

“Fine.” She smiled and entered. “Tired and overworked.”

“The wages of sin.”

She shuffled her feet. “Uh, Barry asked me to stop by as soon as you got in.” She held up a black notebook and added, “The Morris Networks audit . . . your signature. . .”

She walked across the floor and laid the notebook in front of me. I flipped it open and reached into my pocket for a pen.

Sally said, “We’ve been hearing disturbing rumors.”

“Nasty ones, I hope.”

“Something about you assaulting Barry, or Barry assaulting you?”

“Ridiculous. We’re thinking of getting married. Anything else?”

“That you were having problems with the audit.”

“More nonsense. It was such fun, I just signed up for a CPA night course.”

“I mean, the accuracy of the audit. You’re sure you’re okay with it?”

“Would I sign it if I wasn’t?”

She pulled up a chair and asked, “May I?”

“Be my guest.”

“Thanks.” A moment passed, then she said, “Listen, Sean, I think you and I got off on the wrong foot.”

I finished signing the audit and glanced up. Sally looked like crap—saddlebags under her eyes, droopy-lidded, limp-haired. Excessive ambition is hard to hide, even with makeup.

“What makes you think that?”

“I know you think I’m stuffy, driven, and uptight.”

“You?” I smiled and she smiled back. I suggested, “You know, you might give thought to maybe jumping naked out of a cake at the firm Christmas party.”

She chuckled. “Would it get me a partnership?”

“You’ll get invitations to more parties.”

She grew serious again and said, “You need friends in this firm. I’ve been remiss. I was supposed to be watching out for you.” She stared at the floor. “I didn’t do a very good job.”

“I’m a tough patient. We’ll both try harder.”

She stood and collected the notebook. “I
am
your friend, Sean. Remember that. Confide in me. If you have problems, call me.”

“I will. Thanks.”

I checked my e-mail. A long line of firm correspondence was queued up, administrative crap, summaries of important cases—so many e-mails, in fact, that it took nearly five minutes to delete it all. Feeling better, I tackled my phone messages. Since there were none, that didn’t take long.

It was late afternoon, and having not slept for two days, I decided that Act Two had wound down, and I shut down the computer and left.

At the reception area, Elizabeth asked, “Sneaking out a bit early, aren’t we, Major?”

“Shhhh.” I pointed at Hal’s monitor and whispered, “Don’t tell anybody.”

She giggled. I leaned on her desk. “Elizabeth, how long did you say you’ve worked here?”

“Fourteen years.”

“Like it?”

“What I like is the paycheck’s not too rubbery.”

“Good point. Uh . . . what about Hal? When did he get here?”

“Two, possibly three years ago.”

“I see.”

“Do what I do . . . about Hal, I mean.”

“What’s that?”

“Simply pretend he doesn’t exist.”

I laughed and turned toward the elevator. Then another thought struck me. I turned back around and asked Elizabeth, “When I came in, did you notify Sally I was here?”

“No. Should I have?”

“Yes. And don’t ever forget to do it again.”

She laughed again. Why didn’t anybody take me seriously?

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

I
PARKED IN THE UNDERGROUND GARAGE BESIDE THE MADISON HOTEL, Entered the lobby, and headed straight to my suite on the third floor, which happened to be right beside Janet’s suite, and the suites next door and across the hall were all filled with security stooges to safeguard our health and welfare. In fact, our hallway was like an armed camp, with security cameras, motion detectors, and enough explosives that I hoped nobody lit a match.

The Madison, incidentally, was not really a bad joint to hide out in until our killer was found. It’s a five-star inn, outfitted with all the luxury stuff—nice rooms, great restaurants, and so forth. Thank God the FBI wasn’t in charge of this show, or we’d be holed up in some dive out on Route 1, eating stale pizza, and the piped-in cable would be modified so we only got Lifestyle Network. The CIA, you have to understand, has a totally different take on these things. It helps to have classified budgets, which are the nearest thing to a blank check from Uncle Sam. Also, there’s a big cultural gap between the FBI and CIA, like the difference between an adult Scout den and a Machiavelli fan club, which is maybe why they don’t like or trust each other very much, and maybe why they don’t share things very well.

Anyway, I had just entered my room when there was a knock on my door. It was Janet, and she said, “You’re back early.”

“The early bird gets the drink.”

“Buy me a drink, too.”

So I dutifully went to the minibar, got a beer for her and a scotch for me. She got herself a chair by the window. And, well, here we were, all alone and together.

I really did need this drink.

She asked me, “How did it go?”

“Fine. They’re happy I signed the audit and happy I dropped the suit against them. In fact, I was getting high fives from everybody for fleecing Morris for seventy million. They’re thinking of offering me a partnership.”

“So they bought it?”

“Yes. Cy said I’m off the Morris account, though. Jessica apparently called him and said I’m not a nice person.”

“Too bad. They’re such nice people.”

“Also, the money’s in my bank. And I’m serious about you getting half. After the ten-day lock, I’ll arrange it.”

“Keep it.”

“I don’t think you—”

“It’s blood money. Keep it.”

I checked my watch—it was definitely time for a drink.

She took the beer from my hand, sipped, and said, “By the way, that woman who met us at the elevator seemed particularly upset with you.”

I scratched my head. “Oh . . . you mean Miss Allison . . . Jason’s executive assistant.”

“Forget it.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s none of my business.”

Of course it wasn’t. That’s why she raised it.

I said, “We had lunch together. Once . . . maybe twice. I found her selfish, and not the least bit interesting.”

“She’s gorgeous.”

“I didn’t notice.”

“No wonder things never worked out between you and my sister.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Nothing . . . absolutely nothing.”

I kicked off my shoes and fell onto the bed. Two sleepless days, gun battles, FBI grillings, CIA briefings, and now this—geez. I was feeling a little under the weather, and, I guess, a little hot under the collar.

“You took a dive on me,” Janet finally said.

I cleared my throat and replied, “I did
not.
”

“Oh yes you did.”

“No. I took the best deal we were going to get.”

“How do you
know
that?”

“Because I know Washington. Because people here think differently than they do in Boston. ‘Inside the beltway’ is not a geographic euphemism, Janet, it’s a mindset. Stop me if I get too metaphorical, but Peterson and his people spend their lives weighing the greater good against lesser wrongs. It’s a dirty business. They don’t like it either. But they do it, and we’re all the better for it.”

“But the killer is just a hired gun. The responsibility for Lisa’s death lies with the people who paid him.”

“We all know that.”

“If you know that, how could
you
let them off ?”

“Because I was being ordered to. Why do you think Clapper was there?” Some impulse made me add, “And I’ve got news for you—were Lisa, your sister, my friend, my sister in arms . . . were she in my shoes, she would’ve made the identical choice. Think about that.”

So she sat there a moment, looking into her beer, and I sat there unknotting my tie. I wished I knew what was going on inside her head. The truth was, I had become a bit smitten with her. Maybe very smitten.

Which I guess accounted for my hurt feelings and tantrum. I felt like I had lost something very precious, although the truth was, I never really had it. It probably would never have worked anyway, between George, her sister’s murder, the whole artificiality of what brought us together. But after that morning, all doubts were dispelled.

She said, “You mentioned the word ‘cover-up’ this morning.”

“Did I?”

“And I had the impression Peterson and his people side-stepped it.”

“Was that your impression?”

“What were you talking about?”

“Nothing. I was making a stab in the dark.”

“No, you had a very clear sense of something.”

“Ask your friend George.”

“Is George . . . I mean, do you think he’s involved?”

I finished my scotch. “Ask
him.
”

Well, the next word was on the tip of her tongue, but a loud knock rattled the door. I went over and opened it, and two gray-suited thugs stepped inside, followed by Jack MacGruder, the honcho of Operation Trojan Horse, which was a shitty title, in my view. A code name is to supposed to hide the purpose of the operation, right? And if the bad guys ever heard that name, they’d be scratching their heads, saying, Trojan Horse? . . . Trojan Horse? . . . These CIA people are so bright and devious . . . what could that possibly, possibly mean? You know?

Anyway, MacGruder pointed at Janet’s drink and asked, “Got any more of those?”

I went to the minibar and retrieved a beer. The thugs stood by the door, MacGruder sat in the chair opposite Janet, and I returned to the bed.

His eyes strayed around the expansive room. He smiled pleasantly and said, “It’s a fairly nice hotel, don’t you think? You two could be here a long time. We want to be sure you’re comfortable and happy.”

I replied, “We’ve got a killer who wants our asses, my career’s in the shitter, Janet’s father is in the hospital, and her sister’s in the morgue. Spare us the happy hospitality bullshit, Jack. Tell us what’s going on, and get the hell out.”

MacGruder drew a deep breath. Had he thought we were going to be cheerful and polite passengers, he now knew better. He said, “Fine. You recall that the killer escaped from Boston in a car. The latest update from the FBI is they found the car stolen from a Mr. Harry Boticher in Boston. It was discovered in the parking lot of the Maryland House, which you might recognize as a roadside stop along 95. Another car was reported stolen there, and that one was found this afternoon, parked, of all places, illegally, one block from FBI headquarters.” He chuckled. “This fellow has a great sense of humor, doesn’t he?”

Screw you,
Jack. But Janet said, “Any prints, hair, or fibers?”

“Fibers from a cotton shirt. But the cars were wiped down clean. He even used a solvent, if you can believe it.”

I asked, “And the bodies in my apartment?”

He shook his head. “Not helpful. One Caucasian male, and the other was of Latin extraction. No IDs were on their bodies, their prints aren’t on file, their photos were run through the FBI’s database and there’s no record. Both were carrying modified Uzis, and we’re unable to trace them. Also, there were some blood splatters on your porch, but nobody’s turned up in any area hospitals.”

I asked, “And our families?”

“The FBI has established clandestine surveillance nets around all of them. Everybody’s fine and healthy, and we’ll keep them that way.”

I asked, “How’s Spinelli?”

“He’ll be in a sling a few months. He was released from the hospital about an hour ago.”