The Crasher (49 page)

There was a large envelope pushed under the front door. It had her name on it, but perhaps because of the wine, the warm fuzz
of camaraderie she’d just left behind, she didn’t give it much thought, not even opening it right away. She tossed it on the
bed while she went around the loft switching on lamps.

The answering machine was blinking and she pushed the message button on to hear Johnny’s voice, still bursting with confidence.
“Where are you, Ginny-o-will-of-the-wisp? No more crashing, I hope. Miss you. See you soon.”

He cares about me. He really does care about me. She hugged the thought to herself. I mustn’t give him any reason to change
his mind. I’ll wear the same jacket when he comes back. I’ll fill the loft with flowers and food, I’ll—She saw the envelope
on the bed and ripped it open.

Inside were the pictures Oz had taken of her in her renovated blush bridesmaid dress, the pictures she’d posed for at the
library, surrounded by other guests.

Clipped to them was a note from Oz and the newspaper story with the headline, “Who Wore This Cloak at the Murder Scene?”

“Time to talk, Ginny,” he’d written. “Time to get together real soon.”

On his way out of the Hoover Building, the ugly sprawling home of the Federal Bureau of Investigation on Pennsylvania Avenue,
Johnny realized he hadn’t checked his answering machine at the office in more than twenty-four hours.

There was one unoccupied phone booth in the lobby and he grabbed it. He’d already dealt with the first two messages from a
Next!
copy editor; accounting was querying something on his Puerto Rico expense account; a Sister Cochrane had called for the second
time, “some news about the homeless woman you wrote so inspiringly about.” He scribbled down her number on the back of the
pass he was supposed to give up when he left the building.

The last message came from an unfamiliar, high-pitched female voice, on behalf of a once very familiar name.

“Hello, Dr. David Sorenson is trying to reach you. Will you please return Dr. Sorenson’s call before one o’clock today, Monday,
May eighth, when he can be reached in his office, 212-555-0008, or this evening, after seven, at his New York apartment, 212-555-8543.”

Two years ago Johnny had known all Sorenson’s numbers by heart, including his number on Long Island, his car, and his
beeper. Not anymore. Now, because the secretary rattled them off so quickly, he had to redial to hear the message again.

It was nearly noon. Johnny dialed the office number and was put through immediately. “Hello, Doc, long time no speak.”

“Hello” Johnny. It’s good of you to call back so quickly. I really appreciate it. Well, young fellah, it certainly has been
too long, much too long. You have no idea how often I’ve thought of looking you up, but there it is, that’s New York life
for you. I read you though, from time to time. Sounds like life’s pretty good. Enjoying yourself? You ought to be.” David
Sorenson’s warm, confident voice, which gave away his Canadian upbringing only in the way he pronounced his
o’
s sent an unexpected shiver down Johnny’s spine.

It was unfair, but just hearing Sorenson took him right back to the long, last weeks of his mother’s life, triggering memories
he’d thought he’d laid to rest. They were painful memories-of trying to track his father down somewhere halfway round the
world, and then having to persuade him that he wasn’t crying wolf as had happened once before, that his mother really was
dying this time.

At first it had only been embarrassing to have to admit to Sorenson that his father didn’t believe him, that Johnny needed
him as the physician on the case to back him up and spell out how critical Catherine Peet’s condition was.

He wondered briefly whether the doctor still remembered the phone calls during the last touch-and-go weekend, when, after
finally reaching Quentin Peet, Sorenson had handed him the phone with a sad shake of his head, in order for him to hear for
himself his intoxicated father dismissing Sorenson’s warnings as “the exaggerated posturing of a publicity-seeking quack.”

As usual his father had still arrived with impeccable timing-two days before the final goodbye-but his continued, inexplicably
arrogant behavior during those dark hours had helped consolidate the warm, trusting relationship that had developed between
doctor and son during Catherine Peet’s
long illness. It was only later that Johnny understood Soren-son had assumed a kind of surrogate father role, one he hadn’t
known how much he needed. Lonely and frightened, Johnny had been the only family member to witness his mother’s life slipping
away.

It was a relationship he’d hoped-and expected-would grow into an enduring friendship, but after his mother’s death neither
had sought out the other. A pity. God knew he had far too few real friends he could count on and trust, but the doctor was
right. New York wasn’t a place to nurture friendship. Few allowed themselves any time for that old-fashioned past-time; few
allowed themselves time for anything except work-and sex.

One thing was sure. Sorenson wasn’t calling him belatedly now to develop their friendship. “What’s up, doc? What can I do
for you?”

“I’d prefer not to discuss it over the phone, Johnny. Could we meet later today, say a drink about five-thirty, six?”

“Sorry, I’m in Washington right now. Shall I give you a ring when I’m back in town?”

“Yes, yes, that would be fine.”

“Can you give me a clue what it’s about?”

He remembered Sorenson never liked to procrastinate. “I’m Muriel Stern’s cardiologist. The family’s getting a bad rap over
this terrible Svank business. I’m sure you’ve read all about it?”

Johnny blew out a silent whistle. Hallelujah. Sorenson was Muriel Stern’s doctor. It was too good to be true. He was about
to hit pay dirt. “Yes, of course, I’ve read about it. How can I help?”

“Well, that’s what I’d like to discuss with you. Muriel—Mrs. Stern-feels the right sort of article in the press could be valuable
at this moment.” Sorenson hesitated. “Shall I say, could possibly defuse the volatile situation, which is definitely deleterious
to her health. She’s naturally sought my advice about this. I told her I knew you. Well, the rest I would prefer to talk to
you about when we meet. Unfortunately her
husband has gotten himself involved in a very sony state of affairs.”

That was the understatement of the year, but Johnny also then remembered how Sorenson was often given to British understatement.
He made up his mind. This was an opportunity too good to miss. He would leave Washington a day earlier than he’d planned.

“I understand. Let’s tentatively say a drink around six-thirty tomorrow. I should be back by then. Your place?” Sorenson kept
a small pied-à-terre near New York Hospital, getting back to his main home on the North Shore of Long Island only a couple
of times a week, if then.

“Wonderful, Johnny. My place, you remember it.” Soren-son’s voice showed obvious relief. “Don’t call, unless you have to cancel.
Just come.”

When Johnny put the phone down he was jubilant. What an incredible piece of luck-or as his father would probably put it, providence.
If he was going to be able to place the Sterns anywhere in the byzantine world ruled over by Svank, he had to get to know
them. Sorenson was going to open the door.

From what Johnny had ferreted out for his
Next!
column, byzantine was the perfect word to describe the structure, spirit, complexity and deviousness of Svank’s empire; and
from what he’d read during the past week it appeared there was already considerable evidence to pinpoint Svank as the mastermind
behind a worldwide network of criminal activities.

Both Jim Hoagland of the
Washington Post
and Bill Safire in the
New York Times
had devoted their columns to “Svank, the mystery man,” both men attempting to strip away the mystery.

According to Safire, “The colossus was killed just in time to avoid prosecution.” Using his justified reputation of hotshot
wordsmith, Safire had gone on to stipulate that for that piece of information he could, “in all fairness,” use “hypostasis”
as opposed to “hypothesis.” All the same, Johnny hadn’t
been able to get anyone at the Hoover Building or at the CIA to go on record to confirm it

He’d begun to develop a good relationship with Trager, and later that Monday they met for a drink at the Willard, one of the
oldest and most elegant hotels in the capital, only a stone’s throw from the White House.

Trager didn’t say a word as Johnny began to spell out some of the accusations in Safire’s column. “Money laundering, international
thefts, major drug operations, Svank was involved in all of it, right?”

When Trager didn’t answer, Johnny went on unperturbed. “It appears to me all his underworld stuff was so intertwined with
legitimate businesses, held under a multitude of names, it will take months, if not years to untangle, right?”

“Same again, Johnny?” was all Trager would say as he beckoned the bartender, but then he winked and nodded.

The next morning Johnny woke up with a startling realization: He no longer wanted to be the one to do the untangling, didn’t
want to spend what could easily be the best years of his life in the bloody playground reserved for drug traffickers, swindlers,
and murderers.

He’d spent the last few days locked in with the files of big-time fugitives, looking for links to Svank.

He’d listed their crimes-all so similar-fraud, conspiracy, racketeering, and again and again murder and torture.

He’d left the Hoover Building feeling dirty; he didn’t want to crawl back into the dirt again.

Johnny stretched. For the first time in his life, for a reason he couldn’t yet fathom, he was one hundred percent sure he
was over trying to earn his father’s approval. It was a giddy, even frightening sensation.

He reached over to phone Sorenson, to tell him he’d come by for a drink some other time because he didn’t think he could be
of much help to the Sterns. The line was busy and by the time he’d finished shaving, fast, smooth, cut-free, he’d decided,
what the hell. He’d listen to what Sorenson had to say and perhaps it would be something for his column. His new
sense of himself didn’t mean giving up the column. Of course not, well, at least not yet.

In the early afternoon as he went to National Airport to catch the shuttle back to New York, he figured if he could get proof
of the Sterns’ involvement with Svank’s dirty work, at least it would be a nice bone to throw to Steiner, but that was enough.

If he got another cover story out of it, that would be good, too, but he wasn’t thinking to use it as leverage to a better
job anymore-on a magazine his father would respect, like
Time,
or a paper like the
Wall Street Journal,
or perhaps even in television. No way. He felt good about
Next!
In fact, he loved writing his
Next!
column. The call from Sister Cochrane came to mind. What was that all about? His most recent piece on the homeless woman
and civil liberties, as practiced in Puerto Rico and New York? He’d call her as soon as he could.

Again, the realization swept over him with a euphoric flush. He wasn’t working to please or impress his father anymore. He
was working to please himself. He’d crossed a personal Rubicon.

He called Ginny from the airport before he left. Her answering machine picked up, which was a bore. He left a message, telling
her he was on his way back to the city and hoped to see her sometime soon. He didn’t want to be distracted until he knew what
the Stern deal was all about, so he didn’t tell her about his meeting with Sorenson. He’d call her again when it was over.

It was cloudless all the way to New York. Cloudless, the way he hoped his life could be from now on. He started to hum “Blue
Skies,” shutting his eyes, thinking about Ginny’s kooky smile.

He was still humming as the plane began to descend over New Jersey. One day in the not too distant future, surely even the
great QP would have to slow down. Would he write his memoirs? Probably not yet.
Green Ice
had been such a success, he was probably even now getting fidgety, looking for
another subject, another mountain to climb, a new adventure to get in and out of to write about in another best-selling book.

A wonderful, heady thought occurred to him. If through the Sterns he managed to get some new material, with leads on the Svank
case that just asked to be followed up, what a great moment it would be for him to be able to hand everything over to his
father. “Here, Dad. Here’s my file on the Svank case,” he would say. “It’s all yours to use as you see fit, no strings attached.”

It would be the perfect way to prove he was a free man at last.

The weekend had come and gone without Alex and without Johnny. Ginny’s emotions had been on a roller coaster, diving down
to depression, soaring with indignation and red-hot anger, stalling with fear over Oz’s pictures.

On Saturday, waking up early, she’d gone back to the sewing machine to perfect her new arched dart. By ten o’clock, restless
and nervous, she’d had to get out, and strolling aimlessly had lucked out at an arty bookstore, losing herself for an hour
or two in a tome on the work of Mariano Fortuny, whose velvet cloaks and pleated Grecian gowns from the twenties, she knew,
now fetched thousands of dollars at auction.

She’d spent so long making notes, learning about his secrets—“It is thought he used to cake cloth in clay and egg white and
bake it to create some of his opulent fabric effects”—she’d begun to get dirty looks from the salesclerks. She hadn’t had
enough money with her to buy the book. She hadn’t enough money, period. At two hundred dollars it would be a reckless extravagance
at this perilous time in her life, but on the other hand, it could be looked upon as an investment. She’d left with a promise
to return with her credit card, regretting it as soon as she got back to the loft to find no one had called, nothing had changed.