The Survivors (27 page)

She noticed I was scratching my wrist and that made me quit. “I'm not so good at thinking about that, no.”

“Then think about what's going on now. You said Lois McGuin called Ned Bowles as soon as you finished talking to her. That could have been just a friendly warning.”

“It looked more like panic to me.”

“That's not evidence you can take to court.”

“I'm not in court.”

She smiled. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Besides,” I said. “What about everything else—the man who's been following me, the break-ins here and at my office, the two who came to see you at your office, from the Justice Department only they weren't. Then there's your boss agreeing to call off the hounds on Scottie and now they're back. What's all that mean?”

“I think—no offense—you and Glass are stumbling around in the dark. You might kick over a rock that the people at Braeder would just as soon keep where it is. Maybe it doesn't have anything to do with your family. Things are changing at Braeder. They've got this new contract—”

“Computer security. I've heard.”

“The Pentagon is going to authorize the next phase of development soon. That means hundreds of millions to Ned Bowles and his boys. They don't want any black marks against the company now.”

“OK,” I said. “That takes care of my part in it. I can see why they don't want me digging around. What about you?”

She leaned back, stretching out up the steps. “They'll use me to take you down, if it's necessary. And if there's any blowback—like you or Glass want to file a civil-rights lawsuit someday—I'll be in the crosshairs. Not my boss, and certainly not any of those happy pips from Braeder.”

“You seem pretty relaxed about it.”

“That shrink I used to see said life is like surfing. You can't control the wave, just the way you stand on the board.”

“You believe that?” I said.

“No.” She wiggled deeper into the steps. “But it sounds pretty.”

I was leaning directly above her. The thought popped into my mind how easy it would be to bend down and kiss her. She must have realized it too, and she sat up so quickly we almost bumped heads. We laughed and looked away, both a little embarrassed.

“You do have a calming influence, Doctor Henderson.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Calm is good . . . most of the time.”

We laughed again. “You sure you don't want to come inside?” I said.

She shook her head quickly. “No way. You say somebody's watching you. Who knows who that could be? If word somehow got back to my boss that we had a cozy session upstairs, I'd be out of a job.”

“Understood.” Too bad I couldn't offer her “some other time.” Too many things stood between us, and maybe always would.

“Tell me about Glass,” she said. “What's he really like?”

“Smart. No, that's not saying enough. He's brilliant. And about as stable as a one-legged stool.”

“I've been trying to get background on him. I can't even find his driver's license.”

“I'm not sure he has one. He usually rides a bicycle. Besides, you should see what he can do with a computer. I think he could make your whole office disappear.”

“If he's as unstable as you say, that's not the kind of thing I want to hear.”

“Right. But you know what I mean.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Listen, I'm not sure how much cover I can give you from here on. I may not even be able to warn you if we're about to go after Glass. I'm clearly in a league of my own at the office. My partner is stitched at the hip to my boss, and whenever I see them together they shut down, like they've been talking about me.” She looked at me. “Does that sound paranoid?”

“Not if they really are talking about you.”

That brought a smile. “I'll do what I can, but no promises, OK?”

“You've done a lot already. Thanks.”

For a moment her smile got warmer. She let her leg rest against mine. Then she gave a glance at her wrist where a watch would have been if she were wearing one. “Look at the time! I should get going.”

“Can I walk you to the Metro?”

“Thank you, kind knight, but I can manage.”

My mind was a jumble as she walked away. I thought about how fairly she had treated me and how resigned she was to the consequences. And I thought about my newest lie of omission, not telling her about the meeting I had scheduled with Ned Bowles for Saturday. Mainly though, I thought about how well she wore those tights.

She was halfway down the block, mostly lost in darkness, but I could see her trainers, neon-yellow darts. “I like your shoes,” I called.

“Really? They were a gift from my old boyfriend.”

“That's terrific,” I whispered, and I went inside.

TWENTY-SEVEN

A
t four thirty, my phone rang me out of a perfectly good dream. Something about trying to catch fish with my bare hands—yellow fish.

“H'llo?”

All I heard was static, then: “Sorry.”

“What?”

“I said I was sorry.”

“Scottie.”

“Can you let me in?” he said.

“Where are you?”

“A pay phone down the street from your building. There's nobody to let me in.”

“I'll be right down.”

I could smell the liquor on him as soon as I opened the door. His Orioles cap was turned sideways. He had his bicycle and his backpack, and he tripped as he came over the threshold.

“Let me take the bike. You've been drinking again?”

He shrugged.

“Can you make it up the stairs?”

“Course I can.” He tripped again on the first step, then righted himself and paraded on up.

I put coffee on while he used the bathroom. When I brought the mugs to the living room, he was on his knees, spreading papers out on the floor.

“Cream or sugar?” I said.

He took his mug. “Nah, I got bourbon.”

He reached for his backpack, but I blocked him. “No, you've had enough for now.”

He rolled his eyes. “Ooookaay.”

I sat on the sofa and motioned at the papers. “What's all this?”

“Stuff I was looking at.” He sat cross-legged on the floor. The papers were in a neat arc around him. “After we left, umm—” He beckoned to indicate I should finish the sentence.

“Sorensen.”

“After we left him, I went home and got more of my research files. Then I went to my office to use the computers.” He took a drink of coffee and made a bitter face. “Found some good stuff.”

“Stuff about what?”

“Your dad, for one thing.” He leaned forward to whisper. “He was kinda a scoundrel, you know?”

“Scottie, if we're going to have this conversation, you're going to shape up. Right now.”

He waved his hands in front of his face. “Right. You got it.” He sat up straighter and handed me a stapled stack of pages.

It was a complaint filing for a lawsuit. The name of the plaintiff was Gregory Lee Clawson. My father was the defendant. Before I could begin reading, Scottie took it back.

“I sent you that column I found about the lawsuit against your father. He was sued by his partner this—” Scottie burped wetly. “Greg Clawson. The consulting business they ran specialized in local elections. Your father was approached by another consulting group, CadWyn Campaign Strategy. They wanted him to help in a US senate race. A great offer. Problem was, your dad never told Clawson about it. He just made the deal himself and did the work off the books. That amounts to a—” He frowned and leafed through the complaint. “Appropriation of partnership opportunity.”

“So my dad's partner claimed he got cut out of a contract. They couldn't work that out?”

“CadWyn backed out of their side of the deal as soon as the lawsuit started, so your father wasn't paid anything. Clawson wanted $500,000. He claimed his reputation had been hurt, loss of future earnings, and he asked for punitive damages. Unspecified amount.”

“Do you know what happened?”

He picked up another sheet from the floor. “I haven't had time to track down the rest of the court records, but there was an article in the
Montgomery Weekly
, that free paper they used to toss in our driveways.” He handed it to me.

“Consultants Settle Election Dispute,” was the title. I scanned through it. John Oakes . . . Gregory Clawson . . . bitter lawsuit . . . settlement payment rumored in excess of $100,000.

“My family didn't have a hundred thousand dollars,” I said. “Could this be real?”

Scottie stared at the other papers, lost in a fog. I snapped my fingers.

“Yeah,” he said. “It's real. Clawson started a new consulting business later that year. He bought an office condo in Silver Spring and hired some new staff. He made a big splash.”

“Where did my father get the money to settle?”

“I don't know yet. I'll keep looking. Did you notice the date on that article?”

I found it and looked at him in surprise.

“Your parents had a busy September that year. Your mom leaves the house every day like she's going to work, but she doesn't have a job. Your dad suddenly comes up with a hundred thousand dollars, way more than he has in any bank account we know about. And then your mom gets a friend in Virginia to buy her a gun. It's all something to think about, I'd say.”

I scanned the article again. One hundred thousand dollars was about as likely in my family as the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I just couldn't fathom it.

“That one's interesting.” He took the article back. “This one is important.”

He handed me a typed document, like a long business letter only there was no heading or inside address.

“There's a cover sheet attached to the back,” Scottie said.

I flipped to it, a simple form headed, “Attorney Grievance Commission.” My mother's name was written in at the top. Farther down was a slot for “Attorney You Are Filing a Complaint Against.” The name there was Eric Russo.

“I figure that's your mother's handwriting on the form. She must have typed up that letter, a description of her complaint.”

From the first sentence, it was clear no lawyer had written it. Every word was angry and full of heartache. She said Russo had “constantly lied” and “misled from the beginning” and “promised things he could never deliver.”

I was only partway through the first page when Scottie tugged it from my hands. “It'll take you half an hour to read, and it would only make you feel bad anyway.”

“What does it say?”

“She wanted her job back. Nobody at Braeder would listen to her, so somehow she connected up with Eric Russo. She thought he was going to help her. She thought he promised it would all work out. Then he didn't come through, and she was left out in the cold.”

“That's basically the same story Sorensen told us about Russo. That sounds like a pattern with him.”

“Maybe he's just too friendly a guy.”

I noticed the sarcasm and paid no attention to it. “Charlene Russo told me Eric had trouble with the Bar Association back then. This is what she was talking about. Did that Grievance Commission do anything to him?”

“After you mother died, there wasn't anybody to push the complaint. Russo got off with a private letter of reprimand.”

I didn't ask how he'd found a “private” reprimand. His eyelids were heavy, and he was wobbly from being so drunk, but there was a set to his mouth that was almost a sneer.

“What is it?” I said.

“You haven't figured it out, have you?”

I hated playing his games. “Just tell me, all right?”

“Your mother filed a formal complaint against Russo. He had to defend himself. It was only a reprimand, but he got punished.” He slapped the papers on the coffee table. “Even his wife remembered it. There's no way Eric Russo forgot who your mother was. He's been lying to us from the start, like I always said.”

I stared at the complaint. He had to be right. It would be stretching things too far to believe Russo now. I remembered asking him about my mother and how innocently he had denied knowing her. Lying is one thing; being a master at it is another.

While I was thinking, Scottie had gotten into his backpack. He had a quart bottle of Old Grand-Dad and was headed for his coffee mug.

I don't know why it made me so mad. Maybe it was the silly expression of triumph on his face.

I snatched it away from him. “You've had enough!”

He was surprised, both that I had the bottle now and at how loud my voice had been. He gave a nervous chuckle, and his face settled back into the sneer. “You've always had it wrong about what happened that night. That fantasy story you believe that she broke down all of a sudden, got the gun—”

“Scottie, that's not only me. You've seen the police report—”