by Allan Topol
"These things sometimes happen," Sergeant Billings said. "The country roads are dark at night. Kids walk on the edge of the highway. People don't realize when they've hit something."
"I never drove at night when I was in Mississippi," she replied emphatically. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
He didn't respond. A heavy silence settled over the room until Kathy entered minutes later with Taylor's expense reports. A copy of the Hertz agreement was flagged with a yellow sticker.
As she fumbled through the file to reach the car-rental agreement, Taylor's palms were damp with perspiration. Sure enough, the dates coincided. She had rented the car on May fifth and returned it on the fourteenth. Her eyes jumped to the license plate number on the upper left of the document: ZKA 372.
A bad joke had turned into a horror story. With her eyes still riveted on the document, her mind searched for possible explanations. Someone could have stolen the car at night from the parking lot of the bed-and-breakfast where she had been staying. Yet each morning the car had been in the same place where she had left it the night before.
She ran her hand through her hair, thinking, trying to come up with an explanation for what was happening. Then it struck her: There was no mistake. Whoever was responsible for the senator's death had decided to take her out of circulation. Somehow they had gotten to the sheriff in Hattiesburg. If she went with these two troopers, the sheriff would toss her into a rural Mississippi jail until the election was over—and maybe for a lot longer. They must think the senator had given her information that would permit her to figure out who they were.
Her attention shifted to the arrest warrant. It had been issued by a Mississippi state court, which meant it had no legal effect outside of Mississippi. They were counting on her cooperating and coming down to Hattiesburg with the state troopers to try to clear her name.
She glanced up at Sergeant Billings. "Sorry, guys," she said. "This is all a big frame. I didn't hit anybody. As I said, I never even drove at night. So I'm not going with you."
"I have to warn you that by refusing to come with us you could face serious consequences."
"Such as?"
"The local D.A. in Hattiesburg will file extradition papers with the court in Washington in a matter of days. Once they get the warrant up here, the D.C. police will arrest you and bring you down to Hattiesburg. If it goes that way, I'm afraid the judge will never let you out on bail."
Her eyes hardened. "And if I come with you now, are you prepared to guarantee me that I will get out on bail?"
He shuffled his feet nervously. "Gee, I sure don't know about that. I mean, I'm not a lawyer. I was just trying to be helpful."
"I appreciate that, but I think I'll do my own lawyering."
"Yes, ma'am. Whatever you want."
When they left, a sobering thought ran through her mind. She couldn't remain in Washington. Whoever was responsible for the senator's death was now focused on her. They were dangerous people. If she was going to find out who killed the senator, or even stay alive herself, she'd better get the hell out of town fast.
That was easy to say, but where could she go? She thought about driving out to the senator's home in St. Michaels. There might be clues she would recognize, but that was too dangerous. Also, the police might still have the house sealed.
She thought of trying to reach Harrison, but his business trips abroad frequently lasted several days. Often he was unavailable even by phone if he was in the middle of negotiations. She couldn't sit here waiting to talk to him.
Think, she told herself. Think.
Kendrick? He'd never put his own life on the line for her, or to find out what happened to the senator.
Cady? Somebody had been feeding him information. He was the logical place for her to start. He was decent and honorable. Once she made him understand that he had been used, he'd join her in finding out the truth.
She tried his office. "Sorry, he's out of town on vacation," Margaret, Cady's secretary, said. She offered to pass on Taylor's message when he called in, but she was unwilling to give out his number. With a little more cajoling, Taylor got Margaret to confirm that Cady was at his mountain cabin outside Mendocino.
Once the secretary clicked off, Taylor picked up the phone to get information for northern California. After punching in only two numbers, though, she slammed it down. Get smart, she told herself. Whoever worked up to this elaborate Mississippi arrest scenario could have tapped her office phone. Maybe even Cady's phone in California, because he had been an unwitting participant in this scheme. She had to show up there cold.
"I've got a couple of errands to run," she told Kathy.
Once in the hallway, she slipped into the inside fire staircase, which permitted her to exit the firm's office building through a side entrance. She had to move fast, not even stopping at home for clothes. She strode quickly to an ATM on Pennsylvania Avenue in order to use cash for her plane ticket.
A cab was cruising down from the Capitol, and she shot her hand in the air to stop it.
"Dulles Airport," she told the driver.
Chapter 20
He had a wooden country cabin. An A-frame house on a small hilltop, with a view of the Pacific off in the distance, it was located at the end of a dirt road, at least a mile from any other house. It was a far cry from the palatial country homes that Philip Harrison and some of Taylor's other partners owned in the mountains or on the eastern shore of Maryland. The kind of place that was perfect for someone who wanted total privacy.
With only the address she had gotten from telephone information, Taylor had a great deal of trouble finding Cady's house. After several inquiries in the center of town, Jed Doyle, an elderly man with a thick, bushy beard who operated a convenience store, drew her a crude map. Even with that, finding the way was difficult. Heavy clouds filled the night sky and blackened the moon. Hunched over the steering wheel, peering through the windshield of the rental car, Taylor was straining her eyes as she followed a winding road.
Finally she spotted an old, rusty mailbox with the name C. J. Cady carved in the metal. She turned left and drove slowly up the narrow road as Doyle had told her.
In the light of the high beams of the car, she caught Cady, alone on the front porch, sitting in a wooden rocker with a book in his hand. A lamp with a single bulb stood next to the rocker. Two tennis rackets were leaning against the side of the porch.
Startled to see a visitor, he leaped to his feet. He was wearing old, faded jeans and a bright checked shirt. He had the stubble of a beard from a couple of days' growth.
The moment she saw Cady, all of the exhaustion from the long plane ride and drive drained away. He was her last chance, her only chance. It wouldn't be easy, but she'd have to persuade him to help her. She brought the car to a halt in front of the house and jumped out.
"Taylor, for God's sake," he said, putting his book down on a table. "What in the world are you doing here?"
She climbed the steps wearily to the porch. "Please help m-me," she stammered, to her surprise. Despite her resolve to remain strong, she began to cry.
He looked at her with a mixture of bewilderment and sympathy. "C'mon inside."
Trying to regain her composure, she followed him into the cluttered living room. Books, clothes, dirty dishes, and empty wine bottles were strewn everywhere. Old newspapers were piled haphazardly in a corner. Cady struck a match and lit the kindling in the stone fireplace. He tossed on a couple of logs and then turned to her.
"Sorry for the mess," he said, embarrassed. "I get totally out of my lifestyle up here."
He saw that she was trembling. Her teeth were chattering. "Sit down near the fire," he said. "I'll get you a glass of wine. Then we'll talk."
When Cady returned from the kitchen a few minutes later, carrying two glasses of Matanzas Creek chardonnay, he found her leaning forward in a wooden chair, close to the fire, warming her hands and pulling herself together.
"Before you say anything," he sa
id as he handed her a glass, "I want you to know that I'm sorry about the senator. Real sorry. I almost called to tell you that."
"It's not your fault. You were doing your job. I would have handled the case the same way if I were on your side."
"In the heat of the battle I sometimes get carried away. I never wanted him to kill himself. I just wanted to make him pay for what he had done. Not that way. I hope you'll believe me."
She summoned up a smile for him. "I do. Thanks for saying it."
There was an awkward silence. Finally Taylor said softly, "Please listen to what I have to say. You'll find out why I came all the way out here."
Cady took a sip of wine and sat down. "Okay, I'm ready to listen."
In a monotone, she repeated to him the facts she had presented to Cooper and Harrison that persuaded her that the senator had been murdered. Then she told him about her confrontation with the two Mississippi state troopers. As she spoke, Cady occasionally asked a clarifying question, but gave no reaction to what she was telling him.
"So now I'm a fugitive from justice," she concluded. "Whoever killed the senator tried to have me arrested."
He pulled back and raised his hand. "Easy, Taylor. That's a powerful charge you've just leveled, that we're dealing with a murder, not a suicide."
His response rocked her back on her heels. "After listening to me, you still believe that's what happened to the senator? That he killed himself?"
He eyed her closely to see if she'd come unhinged. "That's what the FBI and the Maryland medical examiner have concluded. You're telling me that they're part of this conspiracy you're imagining?"
"I don't know about the police. I just know that they killed the senator and made it look like suicide."
"How do you know that?" he replied without making any effort to conceal his disbelief. "And who are they?"
Take a deep breath, she told herself. Don't blow your cool. She counted to ten before continuing.
"C'mon, Taylor, I need facts. We're both lawyers. We act on facts. Give me facts. Then I'll believe you."
"Let me ask you something," she said, trying to be patient. "As you went through your investigation, didn't some things seem strange to you? I had the impression that your case came together too quickly and too easily. Like someone was feeding you stuff. You know what I mean?"
Cady walked over to the fireplace. He nudged the burning logs with a poker and tossed on a couple of fresh ones. The scent of pine filled the room. He was troubled by what Taylor had said, not only because he liked and respected her but because her last point was a good one. He had felt uncomfortable about the envelope being dumped on his desk mysteriously. The backup records that had been missing in Napa. Gladstone had been unavailable, then suddenly called and came. Azziz was a convicted felon.
"Let me ask you," Cady said, "who you think is behind this conspiracy you're talking about."
She took a deep breath. "At first I was convinced it was McDermott and Pug Thompson."
"The logical choices."
"But now I've changed my mind."
She told him about Alex Glass and then recapped Alex's letter.
That was too much for Cady. He shook his head in disbelief. "Let me get this straight. You think that a Japanese political figure is responsible for all of this?"
"That's exactly what I think."
"Isn't that a bit over the top?"
"If you give me half a chance, I'm going to prove it to you."
"How?"
"Through Harvey Gladstone. You interviewed him. I never got a chance because you did such a good job of hiding him."
Cady nodded.
"Gladstone was the key to your case. Right?"
"He was one of the pieces," Cady said stubbornly.
"Mill Valley was really sold for ten million, like the senator said. Somebody got to Gladstone and persuaded him to make up a false story, which you bought in your zeal to make a case and become famous."
He ignored the jab. "What about the tax records?"
"They must have been cooked."
"And Azziz?"
"C'mon, C.J., don't make me laugh. Anybody could have gotten to that guy. They were using you. They were feeding you phony evidence as if you were a hungry pig at a trough."
"That's hardly a flattering analogy." He finished his glass of wine, then looked at her sympathetically. "I know that's how it seems to you, because you were close with the senator, but truly I think my case against Senator Boyd was sound. I wanted a just result."
"Bullshit!" she shouted, totally exhausted and frustrated. "If you really want a just result, then tomorrow morning you'll get in a car with me and go see Gladstone. Subject him to a rigorous cross-examination."
Cady was annoyed at her shouting, and he still didn't believe her story. Her feelings for the senator were driving her to irrational conclusions.
"Well, will you stop being defensive and go with me to see Gladstone?" she demanded.
Cady locked eyes with her. "In a word, no. The Boyd case is over. Finished. Concluded. Wrapped up." He took a deep breath. "As I said before, I'm sorry the senator is dead. Really I am. But I can't bring him back. And neither can you."
She glared at him.
"And you want to know what else I think?" Cady said.
Furious at him, she responded, "I really don't give a damn what you think."
"I think somebody in Mississippi made a mistake in bringing those charges against you. There was some type of clerical or computer error. I think you should go down there and straighten it out. After that, you should head off to the Caribbean for a good long vacation."
His last comment was too much for Taylor. Her face turned bright red with anger as she shot to her feet. "You're the third fucking man," she screamed, "who's told me in a condescending way that I'm being irrational. Well, I may be a woman, but I'm not some emotional cripple. If you're too goddamned stupid to see a picture that's absolutely clear, then that's your fault and not mine."
"Listen, I didn't say that because you are a woman—"
"And right now I don't give a damn what you meant. I don't intend to bother you any more or stay in this house one more minute."
She stormed toward the front door.
"Hey, it's late. You can stay here tonight."
"I don't want a thing from you. I saw the Mendocino Inn in the middle of the town. I'd rather stay there."
"Listen, I'm sorry. Really. It's just that I don't think—"
"That's your trouble. You don't think. Period." Before he could respond, she was through the front door, slamming it so hard that the entire wall vibrated.
Chapter 21
At seven o'clock in the morning, Cady climbed out of bed, ending a miserable night of tossing and turning. He liked Taylor. He had even thought about asking her out last spring when they had finished the Warden case, which was why he had suggested that they go rafting in West Virginia. Then he got busy with the Russian mobster case and never followed up. That was the way it went for hardworking, single professionals.
All of that made him feel terrible for handling the discussion with her so poorly last evening, letting it degenerate into a shouting match. But damn, she had frustrated him. She was leaping to conclusions without having the facts to back them up.
Walking down the dirt path to the mailbox for the morning newspaper, he couldn't get her out of his mind. If she hadn't rushed out of the house last night, they could have talked things through. He could understand that she was upset about Senator Boyd's death. But that didn't justify her leap into an irrational void with her crazy theory about conspiracy and murder. She was hopeless, he thought, shaking his head. Still, he had to admire her spunk, coming all the way out here to enlist his help.
Back in the house he spread out the San Francisco Chronicle on the kitchen table and fixed a bowl of Cheerios with berries and skim milk. On the front page there was nothing new about Senator Boyd's death. Just a rehash of the old stories.
Another front-
page story related that Governor Crane was trying to jump-start his campaign with interviews on all three television networks in the next twenty-four hours. The Crane campaign was making a massive effort to hit the ground running and get into the race. Eighteen-hour days were being crammed together as the candidate planned to crisscross the country, stopping in each of the forty-eight contiguous states at least once. In the meantime his campaign headquarters in Harrisburg was cranking out a daily flow of position papers and blasts against the ineptitude of the Webster administration. According to the analyst, it was a high-risk, go-for-broke campaign that Crane was running, a far cry from Boyd's carefully planned, cautious effort that had put Boyd gradually in the lead. But conditions were different now. Crane didn't have the time that Boyd did. He had no choice, if he wanted a chance to win.
The apolitical Cady admired what Crane was doing. He always liked the gutsy underdog who refused to give up. He doubted that there was enough time for Crane to pull ahead, but swings in American public opinion were often hard to predict.
Eating cereal, Cady flipped the pages of the newspaper, rapidly scanning headlines. The Forty-niners were playing at home on Sunday against the Rams. On the first page of the business section was a long article about fluctuations in the value of the Japanese yen. According to a Stanford economist, Japanese exports would be more expensive and their position would erode further in world markets. The economist was predicting even harder times ahead for Japan, with the Japanese standard of living certain to fall some more. Cady thought about Glass's letter. It seemed preposterous that Sato or any foreign leaders could manipulate the American presidential election.
Cady kept turning pages. The Chronicle that Cady received in Mendocino had a supplement with a news roundup for areas north of the city. On the second page of that supplement a picture caught his eye. Whoa, wait a minute. He did a double-take. My God, that's Harvey Gladstone's picture. Next to it, the caption read, Realtor Killed in Automobile Crash.
