K Street

by M. A. Lawson

  “What the hell do you mean, Let me think about that?” Platt said.

  “It means I need to decide if it’s smart to give you people’s names. Giving you their names could put them in danger.”

  “Goddamnit, if you don’t—”

  “I’ll tell you what. You give me the name of the guy I shot, and I’ll give you the name of a guy who is, like, Callahan’s office manager. Okay?”

  “You’re bargaining with me?” Platt said.

  “Calm down before you have a stroke. I just want to know who I shot. That doesn’t seem unreasonable to me. And if you arrest me, my lawyer will get his name anyway.”

  Platt again hesitated. “His name was Jack Quinn. He served time for armed robbery twelve years ago, an armored-car heist in Ohio. He hasn’t been convicted since then.”

  “How ’bout the other guy, the one Callahan killed?”

  “I gave you all I’m going to give. Now tell me the name of this office manager.”

  “Okay. A deal’s a deal,” Kay said, as if she wouldn’t break a deal with Platt whenever it suited her. She gave her Eli Dolan’s name and cell phone number.

  As soon as she ended the call with Platt, she called Eli. “I’m sorry I had to do this to you, but I gave your name to the D.C. Metro detective who’s investigating the attack. Right now cops are roaming all over Callahan’s office, pawing through desks and trying to get into the computers, and you’re the best person to stop them.”

  She thought Eli would get pissed at her for giving Platt his name, but he didn’t. Instead he said, “I already concluded the same thing. I’m on my way to LaGuardia right now. I’ll deal with the detective.”

  “Thanks. And see if you can get the cops to give you the name of the man Callahan shot. The man I shot was named Quinn and—”

  “How did you find that out?”

  “I traded your name to the detective.”

  Eli laughed.

  “Anyway,” Kay continued, “Quinn was a convicted armed robber. But I still can’t figure out why a robbery crew would hit Callahan’s office.”

  “So what are you doing now?” Eli said.

  “I’m waiting for somebody who might have some information.”

  “Who?”

  She ignored the question. “Eli, the other thing we need to do, and I should have thought of this earlier, is get Henry over to watch Callahan. Whoever did this might try again.”

  “You think they would try to kill him in a hospital?”

  “I don’t know. But then, I never would have dreamed that guys with machine guns would attack the office in broad daylight.”

  “Okay, I’ll call Henry. Who are you waiting to see?”

  “A DEA guy I used to work with who has contacts in D.C. Metro. I’m hoping he might know someone who can give me the name of the other man who was killed.”

  She didn’t know why, but like a little kid, she crossed her fingers when she told this lie. She told Eli good-bye and said she’d call him later.

  • • •

  SHE LOOKED AT HER WATCH: five p.m. She’d wasted the entire afternoon sitting in front of Prescott’s place. For the third time that afternoon, she walked up to the apartment building entrance and leaned on Prescott’s bell. No answer.

  She returned to her car and called her daughter at Duke, but the call went to voice mail. Jessica was most likely still in class or maybe sitting in the library, cramming anatomy or physiology into her brain—subjects that Kay wouldn’t have been able to pass if someone had been holding a gun to her head. The fact that it was July made no difference to her daughter, who seemed determined to set a record for becoming an M.D. Kay left a message saying she missed her and to give her a call when she had a chance.

  Kay didn’t have what would be considered a normal relationship with her daughter—Jessica called her Kay, not Mom—because Kay had really only known Jessica for two years. Kay was fifteen when she’d given birth to Jessica and had allowed the girl to be adopted by a married cousin who was dying to have a kid. But when Jessica was fifteen, after her adoptive parents died, she appeared back in Kay’s life. She—reluctantly—asked Kay to become her guardian so she wouldn’t have to go into the foster care system, and so Kay—also reluctantly—became her mother again.

  They’d gotten off to a rocky start, as might be expected. For one thing, Jessica thought that because Kay had given her up for adoption, she obviously didn’t want to be a mom. They also had nothing in common. When Kay was in high school, she cared mostly about sports and boys—which explains how she got pregnant—and after graduation she went into law enforcement. Jessica, on the other hand, was a straight-A student, excelled in math and science, and was now taking premed courses at Duke. Jessica, in fact, was so bright that she’d skipped her senior year in high school to attend college, and Kay had no doubt that she would one day become a brilliant doctor.

  They were brought closer together when Jessica was kidnapped in San Diego while Kay was working for the DEA. Now they got along well. Even though they still didn’t have much of anything in common, they talked frequently on the phone, Kay making sure that Jessica had everything she needed and was doing all right, and driving down to Duke some weekends to see her. The truth was that Kay was a lousy mother, but she was trying to become a better one. It was fortunate that Jessica was very mature and away at college, so when Kay left the Callahan Group, her daughter’s life wouldn’t be affected. She would make sure it wasn’t affected.

  After she left the message for Jessica, she decided to get something to eat before she passed out. She’d find a fast food place, get something to go, and come back to Prescott’s place. She was just about to pull away from the curb when a cab stopped in front of the apartment building. A tall, thin woman got out of the rear seat. The cabbie opened the trunk and handed her a rolling suitcase, and the woman headed for the door of the building.

  Could this be Prescott? Kay wondered. There was no reason to think it was. It could be any one of the other tenants. But why not check? Kay allowed enough time to pass for the woman to collect her mail and reach her apartment, then walked up to the doorbells again.

  “Yes? Who is it?” a woman said through the intercom.

  “I’m here to see you about Thomas Callahan.”

  The woman immediately said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve buzzed the wrong unit.”

  “Fine,” Kay said. “In that case, you won’t care if I give your name to the D.C. cops.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Kay Hamilton. I work for Callahan.”

  “Well, I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “After Callahan came out of surgery, he said one thing to me. He said ‘Olivia Prescott’—and I think you’re the Prescott he was talking about. But since you’re acting like you don’t know Callahan, I’m going to pass your name on to the cops and let them figure out if you’re telling the truth.”

  Kay figured that if this Olivia Prescott was connected in any way to the covert side of Callahan’s operation, the last thing she would want is the D.C. cops knowing her name. On the other hand, if Prescott was the one responsible for the attack on Callahan’s office, the same would be true.

  Whatever the case, after a long moment of silence, Prescott said, “I’ll buzz you in so we can sort out this nonsense.”

  “Thanks,” Kay said. But she was thinking: Gotcha.

  7

  DAY 2—5 P.M.

  Prescott was in her sixties, lean, flat-chested, no hips to speak of. She had thin lips, a bony nose, and her eyes were pale blue and seemingly lifeless. She was wearing a short-sleeved white blouse, black slacks, and low-heeled black loafers, and, except for one thing, she fit Kay’s image of a cranky spinster librarian. The one thing was her hair, which was cut in a short, wavy bob and dyed platinum blond, reminding Kay of a 1
920s flapper. She couldn’t imagine why a woman Prescott’s age—and with Prescott’s seemingly no-nonsense demeanor—would dye her hair that color.

  “Now what’s this all about? Why are you here?” Prescott said.

  “I told you. When Callahan came out of surgery, he gave me the name Olivia Prescott. Your name.”

  “There must be dozens of Olivia Prescotts in this country,” Prescott said.

  Kay noticed that Prescott didn’t ask who Callahan was or why he’d been in surgery, but didn’t bother to point this out. “Actually, there are only seven Olivia Prescotts,” she said, “and you’re the only one who lives a short distance from D.C.”

  “But why are you here?” Prescott asked again.

  “I need your help. Since you didn’t ask why Callahan was in surgery, I’m assuming you know what happened to him. Anyone with access to a television or a radio knows what happened on K Street. I’m also assuming you’re one of the people who’s been running Callahan. I’m trying to find out who shot him and why, and I need your help.”

  “I don’t know what you mean about me running Callahan.”

  “I think you do. And think about this, Olivia. Right now a bunch of cops are inside Callahan’s office, rooting through all the paperwork and trying to get into the computers.”

  Prescott shook her head, but before she could say anything, Kay said, “I’m not bluffing. I’ll give your name to the cops and let them take it from here. And if I give the cops your name, the media will most likely get it, too. Do you really want the press digging into your relationship with Callahan?”

  Prescott stared at her for a moment, her lips compressed into an unyielding line. Again she started to say something, but then turned her back on Kay and walked over to stand in front of a window. The only thing Kay could see out the window were trees and other apartment buildings. She knew Prescott wasn’t taking in the view; she was trying to decide if it really mattered if Kay gave her name to the police.

  As Kay waited for Prescott to make up her mind, she looked around the apartment. It was nicely decorated but cold, like Prescott. Lots of stainless steel and the furniture was mostly white, beige, or black. There were no knickknacks on shelves, no family photos, and there was hardly a primary color in sight. On one wall were two photos of trees taken in winter, snow on the ground, the trees leafless. Kay found them depressing. On a coffee table were magazines that Kay couldn’t imagine a normal person reading: Scientific American, Mathematics Magazine, American Journal of Physics. Who the hell reads shit like that? A college professor—or maybe someone who works for the NSA?

  Prescott turned back to face her. “Sit down,” she ordered and Kay could tell she was a woman used to giving orders. “This is going to take some time.”

  Kay took a seat in a chair that had been built for aesthetic appeal, not comfort. Prescott dropped into a couch directly across from her and crossed her long legs. Kay could see the fatigue in Prescott’s face.

  “Do you know who Sally Ann Danzinger is?” Prescott said.

  Danzinger. That was the woman Henry said had been to see Callahan yesterday, the political activist. But Kay wasn’t there to share information with Prescott. “No. Never heard of her.”

  “What about the Layman brothers?”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of them. Rich guys involved in Republican politics.”

  “That’s correct. And Sally Ann Danzinger, I guess you’d say, was their Democratic counterpart.”

  “Was?” Kay said.

  Prescott ignored the question. “Sally Ann hated the Laymans. She accused them of using their wealth to achieve the goals of the ultraconservative right. The fact that Sally Ann was doing the same thing for liberal causes was irrelevant to her.”

  “What does this have to do with Callahan?”

  “Just shut up and listen. Sally Ann was convinced that the Laymans were bribing politicians and violating campaign finance laws. Her lawyers have filed dozens of lawsuits hoping to gain access to documents that would prove the Laymans had committed crimes. She hired private detectives to follow them, and her detectives allegedly monitored the Laymans’ phone calls, made attempts to get listening devices into their offices, and bribed employees to provide incriminating evidence.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “A lot of what she did is a matter of public record or speculation reported by the media. The Laymans have also filed their share of lawsuits against her. But the point I’m making is that Sally would do anything to get the Laymans. She was obsessed with bringing them down. Anyway, she called me yesterday when I was in London. She—”

  “Wait a minute. Why would she call you?”

  “Because I’ve known her since college. We were in the same sorority at Princeton. We were close when we were young but grew apart when she became so radical. One of the things that strained our friendship was her strong objection to the NSA monitoring the communications of American citizens. I tried to explain to her that what the NSA does is both legal and necessary, but she wouldn’t listen to reason, and the last time I saw her she called me a Nazi. Until yesterday, I hadn’t spoken to her in three years.”

  Prescott had just admitted she worked for the NSA. She probably thought that, since Kay had her name, Kay already knew who employed her or would find out soon.

  “As I was saying, Sally Ann called me yesterday while I was in London. She—”

  “What time did she call you?” Kay asked.

  “It was after two in London, so it would have been around nine a.m. here. Now quit interrupting and pay attention. Sally Ann told me an employee of Zytek Systems had given classified information to a foreign government. Zytek is heavily involved in submarine sonar systems, the Laymans are majority shareholders, and one of the Layman brothers’ sons is the CEO. When I asked her how she knew this, she told me that someone who works for the NSA had intercepted an e-mail from Zytek to an operative of a foreign government. Do you understand what all this means?”

  “No,” Kay said. She was still reeling from the words operative of a foreign government.

  “It means that Sally Ann had somehow managed to convince an NSA employee to monitor communications related to the Laymans. But Sally Ann refused to tell me the man’s name when I spoke with her.”

  “How do you know it’s a man?”

  “Because he was killed yesterday.”

  “What?”

  As Kay was trying to absorb this revelation, Prescott said, “Sally Ann had a copy of the e-mail the NSA man had intercepted. Actually, she had a copy of an attachment to the e-mail. But she didn’t know who sent it, she didn’t know who the recipient was, and, like I said, she refused to tell me the name of the man who gave it to her.

  “I told her to take the copy of the e-mail attachment and deliver it to Callahan and that I would pick it up when I got back from London. When I got off the plane, I learned about the attack on Callahan’s office. That’s when I also learned about the NSA man who was killed.”

  “Why did you tell her to take it to Callahan? You said you didn’t know him.”

  “I never said that I didn’t know him. I said I wasn’t running him, whatever the hell that means. I knew Callahan when he worked at the CIA and I told Sally Ann to take the copy to him because, at the time, I didn’t know who in the NSA I could trust or who was leaking information to Sally Ann. My plan had been to get the document from Callahan today and begin an investigation, but by then Callahan had been shot.”

  “Have you spoken to Danzinger since you got back?”

  “No. Sally Ann was also killed yesterday.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Kay said. “And they killed all these people to get their hands on an attachment to an e-mail? It’s that important?”

  “The answer to your question is no,” Prescott said. “They didn’t kill to obtain the copy of the e-mail attachment. Whomever the e
-mail was sent to already had the attachment. They killed them to hide the identity of the government who received the e-mail and to protect their spy at Zytek.”

  “Did you warn Callahan that what Danzinger was bringing him was dangerous?”

  “No. I never talked to Callahan and I had no idea someone would do this. I just wanted the document out of Sally Ann’s hands so she wouldn’t give it to someone else.”

  “How did you find out that Danzinger had been killed? It wasn’t reported on the news.”

  “As I said, I learned about the massacre in Callahan’s office when I got off the plane. I had no specific reason to believe that it happened because of the information Sally Ann had given him, but obviously the thought occurred to me. It also occurred to me that if Callahan had been attacked because of what she had given him, then she could be in danger, too. I sent men to her home to bring her to a safe house, but when they arrived, the police were already there.

  “And Sally Ann’s death was on the news but her name wasn’t mentioned, as they hadn’t notified her next of kin. The police told the media that a home invasion had occurred and the homeowner and her companion were killed.”

  “And the NSA man you said was killed. Who was he and how was he killed?”

  “His name was James Parker and his body was found in a park in Anacostia yesterday afternoon. He shot himself in the head—or so the cops think. I think he was killed, because I don’t buy the coincidence of Sally Ann being killed and Callahan being attacked the same day an NSA technician decides to commit suicide.”

  “Are you sure Parker’s the one who gave Danzinger the attachment?”

  “No, not one hundred percent. But Parker was in a position at the NSA to have intercepted the e-mail. He was also not an ideal employee. He was one of those people who thought he was brighter than he really was and that the agency didn’t appreciate his value. He was also politically active. The agency discourages political activism but, unfortunately, we can’t stop it. So I suspect that Parker worked with Sally Ann because he shared her political views. Or maybe she paid him. I don’t know. I already have a team tearing Parker’s life apart.