by Paul Heald
“Or failure to investigate,” James broke in.
“Or failure … yes … and I think I may have found a link. An old friend of my father’s named Giles Keefe occupied a high position in the State Department at the time of Jacob’s flight.” She paused. “I got a phone number for him in northern Virginia yesterday, but I’ve only talked to his wife so far.”
Miriam looked around the room and Thor nodded at her to continue.
“I didn’t ask her any questions about Jacob or Diana, but she asked me to say hello to my mother. Apparently, they were fast friends during my father’s years in Washington, but my mom denies knowing either Keefe or his wife and has clammed up totally about the time she spent with my father in DC. She’s definitely covering something up.”
She reached over and touched the priest’s hand. “We wouldn’t know any of this if Thor hadn’t found an old letter from Keefe in his office.”
Melanie had the resources to do further fact finding on Keefe, if necessary, but what intrigued her the most was Miriam’s motivation for making her father look bad. Surely she could see that implicating him in a cover-up would damage his reputation. Unless, of course, she thought Granville was innocent and her father merely a Good Samaritan. But if that were the case, why join this Hardy Boys amateur crime-stoppers unit dedicated to uncovering his whereabouts?
“Could you say a little bit about your own relationship with Jacob?” Melanie spoke sweetly, sounding idly curious, as if the fact of their romance were already known to everyone in the room. Miriam reddened and dodged Thor’s interested gaze.
“What do you mean?” She mechanically smoothed the top of her skirt.
“I mean, when did you and Jacob stop dating?” Melanie smiled. “Mrs. Granville was quite sad that you never became her daughter-in-law. She showed us pictures of you and Jacob together.”
The look of confusion on Thor’s face made it clear that he was hearing this for the first time. James looked merely curious, as if he had been considering bringing up the subject and was pleased with how the attorney had slid it into the conversation.
“I don’t think my personal life is relevant.” She tried to wave away the subject with a flick of her right hand. “That was a long time ago.”
“Maybe, but Mrs. Granville said that Jacob broke up with you.” Melanie was extrapolating from the mother’s remarks, but she hit home nonetheless. “Whether you’re still carrying a torch for Jacob or you hate him for dumping you, I imagine that it’s hard to be objective about him.”
Miriam’s eyes flashed and she leaned forward in a combative stance but did not answer the question.
“Miriam,” the attorney prodded, “do you believe that Jacob killed Diana?”
“Never,” she replied emphatically as she stood. “He would never hurt anyone!” She tried to stare down Melanie, a slight quaver in her voice. “Why are you here, anyway? Are you looking for evidence to convict him or are you trying to clear his name?”
“We’re just looking for the truth.”
“I just told you the truth.” Miriam shook her head furiously and walked out the door.
Melanie saw the distress in the priest’s face and thought that he might follow her, but he stayed put.
“Was that really necessary?” He sighed.
“All I did was ask her questions …” Melanie’s response was right out of the lawyer playbook, but it sufficed to silence the rattled priest. “I take it this was news to you?”
“Yeah.” He shook his head. “I don’t know why she didn’t tell me. I guess she thought that if she could track down her dad’s contacts, we could track down Jacob.” He groaned when he realized the implication of what he had said.
Melanie took pity and turned her attention from the priest to James. “How did the conversation with your boss go?”
“He said that Jacob asked permission to go to Geneva but wouldn’t say much about the story. Jacob thought it was a huge scoop. He was convinced it would make his reputation.”
“Geneva?” the priest interrupted. “As in Switzerland?”
James started to explain but Melanie held up her hand. “Father Carter, we’re happy to share what we know. After all, you’re in the middle of the church that supposedly shielded Jacob, but you need to promise not to speak to Miriam about anything we tell you. We can keep you in the loop, but only on that condition.”
He ran his hand through his hair and frowned, then he got up and shut the door that Miriam had left open. “You know,” he said slowly, “I’d just as soon forget about the whole thing, but I’d like to help if I can. Last week I asked Sheriff Johnson about the investigation and he came this close to threatening me.” He pinched his right thumb and forefinger together. “I don’t think that James is paranoid about a cover-up, and I don’t believe that the theft of Father Rodgers’s papers was some kind of crazy coincidence.” He sat back down. “You can count me in.”
“And no word to Miriam?” Melanie insisted.
He thought for a moment and nodded. “For now, but I think you’re overreacting.”
“Maybe,” James interjected. “But remember the sermon that I found, the one Ernest Rodgers preached about Granville’s innocence? Written in the margin next to his conclusion was ‘Miriam.’ I thought the reference might be to Moses’s sister, but now I think he might have been relying on information about Jacob from his daughter.” He made a deferential gesture to the priest, “I don’t think she’s done anything wrong, but I really wonder if she can be objective.”
Thor nodded. Melanie watched him carefully, and he seemed to understand the need for discretion.
“Right,” she turned her attention to the reporter, “what else did your boss have to say?”
“Not much … He just emphasized how hot Jacob was for this story.”
Melanie looked back to Thor. “To fill you in: The week before Jacob and Diana disappeared, he flew to Geneva to meet someone about a story involving a World Trade Organization investigation of US cotton subsidies. We found a picture he took there of two girls in front of the WTO building. We thought the timing was interesting, so we’ve been following up.”
She smiled broadly and took a folder out of her satchel. “And now let me show you both what I’ve been up to.” She sorted through the folder while she spoke, first detailing her conversation with Diana’s mother and then her exploration of Granville’s Facebook page. She passed out two copies of his most comprehensive posts about the cotton case and waited for them to read before passing around the new picture of Brenda, “The Cotton Queen,” alongside her friend Elisa.
She handed a paper to Thor. “And here’s a copy of the photo of them we found in the newspaper archive.”
Thor studied both photos and then Granville’s posts on the cotton case. “Murder is a strong word to use to describe US agricultural policy.”
“Maybe,” James answered, “but it’s kind of shocking that Congress wants to give $18 billion to corporate farmers so that they can produce a crop that’s only worth $11 billion. Jacob was onto a good story, for sure, but everything about the subsidies and the case itself is out in the public. It’s hard to see why he needed to go to Geneva to talk to Brenda.” He turned and smiled at Melanie. “Do you know how the case came out?”
Her face must have shown her embarrassment because his smile broadened in response, the little crinkles around the corner of his eyes teasing her failure to check. “No,” she confessed, “I never bothered to look.”
“Well,” he explained in a more serious voice, “we lost. The developing world took on the US at the WTO and beat us soundly.”
“That’s a surprise,” Thor interjected.
“Maybe, but the summary of the panel report makes the decision sound like a no-brainer, like Congress must have known it was violating the subsidy rules. But here’s the big thing: We’ve never complied with the ruling. Congress refuses to stop writing the checks.”
“What?” Melanie was stunned. The US actively
promoted the WTO and had been essential to its formation. In order to convince other member states to play by the international economic rules that it often wrote, the US government had to set a good example. Failing to comply was a dangerous strategy.
“Yup, someone’s got some serious clout. Congress keeps the money flowing, while the WTO is set to allow the winners in the case to hit several US industries with serious trade sanctions in retaliation.” He shook his head and for a moment lost his journalistic detachment. Melanie thought the sudden burst of passion suited him. “It’s a lose-lose for us. We keep pissing away our taxes on the subsidies while our manufacturing sector will get slammed with a round of new tariffs.”
“Someone’s got some clout,” Melanie repeated.
“And no conscience,” added the priest quietly.
The three sat in silence. Sunshine streamed through the windows of the study, making the room a little stuffy, so Thor cracked open the leaded-glass casement to let in some air. The breeze that blew in was warmer than the room. Summer had finally arrived in Clarkeston.
“I’d love to have a word with Brenda,” James said contemplatively. “Just to have some clue what was driving Jacob. He wasn’t stupid. He wouldn’t have gone to Geneva without a good reason.”
“Well,” Melanie replied, to the reporter’s surprise, “I tried to call her yesterday, but she apparently no longer works at the WTO.” She detailed her search through the organization’s website and her successful discovery of Elisa van der Vaart. She also disclosed to the reporter for the first time that the search for the origin of the photos had officially gone nowhere. “But Brenda’s friend will be back in her office tomorrow.”
“Are you going to call her?” James asked, with a glance at the photo in his lap.
“I’m not sure. If there is something hush-hush going on, then I don’t want her to warn Brenda.” She laughed. “God, I sound like an international spy.” Mostly, she hated interviewing people over the phone. Any sort of delicate communication was always better conducted face to face. She didn’t want to ask the wrong question and be punished with the click of disconnection on the other end of the line.
“As a former colleague of Jacob’s, I could call and say that I’m following up on his story or something.”
“No.” Suddenly, she had the answer. “Not yet, anyway. I’ve got a better idea.”
XXV.
PRINCIPALITIES
“ Geneva?” Stanley was surprised by Melanie’s request that he go to Switzerland and pay a visit to the World Trade Organization, but the more he thought about it, the more he warmed to the idea. He loved the thought of mountains, and his brief affair with Vanessa was winding down. Her ex-husband had arrived with their kids, and the chance to spend time together had seriously diminished. And although under Reggie’s tutelage his darting skills were rapidly improving, the sport was a poor reason to turn down a persuasive voice asking for an exotic favor.
Melanie explained her desire to make contact with Elisa van der Vaart and trace the whereabouts of her friend Brenda Harvey. “I checked on Travelocity, and it looks like there are some cheap flights from Palma to Geneva. From what you’ve told me about your sociological work, interviewing people is a big part of your job, right?”
Almost all of Stanley’s academic research had been conducted in the field. In fact, his role in solving the murder of the infamous porn star Jade Delilah had been a direct outgrowth of his professional interrogations. Flying to Geneva to ask a few questions and then heading up into the Alps for some hiking sounded like a good excuse to prolong his European vacation and work off the remainder of his doughnut flab. “Sure,” he replied, “tell me what you want.”
The attorney filled him in on the details of the cotton case and on Jacob Granville’s trip to Geneva five years earlier. She sent him links to the WTO panel report in the case, scanned the two pictures of Brenda and Elisa, and provided him with Van Der Vaart’s contact information at the WTO. He booked a flight for the next day.
Although he asked Vanessa out for a final meal at El Langustino, her ex-husband had left the children with her for the evening, and Stanley had to be satisfied with drinks on the patio while her teenage boys roamed around complaining about the intermittent Wi-Fi access. After an hour or so, she walked him to the door, and they had a moment to themselves.
“Vanessa, I can’t possibly tell you what a wonderful time I’ve had.” Knowing that an emotional acknowledgment of the healing nature of her affection would be awkward, he hoped a broad smile and warm, lingering kiss would convey his depth of feeling.
“Me, too,” she said, standing close and stroking his cheek briefly. “I know you’ve got no plans to come to England, but I’d love to see you again whenever you do. Please come by.” She pressed his hand tightly and then turned back into the villa.
The brief affirmation sufficed. He departed feeling appreciated and desired and all without the pang of guilt that often comes with the final parting from a lover.
* * *
Stanley sat in the Palma de Mallorca airport and studied the documents that Melanie had sent him, working on a plan to elicit the information she needed. He eventually decided to pay Elisa a visit in person rather than make initial contact by phone or email. His main objective was to find her friend, and she might well hesitate to provide contact information to an unknown man over the phone.
He arrived in Geneva on a Tuesday morning and took the train from the airport to the city center. The area around the train station was a weird combination of middle-class and seedy. The buildings were modern and clean, consistent with anyone’s assumptions about Swiss orderliness, but the human element muddied the scene. Prostitutes in impossibly high heels made no attempt to disguise their business plans as they swished past clumps of well-dressed men (Eastern European? Middle Eastern?) who hung around the doors of darkened clubs. Stanley felt no danger as he crossed through the neighborhood, down toward the lake and his hotel, but it was an uncomfortable stroll as he deflected the glances of people who thought he might have come looking for women or dope.
He eventually found his hotel, at a busy intersection close to the lakeside path that would take him to the headquarters of the World Trade Organization. His room was a bit noisy, but the lively bustle beneath his window was energizing and spurred him to take a quick shower and then head directly to the WTO to find Elisa.
After a quick detour to a patisserie across the street from his hotel, he strode contentedly to the lakeshore, croissant and coffee in hand. Realizing he had no reason to hurry, he sat down on a shaded park bench and alternated flakey bites of pastry and strong, perfectly bitter espresso. The famous water jet danced merrily in the steady breeze, and to its right he could just make out where the old city lay. He had been to Geneva once before and planned to make a visit to the small medieval center of town that stood in such stark contrast to the shiny towers of intergovernmental bureaucracy that dominated the skyline. He knew of a tiny wooden tavern where he could buy Calvinus beer on tap, a memorable and tasty slap in the face of the dour Protestant leader, who would no doubt be horrified by the commerce being done under his name.
When he finished, he took a tree-lined route along the shore to a walkway that curved away from the lake and around to the front of the four-story stone headquarters of the WTO. As he wandered up a flagstone path past beds of recently planted flowers, he was surprised by the informality of the place and the lack of security. No guards holding Uzis patrolled the grounds, no checkpoint with scowling soldiers barred his path. It didn’t look like the secret headquarters from which the Trilateral Commission controlled world governments.
Stanley approached a smiling staff member at the reception desk and asked for Elisa van der Vaart of the Intellectual Property Division. The woman nodded, rang a number, spoke briefly for a moment, and then asked his name. In response, he handed her his business card, identifying himself as a professor at Belle Meade College in California. This seemed to satisfy h
er, and she asked the sociologist to sit down while he waited for Ms. van der Vaart.
He recognized the young woman immediately as she popped through a pair of glass doors on the right side of the lobby. She looked to be in her late twenties, and the blond hair that had hung in her face in both of Melanie’s pictures was tied back in a neat bun. She was not conventionally pretty, but she had a slim, athletic build and striking blue eyes. The look on her face when she spotted him was hard to pin down. Friendly, but not quite smiling, and clearly intelligent. Maybe talking over dinner would be a good idea.
He stood up and held out his hand. Her grip was firm and dry. “Hi. I’m Stan Hopkins. I teach sociology at Belle Meade College in Claremont, California, and I was hoping that you might have a few moments to talk to me.”
She gave him a curious look and led him to a modern cube-like couch in a corner of the lobby. “Are you doing research on intellectual property?” she asked. “I’ve been talking to an anthropologist for over a year now about protection for traditional medicine, so I suppose it was only a matter of time before the sociologists showed up too.”
Her playful introduction was as surprising as the flowers in the building’s front lawn and the congenial receptionist. He wondered whether there was an international angle worth pursuing in his research on labor unions. “No, I don’t have any academic interest in the WTO right now, although I have to say that this place is really interesting.”
He pulled out a folded photo from the vest pocket of his jacket and handed it to her. “I was hoping that you could help put me in contact with Brenda Harvey. She used to work in the Subsidies and Countervailing Duties Working Group.”
Stanley watched her face turn as white as the paper. “You seem to be friends in the picture.”
Her eyes welled up with tears and her voice thickened. “She was my friend and my roommate.” She pushed the paper back to the professor. “She died five years ago.” Her eyes narrowed. “You did not know this?”
