The Black List

by Robin Burcell

  Griffin looked up and to the right as though picturing the subject in his mind. “Five-seven, thin build, shoulder-length, reddish brown hair.”

  “Eyes?”

  “Brown.”

  Sydney jotted the information down. “The thing you remember the most about her.”

  “The woman’s hair. Sort of a film noir look.”

  Sydney looked at him over the top of her sketchbook, tempted to ask him if he pictured Veronica Lake. But one of the cardinal rules in doing a witness sketch was that you didn’t put words in a witness’s mouth. Every question needed to be open-ended. “Any particular style?”

  “Wavy, side part. What else do you need?”

  “What were you doing during the hour before?”

  “I have no idea. Why do you need to know?”

  “Cognitive interview techniques.” She didn’t need to explain it to him. It was something he was familiar with, though probably not when it came to doing a drawing. When used, it could help someone recall the smaller salient details that might be overlooked.

  “The hour before? Paperwork.”

  “The entire hour. Actions, thoughts, weather. I’m sure you can summarize without leaking secrets of national security. Very simple, even for super spies.”

  Griffin looked mildly annoyed. “I was looking at a picture of my wife,” he said, which made her wish she hadn’t asked. But then he added, “The secretary delivered a packet allegedly from Dorian, and then Tex called, saying Dorian changed his mind and wanted to meet. Pissed about the short window to recon the new area. No daylight. Cold out. Heard the gunshot, ran in, the elevator opened—” He stopped mid-sentence, his gaze again moving to the side as though seeing something in his mind’s eye. “I remember seeing dangling earrings. Distinctive shape. Like an upside-down question mark.”

  As much as Sydney wanted to quip I-told-you-so, she held her tongue about his remembering this tiny yet significant detail. What she did ask was the shape of the woman’s face.

  “Heart-shaped.”

  She drew, then turned the paper so he could see it.

  “A little wider in the forehead.”

  Sydney made the correction, turned it back to him.

  “That’s it.”

  And so it went. Back and forth for the next two hours, with only a short break between for coffee. Unlike other drawings, with other witnesses, there was no small talk to make the witness more comfortable, nothing to fill in the seemingly endless minutes while she sketched and shaded. And as she worked in silence, she wondered what he was thinking as he sat there.

  She felt his eyes on her but didn’t look up, and she decided she needed to settle this thing between them. Whatever it was, because hell if she even knew. Her pencil moving across the paper, she finally came out with it. “The truth is that I was upset partly that you consulted Carillo instead of me.”

  “Why?”

  She put down her pencil and looked right at him. “I called you over Christmas.”

  “I know.”

  “I just thought . . .”

  “I was in Mexico. On a mission with Marco. I didn’t get the message until yesterday.”

  Which made her feel every bit the idiot. “Doing what?”

  “Trying to find the route they’re using to smuggle terrorists into the U.S. via Mexico. Unfortunately, not successful.”

  “Oh.”

  And the rest of the sketch was done in silence, because Sydney had no idea where to go next, and it was clear that neither did Griffin. By the time she finished shading in the hair, he appeared more than ready for this to be over. She showed him the final version.

  He reached out. “May I?”

  She handed it to him, and their fingers brushed as he took it from her. His attention, however, was on the drawing.

  He studied it. “Something’s off . . .”

  “What would you do to change this? Make it look more like her?”

  He held up his hand, blocking out part of the drawing, probably to see if he could isolate what was bothering him. “Her cheekbones,” he said after a few moments. “They were higher. Sharp, but nice. She was pretty.”

  In that deadly sort of way, she told herself as she erased the area, resketched, then showed him.

  He nodded. “Definitely her.”

  Once he decided there were no further changes, she gave him the final drawing, and was glad when Carillo knocked on the door, saying Tex was done interviewing Trip.

  All she could think about was that she still had no idea where she or Griffin stood. She told herself it didn’t bother her at all.

  Sometimes the lies came easily.

  13

  New Year’s eve dawned bright and cold, and when Griffin entered his office that morning, he tossed his keys on his desk, his gaze catching on the envelope that Dorian had sent.

  “I was about to go get coffee,” Tex said, stopping in the doorway.

  “Already had some.” He picked up the envelope. “These are the passes that came for you yesterday.”

  “The From Sticks to Bricks charity fund-raiser?”

  “The same. I was wondering if Dorian sent them on his own, or was he forced? Of course, the bigger question is, why?”

  “Since he thinks we’re reporters, maybe it was to talk us out of doing an investigative article. I think we should go.”

  “You should go. Someone needs to work surveillance.”

  “Two-man team’s not going to cut it,” Tex said. “Who are you planning for a third person?”

  “It’s New Year’s eve. Not like there’s anyone around.”

  Tex sat in one of the chairs and leaned back, propping his boots up on the edge of Griffin’s desk. “There’s always Fitzpatrick.”

  “She’s on administrative leave.”

  “Like red tape has ever stopped us? Or are you trying to avoid her?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  Tex gave a cynical laugh. “Talk about stepping around the elephant in the room.”

  “Any two-ton behemoths present are wearing cowboy boots. And for the record, she’s the one who asked not to be included. I’m merely respecting her wishes.”

  “You need to tell her, Griff. Before you do anything stupid.”

  “Stupid?”

  “Like sleep with her.”

  “Weren’t you on your way to get coffee?”

  Tex stood. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Close the door on the way out . . . and take your elephant with you.”

  Syd had just returned from the grocery store when Tex called, asking, “Any chance you’re free tonight, starting around five?”

  “Depends,” she said. “If you have a better offer, I’m there.”

  “Stakeout. Dress warm and bring a gun.” He told her what was going on. Not what she had in mind for New Year’s eve. Still, it beat sitting at home with Carillo and company.

  Sydney walked into the Washington Recorder right at closing, and one of the staff looked up, saw her, then made a phone call. Apparently her presence around here was old hat. A minute later the elevator door opened and Tex emerged in a tuxedo. “A little overdressed, aren’t you?” Sydney asked once the elevator started its ascent.

  “Did I mention you’d be in the surveillance van with Griffin?”

  “You sort of glossed over that part.”

  “Guess we could always ask Carillo, and you could have the night off.”

  “So I can sit home drinking cider with his wife and her lover? Hmmm . . . Let me think about it . . .”

  “So how is Carillo?”

  “A little stir crazy, being cooped up.”

  “Beats going to their funeral,” he said, leading her into the conference room, where their equipment for the night was laid out on the long table.

  He was sorting through the earpieces when Griffin walked in.

  “I need the keys—” Griffin stopped short at the sight of Sydney. “You’re definitely not Marco.”

  �
��Dang.” Sydney reached up and felt her face. “I knew something was off when I looked in the mirror this morning.”

  “Marco couldn’t make it,” Tex said. “Last-minute replacement.” He inserted the earpiece, then turned to Sydney. “Does this receiver make me look fat?”

  “Do I have to answer that?”

  “Where’re the keys?” Griffin asked, looking slightly perturbed.

  “My desk.”

  Griffin left, and Sydney eyed Tex. “Glossed over me being here, too?”

  “Might’ve slipped my mind.”

  “Should be an interesting evening.”

  “Hey. I’m the one facing danger.”

  “From Griffin, maybe.”

  An hour later Griffin and Sydney were seated in the surveillance van, watching the front of the hotel as Tex parked, then walked across the lot into the lobby. There was an awkward silence between the two, and Sydney looked over at Griffin as he stared straight ahead.

  She laughed. “I don’t bite, you know.”

  Griffin didn’t quite smile, but it was close to one as he handed her a set of binoculars. “Sorry. I’ve had my mind on other things.”

  “Tex isn’t trying to set us up, is he?”

  “Not exactly. There is something I need to talk—”

  Tex’s voice sounded in her earpiece. “I’m walking in.”

  Griffin keyed his radio. “Copy.” He lifted his binoculars for a view.

  “There’s a sign directing all press members to check in at the silent auction table,” Tex told them.

  And Griffin said, “How much you want to bet that wasn’t there until after they sent us those tickets.”

  “Don’t want to lose track of your special invitees.”

  Music played in the background, and then she heard Tex introducing himself to someone. “James Dalton. I’m with the Washington Recorder.”

  “Welcome, Mr. Dalton,” came the man’s voice. “Let me just get you checked off. Are you here with anyone?”

  “Unfortunately my wife wasn’t feeling well,” Tex said.

  “Sorry to hear that. Looks like we don’t have your home address on file . . . One of the raffle prizes is an all expenses paid trip to Hawaii if you want to provide it. Might cheer your wife up if you win.”

  “Business address won’t do?”

  “I think they’re hoping to add to their mailing list,” the man said. “Every little bit helps, you know. Your ticket stub.”

  “Thank you,” Tex replied.

  Sydney lowered her binoculars as two men from the hotel exited the lobby, one leaning heavily on the other, staggering as they crossed into the parking lot in their direction. They stopped one row up, the man on the left bending down, probably puking his guts.

  “Little early to be drunk,” Griffin said, then adjusted the volume on their receiver. “Music’s louder. Tex is probably moving deeper into the ballroom.” He keyed the mike. “Anything interesting yet?”

  “Besides a half-full room of overdressed patrons and enough champagne to get a third-world country inebriated? I’d rather be in the van.”

  “That’s what happens when you lose the coin toss,” Griffin radioed back.

  About a minute of nothing but music followed, then Tex making the rounds, slipping into and out of social groups, and being introduced to one politician after the other. “They could hold a Senate meeting here,” he said to one bystander, who laughed. A moment later the man was introducing him to yet another person, saying, “Senator Burgess, this is James Dalton, Washington Recorder.”

  “Mr. Dalton . . .” came a woman’s voice; Sydney assumed the senator’s. “I’m sorry to say I don’t subscribe to your paper.”

  “Imagine it’s a bit conservative for your tastes, ma’am,” Tex said.

  Griffin reached over, turned up the radio, saying, “What the hell is she doing there?”

  “You know her?” Sydney asked.

  “More importantly, she knows Tex, and they’re not exactly buddies.”

  Someone laughed in the background, and then the senator asked, “Is it a coincidence you’re here, Mr. Dalton, or am I somehow supposed to believe you’re supporting the cause?”

  “The world is full of coincidences, Senator.”

  “Isn’t it. I—”

  “Ah, Senator Burgess,” came another man’s voice, this one filled with enthusiasm and admiration. “So good of you to come to my documentary.” Apparently Micah Goodwin, the man behind the fund-raiser.

  Sure enough, the senator replied with, “Micah. How very lovely to see you again.”

  “And who have you brought with you?” Micah asked.

  There was a hesitation, and then Tex saying, “I’m one of the reporters covering your event. James Dalton from the Washington Recorder.”

  “Always glad to meet the press,” came his reply. “Especially for a cause as worthy as this one. Have you seen the documentary?”

  “Unfortunately not all of it,” Tex said.

  “Well, at least the senator has.”

  “A wonderful cause,” she said, the perfect politician. “Ah. But I see my husband waving to me across the room. You’ll excuse me?”

  “So tell me, Mr. Dalton,” Micah said. “Anything about the documentary you’d like to know?”

  “What can you give me in a line or two?”

  “This . . . For every person present tonight, we’re able to relocate one refugee from the overburdened camps to this country to start a new life. Moving them from a hovel of sticks and tarps to a real brick building.”

  “Every person present?”

  “Twenty-five hundred dollars. You have no idea what it feels like to walk into a village, war-torn, poverty-stricken, feeling helpless and insignificant, because all the money won’t make a difference to these people. But when we bring them here, they have a chance. I can’t tell you what a sense of fulfillment this has all brought me. Having a place in this world, knowing that my little documentary has helped pave the way for so many underprivileged refugees who had nothing.”

  And so it went for several minutes, small talk, people discussing the film and what a good cause it was. Apparently Tex had moved off by himself, because a moment later he said, “You two might want to get in here. I found her.”

  “Found who?” Griffin radioed back.

  “The woman Sydney sketched. Only they were wrong about her looking like Veronica Lake. I’d say she’s more like Jessica Rabbit.”

  “How the hell do you know it’s even the same woman?”

  “She’s wearing the earrings Sydney drew.”

  Veronica Lake . . . Jessica Rabbit. Whoever she was, Tex was all for getting a closer look, because what he saw was intoxicating. She wore a silver lamé dress that hugged every curve, the discreet slit up the side hinting at silken legs that went on forever, and he pictured her bloodred stiletto heels being kicked off in the middle of his bed. “I think I’m in love, Griff.”

  “Down, boy. We’re on our way in.”

  Tex glanced toward the main entrance, where all the doors stood wide-open to the lobby beyond, but didn’t see Griffin yet. Unfortunately the auburn-headed bombshell turned and started walking in the opposite direction, her silky hair cascading down her back, her dress shimmering with every step.

  Love, lust, who was counting? He quickened his pace, gaining ground, then almost ran into her when she suddenly stopped next to a table piled with books.

  “Oh my God!” She jumped, her hand going to her chest.

  “Sorry about that,” he said. “I wasn’t watching.”

  She looked around her, then turned back to him. “No, no. It’s probably my fault. There were these guys— Never mind. It’s like I’m running in fifteen different directions and I have no idea what I’m doing.”

  “Have you read it? The book?” he asked, picking up a copy and opening the front cover.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name,” she said.

  “James Dalton, with the Washingto
n Recorder.”

  “Eve Sanders.” Her mouth parted slightly, showing a line of even white teeth. Then, lowering her voice, she said, “The Recorder? As in the same reporter who talked to Dorian Rose?”

  “I am.”

  “I realize this is awkward, but when he told me you had contacted him, I—I just had a feeling something bad was going on. I guess I just never expected that he’d kill himself. It was all very surreal. I mean, I’d just left his apartment.”

  “You were there?”

  “I was, but he didn’t answer his door, so I left. I just—I knew he was in there. And now I have to wonder if there’s something I could have done differently. Maybe knocked louder, stopped him from taking his own life—”

  “Is something wrong?” he asked when her attention was suddenly diverted toward the front doors.

  She pulled her gaze back to him. “Sorry. I thought I saw— I’m just tired.” She reached out, grasped his arm. “You aren’t going to write about this, are you? Dorian’s suicide?”

  “No, ma’am,” he said.

  A moment later he heard Griffin announcing, “We’re here.”

  Tex looked in that direction, saw Griffin and Sydney to the left of the doors, each with a camera hanging around their necks, their attention on Tex, undoubtedly waiting to find out what to do next.

  “Friends of yours?” Eve asked, apparently noticing his interest.

  “My photographers,” he told Eve.

  A moment later Tex watched as two men moved to either side of Sydney and Griffin, stepping in close. Too close. Unfortunately, Micah Goodwin walked up to the podium to begin his speech, and the applause drowned out whatever the two men were saying to Griffin.

  A third man walked up behind Tex and Eve, and in a voice just loud enough for the two of them to hear, said, “Don’t move, Mr. Dalton. I have a gun pointed right at you.”

  And to prove his point, he pressed the weapon into Tex’s side.

  14

  Nothing like the sobering feel of hard steel against your rib cage, Tex thought, as the sound of applause finally died, and Micah Goodwin stood at the podium on the dais.