Shakeup

by Stuart Woods

  “More than you know,” Stone said.

  She came over to his desk. “Is it legal to kiss you in these surrounds?”

  “Strictly speaking, yes, but Joan has very sensitive antennae and tends to walk in at such times. Bob, over there,” he said, nodding toward the sleeping dog, “wouldn’t mind a bit.”

  “I’ll try to control myself. I’m off to speak with Arthur Jacoby and Donald Clark.”

  “Dinner tonight?”

  “Oh, good, where?”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  “Well, I’d better repair to the Carlyle and exchange these clothes for others,” she said. “Or someone might notice.”

  “Joan certainly would, and I’d never hear the end of it.”

  “After dinner, your place or mine? I need to select the appropriate wardrobe.”

  “Appropriate would be nothing at all, and I think we should come here. The director of the FBI might be noticed coming and going with a man at the Carlyle.”

  “That’s deputy director,” she said.

  “Perhaps for the moment.”

  She perked up. “Have you heard something?”

  “The breeze bears rumors,” he replied. “I hear Shaker is being encouraged to vacate that space.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears.”

  “Here at six-thirty?”

  “Done,” she said, and closed the door behind her.

  Joan buzzed him. “That Donald Clark character is here again.”

  Stone ground his teeth for a moment. “Send him in, and disturb us after about three minutes.”

  Donald Clark strode into Stone’s office, looking more athletic and self-confident than on his last visit. “Good morning, Stone!” he boomed, taking a seat, uninvited.

  “Now what, Donald?” Stone asked, with no attempt to conceal his displeasure at the visit.

  “I’ve been cleared of anything to do with the murder of Ms. Carlyle,” he said.

  “Oh, really? Did the DCPD post a notice?”

  “The DCPD has closed the case,” Clark said confidentially.

  “How did you come to hear that?”

  “I have ears here and there.”

  “Well, you’d better have them cleaned,” Stone said. “The DCPD has simply closed the case without further recommendation.”

  “And that is as good as it can get,” Clark said.

  “Perhaps so, Donald, but it can get worse.”

  His face took on a wary look. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Tell me, Donald, what did Ms. Carlyle do for a living?”

  “I believe that she was a secretary.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. Does it matter?”

  “I fear it’s going to matter a great deal.”

  “Stone, what do you know that I don’t know?”

  “Ms. Carlyle was a secretary at the Justice Department.”

  Clark’s face went blank. “So?”

  “So, she was a federal employee, and the DCPD does not investigate the murders of federal employees.”

  “That’s okay with me,” Clark replied.

  “The FBI investigates the murders of federal employees.”

  Clark’s face seemed to collapse. “The FBI?”

  “Yes, and in this instance, the case is being personally dealt with by the deputy director for criminal investigations, a woman called Maren Gustav, who has a big reputation for her dogged pursuit of perpetrators.”

  “Dogged?”

  “Do you possess a dog, Donald?”

  “Yes, a Lab, much like yours.”

  “Does he ever tire of chasing a ball?”

  Stone thought the man was going to burst into tears. “And I believe she has an appointment with you today. Better check your calendar.”

  Donald Clark got up and left.

  35

  Clark had been gone only a quarter of an hour when Joan buzzed. “Art Jacoby, on one.”

  Stone picked up the phone. “Yes, Art?”

  “Stone, the feds have picked up Deana’s case. DCPD is out of it.”

  “I heard,” Stone replied. “That’s good news for you, isn’t it, Art?”

  “Why?”

  “Well, because you are innocent, are you not?”

  “I am.”

  “Then the FBI has a better chance of proving that than does the DCPD, whose fearless leader wants you hanged at dawn, does she not?”

  “She does,” Art admitted.

  “That means that Little Debby will have no influence on the investigation.”

  “Yes,” Art replied, brightly.

  “Do you have an appointment today with someone called Maren Gustav?”

  “I do. Who is she?”

  “She’s the deputy director of the FBI for criminal investigations.”

  “Her boss, Shaker, hates me.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Shaker hates everybody. Anyway, there are substantial rumors that he is on his way out, and other rumors that Gustav may replace him.”

  “Uh-oh, then she’s going to be trying to make a name for herself.”

  “Art, she’s already made a name for herself. That’s why she’s on the fast track for the job. She doesn’t need your head mounted over her fireplace.”

  “She’s due here in ten minutes,” Art said. “What should I tell her?”

  “The truth, Art. And if you’ve sprinkled a fib or two around in your earlier statements, now’s the time to iron out the wrinkles. She can smell a lie the way my dog, Bob, can sniff out a sausage from two rooms away.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Art said.

  “Remember, too, that her eventual goal is Donald Clark. She just needs you to pave the way.”

  “Right.”

  “Call me when you’re done.”

  “All right.”

  They both hung up.

  * * *

  —

  Stone was finishing a sandwich at his desk, three hours later, when Jacoby called again.

  “How’d it go, Art?”

  “My shirt is soaked clean through.”

  “Well, let’s hope that she does not equate the smell of sweat with lying.”

  “I didn’t lie. I told her the same things, over and over, as she slightly changed the questions. You’ve heard of a steel-trap mind? That woman has a mind like a bear trap, and I was the grizzly in question.”

  “She’s done with you now, Art,” Stone said. “It’s Clark’s turn in the bear trap, and I have a feeling he’s going to have to gnaw off his own leg to get free of her.”

  “I have to go take a shower,” Art said and hung up.

  * * *

  —

  Maren Gustav was shown by a butler into a large, mahogany-paneled room, festooned with hunting trophies—meat, fish, and fowl. There were not, she noted, very many books in evidence, and those present were, mostly, sporting in nature.

  Donald Clark stood respectfully, shook her hand, welcomed her, and offered her coffee, which she declined. He offered her the opposite end of the sofa on which he sat, but she accepted a freestanding chair, instead.

  “I understand you have a few questions for me,” he said.

  “On the contrary, Mr. Clark,” she replied, “I have a great many questions for you, and I wish to record your answers.” She placed a small recorder on the coffee table. “Do you have any objections to being recorded?”

  “Certainly not.” He shrugged. “Why should I?”

  She noted the time and began to ask rapid-fire questions about his schedule on the day of the Carlyle murder, his companions at different times, and his past relationship with the various other suspects and witnesses, never consulting notes. Two hours and ten minutes later, she noted, she ab
ruptly changed tactics.

  “Mr. Clark,” she said, with a little smile, “can you enumerate for me the occasions on which you had sexual intercourse with Ms. Carlyle?”

  Clark blinked. “I decline to address that question,” he said, finally.

  “How about the nature of such intercourse?”

  Clark collected himself. “I decline to answer.”

  “How about the occasions on which one or more others were involved, and what persons participated in such intercourse? And their names, genders, and occupations?”

  “Decline. I will not bring others into this matter.”

  As if propelled by some spring-loaded mechanism, a man in a pinstripe suit, carrying a briefcase, entered the room at a trot through a rear door, crying, “Stop! Stop! My client will answer no further questions!”

  “Oh, really,” Clark said. “I don’t mind.” This with patent insincerity.

  “This interview is over,” the lawyer said to Maren. “Kindly leave the premises at once.”

  “I take it you would prefer to have your client answer these questions before a grand jury,” Maren said, rising and picking up, but not turning off, her recorder. “I can arrange that.”

  “Go, go!”

  “A subpoena follows,” Maren said, then departed, noting the time on her recorder before switching it off.

  * * *

  —

  Stone received her in his study, and Fred took her small suitcase and makeup bag away.

  “Good evening,” Stone said, kissing her. “You look lovely!”

  “Thank you,” she said, sitting.

  “A drink?”

  “Of course. A very dry martini,” she replied.

  “Is there any other kind?” he asked, pouring one out of a premixed bottle from the freezer, frosting the glass immediately.

  “Where are we dining?”

  “At Rotisserie Georgette,” he replied. “Specializing in roast fowl.”

  “Sounds lovely.”

  “How did your day go?”

  “Better than I expected,” she said. “Art Jacoby will make an excellent witness either for himself or against Donald Clark. I pretty much wrung him out, but he has his story straight now.”

  “What about Clark?”

  “I got everything I expected from him, and when I brought up the subject of sex, an attorney, apparently mechanically operated, sprang from somewhere, shouting ‘Stop!’ I’ll see his client before a grand jury, where he will, very likely, take the Fifth.”

  “Very likely.”

  “I’ll tell you this, though. He’s scared, and that’s the way I like my suspects.”

  36

  Stone had his houseguest for a couple of nights, then she folded her tent and readied herself for departure.

  “When will I see you in Washington?” she asked.

  Stone gulped. “I rarely visit Washington, and when I do my time there is fully occupied.”

  “Oh,” she said, sounding disappointed. “I thought that might be over.”

  Stone kissed her, took her downstairs, and put her into her car.

  “If your investigation brings you north again, please let me know.”

  “Perhaps,” she said, then drove away.

  * * *

  —

  That afternoon, Stone had a sandwich at his desk. Joan stuck her head around the door. “Put on CNN,” she said.

  Stone turned on the TV, which was already tuned to CNN. “According to a source at FBI headquarters, Director Shaker has never been happy serving under President Barker. Other sources say he would be unhappy serving under any woman. After leaving his resignation at the White House, handing it to a Marine guarding the doors, Mr. Shaker returned to the Bureau, packed his briefcase and a few boxes of books and personal items, and left for his country house in Virginia. There was no farewell speech to the men and women he left behind.”

  “Who is replacing him?” Stone shouted at the TV.

  “His replacement, Maren Gustav, is a sixteen-year veteran of the Bureau who has served in a number of posts there, climbing the promotion ladder steadily, and has been a favorite of President Barker’s since the president served as CIA director.”

  “Thank you very much!” Stone yelled, then switched off the TV. “Joan, are you still there?”

  She opened the door a crack. “Yes, sir.”

  He handed her Maren’s personal card. “Send two dozen yellow roses and a card saying ‘Congratulations’ to her home.”

  “Do you want to send Mr. Shaker a farewell bouquet?” Joan asked.

  “Are you nuts?”

  “I’m on it,” she said, and closed the door.

  Dino called. “You see it on TV?”

  “I did. Well-deserved.”

  “What’s that going to do for the investigation of the Carlyle girl’s murder?”

  “I think that, given her interviews on Monday, she’s fully invested in it, and now she’s in a position to bring more agents into it.”

  “I hear she has a bear-trap mind.”

  “You hear correctly. Dinner?”

  “P.J. Clarke’s, at six-thirty?”

  “Done. You book.” He hung up.

  * * *

  —

  Stone arrived on time at Clarke’s, and the remnants of the five o’clock crowd were still at the bar. A Knob Creek on the rocks was set before him. And when the bartender moved away, Stone saw two photographs taped to the bourbon shelf of the bar: one was of Maren Gustav, in a low-cut evening gown; the other was of Stone waltzing with the new president.

  Dino materialized at Stone’s elbow, with a Scotch before him. “Nice, huh?” He said, nodding at the photos.

  “Danny,” Stone said to the bartender, “get rid of the one with me in it, will you?”

  “Sorry, Stone,” Danny replied. “Orders from the owner.”

  “Take it down, or I’ll run amok.”

  “Speak to the owner.”

  “Danny, when was the last time the owner was in here?”

  “I don’t know, last year sometime.”

  “I’m going to stop coming here.”

  “You can’t do that, Stone. We’ll go broke!”

  “Live with it,” Dino said.

  “Distract me from what I’m looking at,” Stone said.

  “Did you hear the news?”

  “Not since lunchtime.”

  “The new FBI director’s first official act was to call the U.S. attorney for the District of Columbia and ask him to form a grand jury to investigate Art’s girlfriend’s murder.”

  “She doesn’t waste any time, does she?”

  “Well, she hung out with you for a few days,” Dino pointed out.

  “And look what happened to her!”

  “I guess Holly isn’t the jealous type.”

  “I asked you to distract me.”

  “Okay. A girl is at home walking around naked. There’s a knock at the door. ‘Who is it?’ she yells. ‘The blind guy,’ he yells back. “Okay, come on in.’ The guy comes in and says, “Hey, nice tits! Where d’you want the blinds?”

  Stone laughed in spite of himself.

  37

  Maren Gustav was finishing her first days as director when she got a phone call from Mark Bernstein, the U.S. attorney for the District of Columbia.

  “Good morning, Mark,” she said, breathless to know what had happened.

  “Good morning, Maren,” he replied. “It went off pretty much as we expected. He took the Fifth.”

  “Then the media will convict him before we can.”

  “There’s always immunity,” Mark said.

  Maren thought about it. If they gave Clark immunity from prosecution, then he could not take the Fifth, since he would not be incriminating himself. If
he still refused to testify he could be held in contempt and jailed until he relented. “I think so,” Maren said.

  “The question is, to whom do we make the proffer of immunity: Clark or Deborah Myers?”

  “I suppose we do have a choice,” Maren said. “What happens if they both decline the offer and refuse to testify?”

  “I suppose they could hold hands in federal prison,” Mark replied. “Or, perhaps, we could arrange some conjugal time for them.”

  Maren laughed. “They might find that too appealing.”

  “He’s still in the jury room,” Mark said. “What’s your preference?”

  “Let’s offer Clark the immunity. We’ll see if he’s the tough Marine he likes to think he is.”

  “I’ll go speak to his attorney.” They both hung up.

  * * *

  —

  Mark Bernstein had been a classmate of Clark’s attorney, Jeff Goode, at Harvard Law, and they had never liked each other much. It gave Mark a little thrill to be able to convey this message. He held up five fingers and the questioning attorney announced a short break.

  Jeff Goode had been waiting in an anteroom, since defense attorneys were not allowed in the jury room. Mark took a seat next to him at the table. “How goes it, Jeff?”

  “That depends on whether you believe my client’s testimony.”

  “I do believe him, when he says that answering truthfully might tend to incriminate him.”

  “So, where do we stand?”

  “We’re offering immunity,” Mark replied.

  “Complete and total immunity?”

  “Not for every misdeed in his miserable life; just for his actions with regard to his wife’s and Deana Carlyle’s murders, whatever they might have been.”

  “So, you’ve chosen to go after Little Debby, have you?”

  “That remains an option,” Mark said. “I’d rather convict her on the testimony of your client. You ought to be able to sell him that: he walks, and Little Debby doesn’t. What could be nicer?”

  “In Donald’s eyes, it would be better if they both walked.”

  “We both know that’s not going to happen,” Mark said.