My King The President

by Tom Lewis

  I wasn’t surprised at how she looked; casually coiffed, wearing just enough makeup to soften the fresh circles under her blue eyes, dressed in the usual loose-fitting pantsuit, which helped hide the thick ankles and thighs she had always been so sensitive about. Nor was I very much surprised that she called me by my first name when she stood and offered me her hand. “Jeb. I’m so glad you could make it. Make yourself comfortable.”

  No, the surprise was the other person present, who didn’t rise from his armchair. Merely waved, as if he’d seen me just yesterday. “Jeb. Long time.”

  Next to Cal, Ernie Latham is the man I have the most respect for in this old world, both personal and professional. Best friend and toughest boss a guy could ever have. I had to smile. Yeah, it would take a summons from no less than the new President to pry him away from his editorial desk at the Post.

  “Ernie. Fancy seeing you here.” I turned back. “Madame President, I—”

  “Oh, please. Ms. will do just fine. My former husband might like that other word better. God knows he knew a lot of them, and please forgive me for not telling you beforehand that I had also invited Ernie. Why don’t we have a cup of coffee while we talk? Made it myself. How do you take it, Jeb? I remember Ernie drinks his black.”

  “Black’s fine, ma’am.”

  The first female President of the United States poured and served coffee like any chattering suburban hostess, allowed us time for two sips, then got right down to business. “Jeb, I don’t have to tell you the country is a mess. National morale is lower than any time since Iraq. You know, being a Senator was fun, and I don’t mind admitting I always wanted a crack at this job, but I certainly didn’t expect it to come to me like this. As you might imagine, I’m not the most popular girl at the dance right now, and I’ve got a big, ugly task ahead of me. I don’t need any detours or distractions. One of my problems is the inevitable rash of rumors and innuendoes already floating up from the sewers of Washington that there may have been some kind of dark plot behind President Tyndall’s death. Some, I’m told, have even mentioned my name. I want that talk put to rest. Stopped cold, but I can’t do it until I know for sure whether there’s any truth in them.”

  From beneath the silver coffee tray, she extracted a plain manila envelope, which she slid across the table. “There’s fifty thousand dollars of my personal money in there, Jeb. I want you to find out if those rumors have any foundation in fact, and if so, who and what are behind it all. I’ll pay you another fifty thousand when you give me your full report. Will you help me?”

  My knee-jerk reaction to this bombshell was pitifully lame. “I’d be glad to help you in any way I could, ma’am, but I don’t understand why you want me. You’ve got the whole Justice department, the FBI, the Washington Police, and everybody else—”

  “Already working in high gear, but I don’t trust any of them. They’re all Tyndall people, down to the last clerk typist, and they’re going to tell me what they want me to know. On the other hand, I’ve known Ernie here for thirty years, and would even trust him with my daughter. He tells me you are the best investigator he’s ever known, and I need the best. Ergo, you’re my man.”

  I put my cup down, hoping I did with some semblance of grace. So, Ernie Latham was behind this deal. I knew he and Helene Fordham had a long standing friendship, based on how fair Ernie had always treated her, during her bad times as well as the good. “I’m very flattered, Ms. President, but I’ve been out of the loop for quite a while. Rusty.”

  “How long have you been gone? Three years? That’s precisely why we think you’re the best man for the job. Aside from a few ladies I happen to know, most people around this town have forgotten what a tenacious tiger you can be. Besides, Ernie has thought up a marvelous cover for your private snooping, which he can explain to you later. As to your other concern, urgency is the best rust remover in the world, and I’m a woman in a hurry. Say yes, Jeb.”

  I said yes, thinking I wasn’t the only tiger in this town. Not by a long shot.

  “Um, about the money, you don’t—”

  “Take it, Jeb. Ernie tells me you need it, and I can afford it. Just remember that it buys me your absolute discretion and exclusive loyalty regarding what you find, before you write or print one word.” This statement was leveled at Ernie and me both. “And gentlemen, I expect you to earn every dime of it! Now, you’ll have to excuse me, but do finish your coffee. One of the boys will drop you wherever you like. Jeb, you are to reach me through Ernie when you have it all.”

  My “Yes, ma’am” followed her through the door. Funny, after agonizing over this thing for two weeks, our new President had made the decision for me in five minutes!

  Ernie got up, took three paces toward me through the lingering ghost of her perfume, grinned, and said, “Persuasive, isn’t she.”

  “You ink-pissing bandit. What have you got me into?”

  Ernie laughed. “A nice new account at BankAmerica for one thing. Come on, let’s go to the office. Seems you’ve just got your old job back.”

  I had to wait for Ernie to proof a short article for page two. Looking through the plate glass of his office, I was reminded of the time I took a useless biology course at Carolina. In some nearby woods off campus, our professor had cultivated a huge ant colony and had contrived to glass off a five-foot wall of it so students could see everything happening in his microcosm of the planet. From the inside of Ernie’s cubicle, the scene looked remarkably similar. Everyone was busy as hell, doing jobs that brought back a lot of memories, some of them very pleasant. I recognized a few faces, but most of Ernie’s worker ants were strangers, and none paid me the slightest bit of attention.

  I shifted my glance back to my former boss. From past experience, I knew his routine never changed. Ernie Latham took his time. He’d speed-read through a piece of copy, then go back over each word, sentence, and paragraph with the care of a brain surgeon. Finally, he seemed satisfied, and tossed the piece into his outbox. When he removed his half glasses, I knew it was safe to talk. “Okay, Ernie, what’s the scam.”

  “Scam?”

  “The cover she mentioned.”

  “Oh. It’s simple. I’ve temporarily brought you back out of retirement to write a guest series of post-obit articles. Human-interest stuff, based on interviews with people close to the late President Tyndall. It’s something we would probably do anyway, and we’re going to play up your return to the Post as something of a coup. Neat, logical, and will give you a legitimate press entree into areas you need to poke your nose into without raising a lot of eyebrows. Should work fine if you’re careful. And, by the way, I’m the only one in this building who knows what you’ll really be up to.”

  “Right. And let me guess, the public purpose of that little tête-à-tête we just had with President Fordham was to set up an interview—with her.”

  Ernie’s smile was genuine. “You ain’t as rusty as you thought you were. Any idea who you might like to talk to first?”

  “No clue. Unless it’s Abby McCarty.”

  “Lotsa luck there. She’s dropped out of sight. None of my people knows where she is.”

  I had a good idea of someone who would know, but I didn’t mention Thurmond Frye’s name to Ernie. Probably for the same reason I had held back telling him or Helene Fordham anything about Mac’s note and my own nagging suspicions. Keep your own counsel, Jeb. Until you can separate fact from rumor. Because my new employer was in such a hurry, I knew I’d need some help, and told Ernie so.

  “Thought of that already.” He pressed the intercom button. “Somebody get Walt Erikson in here.” He didn’t have to add “right away” or “yesterday.” The tone of his voice would have that poor man, if he was anywhere in the building, come a-running. I hoped he hadn’t been sitting on the john in the men’s room.

  Not to worry. A bespectacled, bean-pole of a guy was standing there in less than a minute, grinning from Atlantic to Pacific, wearing Dockers and a Boston Red Sox tee shirt. Could
n’t have weighed much over one-thirty, though he was almost as tall as me.

  “Jeb Willard,” Ernie said as I shook hands with the young man, “Meet Walt Erikson. He doesn’t look like he’s been out of high school more than a week, but he has a PhD in Communications, and is the best hacker in Washington. Spends more time in our morgue than the D.C. medical examiner does in his. He’ll be your legs. Now. I’ve got work to do, so the two of you get out of my sight. Jeb, I presumed you’d rather not work out of your old office, so Ms. You-Know-Who and I arranged to get your old room at the Mayflower back for you. Touch base with me tomorrow.”

  “Will do. You got a car, Walt?”

  “Yessir. In the ramp.”

  “You old enough to drive it?”

  Giggle and nod.

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  Walt Erikson’s car was a light blue, four year-old Plymouth. Nondescript. Couldn’t be better. On the way to Georgetown, and as tactfully as I could, I told him I was going to be moving around town a lot, mostly on short notice, that I appreciated his help, and that it would be best if he kept his questions about my activities to a bare minimum. “I’m on a short leash, Walt. Not much time, and it would also be good if you kept everything we do to yourself. Completely to yourself. Understood?”

  “No problem, Mr. Willard.”

  “You married?”

  “Yessir. With a little girl almost eight.”

  “That so? Well, I’ll do my best to not drag you away from them or your regular work any more than necessary.”

  “No problem. To tell the truth, I’m looking forward to getting out of that basement for a change.”

  “I may have to send you back down there pretty often. Research.”

  “No problem there, either. Plus, I’ve got a better computer at home in case you need late-night fishing.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, and drop the Mr. Willard stuff. It’s Jeb. Okay?”

  “Okay. Jeb it is.”

  “Great. Now, first thing is, I’ve got to take care of some private business at the Georgetown Sheraton. Won’t take long, if you don’t mind waiting.”

  “No problem.”

  I made a mental note to clobber him if he kept saying “no problem.” It was getting on my nerves the same way that old hymn Amazing Grace had recently. I swear, if I had to hear that noble melody butchered one more time by so-called “song stylists”, it would turn me off music for a year. That would be a damn shame, too, because I dearly love good music, whether classical or good jazz—something else Cal and I share.

  Walt waited for me to finish my business in the Sheraton office. He was probably bright enough to figure out I wanted an escape valve-think place somewhere away from the Mayflower, but I didn’t mention to him it would be my boat. There was still time for me to go back into town and make a very large bank deposit, get some cash, then pick up my bag from the Holiday Inn. All the while, Walt Erikson proved to be a talented driver, and made only small talk about his wife, Alicia, and his precocious daughter who was already learning advanced computer skills. Thank God, he didn’t say “no problem” one other time. He dropped me at the Mayflower and told me he’d be in the office by eight if I needed him.

  My old room was exactly the same. Large. Old-fashioned. Comfortable. Some thoughtful person had left a bucket of ice and a bottle of Absolut on the dresser. Now, that’s thoughtful. Must have been my old buddy, Cecil, the, ah, colorful night clerk. I made another mental note to renew my good (hard cash) relationship with him. In the past, he’d been a tremendous asset.

  I made a drink and called Cal. As usual, he listened to my complete report without interrupting. “…And Cal, I need a favor. Could you and Sammy please bring LAST WORD up to Georgetown? I’ve already made arrangements to berth her at the Sheraton.”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “Great! When can you get away?”

  “I don’t know. Tomorrow, I suppose. I was going to run up to the cabin for a few days but that could wait. Why do you want the boat up there if you’re staying at the Mayflower?”

  “I may need some place I can get away to that no one knows about. I’ve registered the boat slip in your name.”

  “I see. Well, if we go up the ditch all the way, taking the Dismal Swamp canal to Norfolk, and motor-sail up the Chesapeake when the wind isn’t right, we probably can get into the Potomac in four days, maybe five. Count on a week or less altogether to Georgetown, weather permitting.’’

  “Okay. Tell Sammy I really appreciate it, and I’ll make it worth his while.”

  “Uh, huh. I guess you can afford it now. If I had your luck, I’d keep right on going—to Vegas. By the way, I think I have the answer to one of your riddles.”

  “Which one?”

  “The ‘wheel in the air’ reference. When you were a kid, if you’d read more Bible than Ian Fleming, you’d remember it was Ezekiel. Now. Who among the influential-and-powerful in Washington is named Ezekiel?”

  The connection hit me like a thunderbolt. Ezekiel Koontz. Former Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court, advisor to several Presidents, as recognizable a Washington fixture as the renovated Monument, and nearly as old. “Koontz? The Judge?”

  “Who else could it be, pal?”

  “Jesus, I really am rusty!”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Never mind. See you in a few days, and thanks again, Cal. I owe you a big one. Make that another big one.”

  “Truer words were never spoken. Bye, bye.”

  I called room service, had a dinner sent up, which I ate without tasting, and went to bed early. Slept badly, but at least with a clear idea of who the target of my first “interview” would be.

  Chapter 4

  Over the years, I’ve learned the hard way to let my fingers do most of the walking. Next to dependable transportation, a working telephone is the number one tool in any investigator’s bag. I called Walt at five after eight and used the magic word, “Walt, could you please go down to the morgue and scope out something for me?”

  “Sure thing. No problem.”

  I bit my lip. “I need everything you can dig up on Ezekiel Koontz.”

  “The Judge?”

  “Right. Anything you can find; history, family, politics, the whole spectrum. Do a complete printout, and a short, say, two-page summary.”

  “Got it. Anything else?”

  “What do you mean, anything else? How long will that take you?”

  “Should have it all by lunch.”

  Walt Erikson’s stock took a quantum leap up, and his glib answer made me also realize how far technical advances had come during my three-year absence. “Yeah, there is one other thing. Does the paper still have video tapes of Tyndall’s first State of the Union address?”

  “Yessir. They’re in the vaults.”

  “Oh.” That was disappointing. Once in the Post’s sanctum sanctorum, they could not be removed. You could look at them there, but you could not take them out, and I wanted very much to watch that famous speech again, this time with new eyes. “That’s too bad. I really wish—”

  “Not a problem, Jeb. I can access them from the morgue and make you a copy. Just don’t tell the boss.”

  This time I didn’t mind his speech habit a bit. “You mean you can do that on your computer? Swipe a copy of a video?”

  “Sure. You’d be amazed at what I can do with this thing.”

  “I already am. Thanks, Walt. Call me when you have it. Can you transfer me to Ernie’s office?”

  “No problem.”

  Surprisingly, Ernie picked up, and I asked him to set up an interview with Judge Koontz as soon as possible. He said he’d get on it right away. Immensely satisfied, I hung up, redialed and ordered breakfast from room service, then settled back in the bed, propped up on three pillows and went to work on my legal pad. Having, unfortunately, not inherited Cal’s fantastic memory, I had long ago resorted to an old, but time-tested system of basic analysis. Precinct cops use
a blackboard and chalk or white boards and grease pens. I use a plain legal pad and pencil. I call it my daily rip sheet:

  WHAT YOU KNOW/ FACTS

  1. Mac shot President Tyndall.

  2. Mac believed (Knew?) there was a conspiracy.

  3. Apparently, others do, too, hence the rumors around town.

  4. Judge Koontz and someone Mac called “Old Sarge” must have had (at most) a part in it or (at least) knew something about it.

  WHAT YOU DON’T KNOW

  1. Whether Abby knew anything.

  2. Who is Old Sarge?

  3. And the biggie: Motive. Why did Mac do it?

  YOUR NEXT MOVES

  1. Talk to Abby

  2. Interview the Judge.

  3. Look at Walt’s pirated video. May be some clue there.

  Over breakfast, I studied my first daily sheet. Damn little to work on, that was for sure. While I took my shower and shaved, I had a hard time pushing away a new thought, which had wedged itself in. Also please look after Liz. Did Mac’s beautiful sister need looking after? Why? Maybe Father Flaherty could tell me that. He might also know where Abby was. I sure as hell didn’t want to call Thurmond Frye. I was putting on my tie when the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Jeb, it’s me, Walt. Have you seen the early TV news?”