by Brian Haig
“Damned right you did.”
“What is your job?”
“You know damn well what my job is.”
“I know what you said your job was. But in fact, that wasn’t your job, was it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
But for a guy who was merely confused over semantics he did in fact look nervous.
I asked him, “Are you still telling the public you’re hunting the
L. A. Killer?” “Is that what this is about? You’re still trying to second-guess us?”
I now had Janet’s attention, and she said to George, “Is that true?”
George ignored her and said to me, “In a case of this scope and importance, the choice of suspects is out of my hands.”
“Is it really?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe it’s the L. A. Killer?”
“I might have a few doubts. In murder cases, I always have doubts. As an attorney, I would expect you to understand that.” He added, “The Bureau’s position is that the similarities between here and L. A. remain persuasive.”
“What about the differing physical descriptions?”
“I’m glad you raised that issue. Had you read the morning paper, you’d know that one of the two witnesses who claimed she saw the L. A. Killer three years ago recanted. She admits the man she saw could’ve been much taller.”
“Or maybe he gained a foot since then?” I suggested.
“He was bending over, shoving the victim into a car, and she admits she probably misjudged his height.”
“How convenient.”
“What are you implying, Drummond? I don’t control what witnesses say.”
It was time to switch tacks, so I asked, “How did you get to my apartment so fast yesterday?”
“How did I…?” He paused, then said, “I work around the clock. I was at Martin’s office, coordinating, when one of your neighbors called and reported gunfire. We checked the address, saw it was your building, and I thought I’d better be there.”
George had just made his fatal mistake. And I think he knew it. He had to know, as a cop experienced in interrogation, that the whole trick is to prod that first unsupportable lie from the suspect’s lips.
“Who called?” I asked him.
“I… I don’t remember. Actually, I never knew. Martin’s people took the call.”
“Odd. The Alexandria station is over fifteen minutes away. You were at my apartment inside three minutes. Account for that.”
“I’m not going to account for it. I’m not here to be interrogated by you. You’re way out of line.”
Janet suddenly bent forward and said, “Answer him, George. I’d like to know, too.”
He stared at her. “Honey, I can’t believe you’re taking this jerk’s side. I… are you forgetting us… what you mean to me?”
But Janet had put two and two together. She leaned back and studied George. She said, “You’re supposed to cover this up. You’re supposed to mislead the public… to hide the true identity of the killer.”
“That’s not true, honey. I-”
I said to Janet, “I wouldn’t be surprised if George was the one who tipped off the press, and made the connection with the L. A. Killer. Not only that,” I added, “I’ll bet George was supposed to make sure the killer wasn’t captured, to make sure this guy died with the secret of who he worked for.”
Meany sat back in his chair. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but if I had to guess, it would start with putting a bullet through my forehead. And it would end with the realization that the gig was up.
Never one to leave well enough alone, I continued, “So, you’re a bright guy, George. And you figured out I was taunting the killer, that I was setting myself up. So you and Martin… you what?… you set up a stakeout around my building?”
He had not yet made up his mind to be cooperative, so I further suggested, “Your guys had the killer’s composite, and if they laid eyes on him, they had orders to shoot to kill. Right?”
“Don’t be an idiot. We were there to protect you. You owe me your thanks, Drummond.”
“And a fine job you did. I’ll remember to call you the next time my life’s at risk.”
When he failed to reply to that, I asked, “How did they get past you, George?”
“You’re such a smart guy, you figure it out.”
So I did. I said, “They didn’t. They were already inside my building.”
He nodded. “Good guess, Drummond. There was a vacant apartment down the hall from you. They broke into it the day before and set up shop. We hadn’t anticipated that, nor that outside contractors would be brought in to handle you.”
He turned to Janet and said, “Stop looking at me that way. We both wanted the same thing here.”
“Did we?”
“Yes, of course. When I went to the Deputy Director, I told him I wanted this case. I wanted Lisa’s killer. I told him about us, and he said I could have this case, but on one condition. I had to handle it this way.”
Possibly George was telling the truth. In fact, he probably was. But both Janet and I could fill in the rest of the void. George was perfect, because of his relationship with a victim’s sister, and as it became more and more clear that Janet and I needed to be reined in, he became more and more perfect.
Janet’s eyes moved from George’s face, to MacGruder’s face, ending up at my face, and I think she concluded that she wasn’t really in the best of company, that all her breakfast partners had, in our own unique ways, betrayed her trust.
She stood and said, “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to return to my room.” She paused, then said, “And I’d like to return to Boston, today.” She took another step, then stopped and said, “I would appreciate it, Agent Meany, if your people would make the proper arrangements.”
Did I mention that Janet looked absolutely stunning in a scarlet sweater as she walked out?
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The first thing I did when I arrived at the firm was ask Elizabeth for the key to the ninth floor to make another visit to my pal Hal. His two assistants again had their asses parked at their desks, and were staring intently into their computer screens. Maybe they had X-rated videos in their hard drives, or something.
The same one who had spoken to me the day before looked up and said, “Yes?”
“I’m here to see Hal.”
“He’s not in yet.”
It was ten o’clock. I said, “When do you expect him?”
“He’s usually here at seven. Maybe he had a dentist appointment or something. But I’ll tell Hal you came by.”
His face was stuffed back in his terminal when I said, “Do that.”
I next went to visit Cy in his office. The partners’ suites were set up like Hal’s office, but with a paralegal or secretary parked out front, and considerably more elegant furnishings inside. Cy’s paralegal appeared to be about twenty-five, a great body and nice face, though a bit slutty-looking, if you want my personal opinion. I wondered if Cy was doing her, too, as she buzzed him and told me to go in.
Cy was seated in a leather lounge chair, leisurely sipping coffee and reading the Wall Street Journal. He carefully folded the paper in his lap and said, “Good morning, Sean.”
I explained that everything was going well, that I was back in everybody’s good graces, which brought a twisted smile to his lips, because I’d never been in anybody’s good graces. But Cy was too much the politician to point that out.
I said, “So what’s my next assignment?”
“It’s under discussion. I’m afraid Harold still has hard feelings. Actually, I’m afraid he’s thinking of notifying Tommy that the firm no longer wishes to participate in this program. That would mean you go back to the Army. I’m sorry. I might not be able to block it.”
“Boy, that would be a shame. I’m learning a lot.” I then said, “Tell me about Hal.”
“You already know he’s
a bit of a jerk. But, Sean, he’s good at what he does.”
“Well, who does he work for?”
“Why?”
“In the event I stay, I think he’s still got a grudge, and I’m wondering what I’m in for here.”
“He works for Harold.”
“And did Bronson hire him?”
“He did.”
“Do you recall the circumstances?”
“The man before Hal was killed in an accident. It was very inconvenient for the firm and we were in desperate need of a replacement. Somebody recommended Hal.”
“Do you recall who?”
“Somebody at Morris Networks, I think.” He added, “Sean, I know you don’t like him, but he’s a hardworking son of a bitch. He rarely leaves before midnight. Same with his people. The associates appreciate that they’re always here to help when a hard drive crashes or they need instant administrative help.”
I said, “What about Sally?”
That question for some reason drew a funny look and he replied, “What about her?”
“Do any of the older partners remember her father?”
“A few. Melvin Sperling worked with him. Jimmy Martino, Jack Clatterman… maybe others. Why?”
“Do they remember her?”
“No. She wasn’t born till after her father moved on.”
I thought that over and asked, “Where’s her mother?”
“Is there a reason you’re asking?”
“We’re working together. I’d like to know more about her.”
He replied, “I don’t know where you’re going with this, but I’m certain I don’t like it.”
We stared at each other a moment, and then it hit me. I mean, wow. I said, “Jesus, Cy, you’re screwing her, too?”
“That’s none of your damned business.” Which is how veteran politicians say yes.
Well, it was suddenly an awkward conversation. And neither of us spoke for half a minute or so.
Until I said, “She’s less than half your age.”
“Who seduces women who are my age?”
Good point. And in any regard, lecturing Cy on sexual morality and discrimination was beyond a waste of time, so instead I asked, “Did Lisa catch you with her?”
He smiled, though it was a strained, uneasy one. “More or less.”
“Uh-huh.” The lecture he really needed to hear had to do with his tastes in women. I repeated, “Tell me about her mother.”
“Her mother?” He looked at the far wall and asked, “I told you her father committed suicide?”
“Yeah.”
“The police found him in the garage, hanging from a rafter. Her mother was in the bedroom. He shot her in the head before he killed himself.”
“That’s bad.”
“Yes…” He cracked a knuckle and added, “He left a will stipulating that his daughter would become a ward of the state. Under no conditions would she be given to his detested father to raise. Sally was two at the time. She grew up in orphanages and foster homes.”
Cy then asked, “Sean, what’s going on here? Why are you interested in Sally?”
“I just like to know who I’m working with.”
He toyed with his cufflink and stared at the wall. I let him draw his own conclusions. There’s an old saying that a wise man never gets between a man and his girlies. It can be hard to comply with when it’s a man like Cy who screws half the city. Yet it’s still sage advice.
I left him there and returned to my office. A secretary brought me a cup of espresso, I turned on the TV, and I waited.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
The call came at two, earlier than I expected, but given Hal’s absence, I can’t say the call itself was unexpected.
The voice belonged to Jack MacGruder in a tone that was anxious and strained, which was also expected. He identified himself as Thomas Pemberton, because Jack was tried and blue and really into all that smoke-and-mirror silliness. He reminded me of our appointment for a late lunch, and said he would be anxiously waiting my arrival: code word for get your ass here right now, Drummond.
So I left the firm and drove back to the Madison Hotel. But in fact, when I got to my room, not only was Jack there, so was his boss, Phyllis Carney, and of course, George Meany. They all shared a common expression, which is to say, a mixture of confused, angry, and very worried.
Meany seized the opening honors. He waved an arm and said, “You sit at that table.”
They remained standing. I knew the name of this game, and I replied, “I’ll stand.”
Well, they all looked at one another, the way lions look at one another when there’s only one carcass to go around.
Phyllis finally said, “You have a great deal of explaining to do, Drummond.”
“About what?”
“About what?” Meany repeated, and he looked at the other two. “You hear that?- about what? ”
MacGruder said, “Hal Merriweather’s body was found in his apartment this morning. There was a suicide note beside his bed, a Glock pistol in his hand, and a very large hole in his head.”
“Oh my God! Hal?… you’re sure?… suicide?” I shook my head. “Boy, you can never tell, can you? He seemed so happy… so, well, I guess, optimistic the last time I saw him.”
“Exactly when was that, Drummond?” asked Meany.
“Yesterday. We’d been having a few issues, minor tiffs really, and I stopped by his office to, you know, bury the hatchet.” I paused and then said, “Hey, wait a damned minute. You’re not thinking… I mean, you’re not accusing…” I shook my head. “Aw, Jack, you tell them. I didn’t do it. I couldn’t do it. I was here in my room all night, under your surveillance. Your people even followed me to work. I’ll bet you guys even have my phones tapped.”
Meany started to say, “Drummond, you damn well-”
But Phyllis jumped in, informing me, “Also, Jason Morris was scuba diving off the Florida Keys early this morning. He went on a dive, and an hour later, his body was found.”
“Jason, too?” I shook my head again. “You know, I tell all my close friends, stay away from the risky stuff. I mean… sure you want the thrills, but is it really worth it? See what I’m talking about? Here’s this guy, so much to live for, big bucks, nice house, the ladies drooling all over him, and now he’s compost, right?”
Jack MacGruder said, “Stop the goddamn games, Drummond. Don’t treat us like idiots.”
“But Jack. I saw Jason just yesterday-healthy, full of life and promise. Okay, our meeting ended on a bit of an adversarial note, but in an odd way, you know, I liked Jason. I really did. But, you know what they say about accidents.” Obviously nobody replied to that, so I said, “Fate fears neither money nor power.”
Meany, a little put off by my bullshit, demanded, “How did you do it?”
“What, George?”
His finger shot up. “Don’t…” He drew a deep breath. “How did you arrange their deaths?”
“Am I a suspect again? Do I need a lawyer?”
Once burned, once learned, I guess, because George began making a really tortured effort to act circumspect and sly. He said, “Morris was murdered. Somebody cut the line to his airtank and held him down till he drowned. There are bruises on his arms, clear evidence he put up a fight.”
“Don’t assume it was done by a human. Jason liked to swim with sharks, you know.”
They all got my metaphor. But I can’t say anybody appreciated it.
MacGruder said, “You went back on our deal and you exposed these people, didn’t you?”
“Jack, I fully complied with the pact I made with Mr. Peterson. You have my word on this.”
But Phyllis was pretty smart, and she suggested, “What about before your bargain?”
“Good question.”
“Then answer it.”
Meany shook his head and said, “You lousy, lying son of a bitch.”
Phyllis looked impatient, and said, “Drummond, we must know what you did, how much yo
u exposed. For Godsakes, we have people inside this syndicate. We have to know whether it’s time to get them out and collapse this thing. We have to know whether you’ve caused us a huge disaster.”
“I understand your needs. But do you understand my needs?”
“I don’t care about that.”
“I do.”
We stood there for a moment, frozen, watching each other.
Phyllis said, “What are you proposing?”
“A deal. Your word there’ll be no legal problems, and I’ll tell you everything.” I added, “I broke no laws. But if you decide otherwise, prosecute me.”
George said to his CIA counterparts, “No deal. Absolutely not.” I think George was carrying a grudge, incidentally.
Phyllis replied, “What’s your argument against it, George?”
He faced her and said, “This guy could be an accessory to murder. No deals.” After a moment of further thought, he mentioned, “And jurisdiction of this matter resides with the Bureau, not the Agency. Murder is a domestic crime and the decision of whether to prosecute rests with me.”
She said, “Then what do you propose?”
“He’ll break when I throw his ass in a cell and charge him.”
I said, “Charge me with what, George? I’ve got witnesses. Tell him, Jack.” For good measure, I added, “And there’s a bit of a time crunch, if I’m not mistaken. Arrest me, and I’ll keep my mouth shut till hell freezes over.”
Poor Jack MacGruder clearly did not enjoy being put on the hot seat. He did admit, however, “It’s true. He was watched and tagged this whole time.”
Well, we’d reached a stalemate, and a moment passed, then Phyllis said, “If you’ll excuse me, I need a moment to discuss this with Director Peterson.” She was really classy and well-mannered, that lady. And she went into the bathroom and closed the door, where I guess she had one of those souped-up Batphones in her purse that she used to have a secure and confidential chat with her boss. This lasted a few minutes, as you might imagine. And I guess Peterson had to talk with Meany’s boss, who maybe needed to talk to the Attorney General, and around and around it goes. MacGruder, Meany, and I stood around with our thumbs up our butts, staring at walls, and so on.
