Death of an Intern (16 page)

I
wanted to be waiting for Max when he pulled up, but he was already out front. I got a whiff of coffee as I slid into the large front seat of his Crown Victoria. His car was a communications center unto itself.

“You're not going to let me finish my paper?”

“You're early. We're both early.”

“You're in your paper this morning. Metro page three, about two inches.” He handed it to me, and then uncovered a cardboard tray with two cups of coffee and a pair of bagels.

“Yours is the decaf and whole wheat bagel.”

“You're learning.”

He turned on the engine. “They spelled your name correctly.”

“Proves there is a God. I saw it earlier.”

He put the large sedan into gear and drove out to Connecticut Avenue. I thought of the little snip about me in the paper. An economy of words as only Lassiter could write. The world now knew I was pregnant.

“I thought we'd park in Rock Creek by Pierce's Mill, that little recreation area.” He turned onto Tilden Street heading down into the park.

A half-mile later, we were in Lot One. This great, long park set off the upper northwest section of D.C. from the rest of the city in more ways than just geographical. It was a favorite for bikers and joggers, but best they not travel alone.

“First, this is not printable, for now. We have friends. A Special Task Force out of the Washington Field Office of the FBI.”

“The serial killer task force?”

“No, they are out of Quantico. We are tapped into them, and they with us, as of yesterday. And…put your coffee in the holder please…just do it.”

I did.

“Yesterday they tapped you.”

“Me? How? Where? When?” I was dumbfounded.

“Stop!”

He started with Mr. Brown's first visit through last evening's confrontation at the OPO. The Bureau had cleared Max to receive a special audio feed from them to MPD's communications room. “The Feds are interested in the same people you are.”

I wanted to interrupt many times, but he held me at bay until he got the whole thing out. When he took a bite of bagel, I jumped in.

“May I have my decaf now?”

He nodded, and I downed two successive big drinks. I saw his bemused smile. It was sinking in. This was because of me.

“Surveillance of the Graysons? How do you tail the Vice President?”

“They don't. They use stakeouts, and last night they made a catch on their very first cast. It is harmless in itself because they are consenting adults. Yet it is interesting in that they stayed overnight in Frankie Grayson's Alexandria townhouse. Maybe a place for other trysts.”

My hunger meter was at code red, but I stopped mid-bite. “Who?”

“Frances Grayson and Beth Carr.”

“Could that be the bad relationship last fall? Not one with the Vice President?”

“Can't help you about the VP, but Ms. Grayson and Ms. Carr were together last night. The FBI wants our help—mostly your inside contacts. If one twin plays around, maybe the other one does too. For your help, they will lend a hand in investigating who fathered Janet's baby.”

“They actually said that?”

“Came from the top man himself. They also want to know.”

“What did you do to get this huge cooperation? I know you guys have task forces, but this is wholly different.”

“Not me. It's you. They want a share of your information as it relates to the Vice President's office.” Max went back to working on his bagel.

“Me?” I said dumbfounded. “They have people everyplace. Why me?”

“You've got or are making contacts they don't have and don't want to disrupt. They'll have their hands full with surveillances that are so deeply undercover
Mission Impossible
would look like a public picnic. They are not telling the Secret Service”

“Stakeouts. That's a lot of people.”

“They can't tail; the Secret Service would pick that up fast. They're only collecting information. MPD will have a feed from their surveillance teams to our communications room, and I have been given listening rights. You are my quid pro quo.”

“Me?”

“Yes. My life is in your hands. This is only sharing. No writing. No printing,” the Homicide Captain said.

“I'm impressed. If this works, you should get a medal.”

“A couple of cruises on your yacht will be just fine, thank you.”

“What about the Secret Service's involvement in the Joint Task Force.”

“Not a problem. None of the FBI stuff goes to the JTF. That's a totally separate operation. No crossover. It's rather ironic that we're talking to the Secret Service on one hand and spying on their protectee on the other. It's a strange world.”

“I think it's fun.”

“You would. While you sail this weekend, I will tune into my now favorite radio program. I'm going to camp out in our communications center wearing headphones. My daughter is not coming down from that New York school her mother and stepfather have her in until late May.”

“I'll buy you a crossword puzzles book.”

“I've got a couple of pocket book mysteries I'm dying to read.”

“You are a glutton for punishment.”

“I am hoping the radio show will brighten my day.”

Mary arrived at work earlier than usual carrying two grocery bags of healthy goodies. She was on a personal mission to clean out Laura's office of all junk foods: chips, candy bars, all day suckers, and sundry vending machine items.

What she brought in for her reporter would be a lot healthier.

I
came into the office feeling a lot better than when I had left it. I greeted Mary, who was too busy to look up, on the way to my cubicle. I walked in and was about to put my bag down when I had a strange feeling, like I had absentmindedly walked into the wrong space. I backed out, but immediately recognized my surroundings. I was in the right place, but the bulletin board wasn't mine, or more accurately, most of the stuff on it wasn't mine.

All the serial killer notes and clippings had been moved neatly to the far right side of the board. The remaining two thirds was filled with a colorful collage split by a line down the middle. One side was topped with a large
YES
. An even larger
NO
topped the other side. Underneath in their respective categories were pictures of the good foods and bad foods. Fruits, poultry, vegetables, meats, power bars, and vitamins under
YES
. Beer containers, liquor bottles, candy, chips, coffee, and various junk snacks were under NO. Two actual junk food wrappers were tacked up in
NO
category.

On my neater-than-usual desk sat a book titled
Pregnancy and Nutrition.
A grocery bag propped up on my chair was lettered:
Your new CARE package
. I picked a pinned note off the bag.
You have an appointment at one this afternoon with your doctor. Don't be late.

This made me doubly glad I hadn't consumed that beer last night. I read some of the don'ts. No caffeine, but for only the first trimester, which was only about six more weeks. I fanned through the soft-covered book, discovering some already tabbed. I opened to one. It was filled with the things I could eat. After perusing those pages, I was satisfied I wouldn't starve. I was surprised at what I could eat.

I realized I had some
NO
items in my personal bag and pulled out a candy bar and two small bags of chips. I marched straight to Mary, who appeared deeply engrossed. “You missed these.” I dropped my cache on her desk.

Mary looked up. “It's for your and the baby's good.”

I was humbled. “I appreciate it. I am touched by what you've done. Thank you.”

“There are some snacky things in the bag on your chair. I tried a couple. They're not bad. Stay away from the vending machines,” she admonished.

“Do your boys know how lucky they are?”

“They couldn't care less as long as there's food on the table and clean clothes to wear.” She shuffled some papers.

“I thought they did the laundry.”

“They do. I just couldn't think of what else to add,” she said shyly. We both laughed. “I have work to do. You're not the only reporter in my purview.”

“I do forget that.”

“Your phone is ringing.” Mary picked it up. “Laura Wolfe's office…Yes sir.” Mary put the call on hold. “It's your chauffeur.”

“Max?” I returned to my cubicle and picked up. “Didn't I just see you?”

“Yes, but we live in a very fast-paced world. We have confirmation on our distraught friend from the rooftop eatery. She is in a southern town working for the Man.”

“How about that?”

“There's more. She and one other, whom I shall name later, came from there, hired on his recommendation.”

“Where did this come from?”

“Mr. B has friends who were able to peek at things.”

Since Mr. Brown was the FBI guy, the rest fit together. Even though the police and the newspaper's phone lines were secure, it was still a good practice to talk in their personal shorthand. In addition, at the paper somebody might pick up the wrong line.

“Why did the person leave?”

“We don't know. However, girlfriend is about to meet a new tennis partner. Very hush-hush.” I could tell he enjoyed this covert dialogue.

Beth Carr was the girlfriend. The FBI wanted to know about the money. “Okay, I've got to go see the boss.”

“Later.” The line went dead.

I tried a “Mary” snack and liked it. I put another in my bag and went to Lassiter's office. I knocked, but stopped in the doorway. “May I?” I indicated I would like to close the door.

“What are you doing in?” Lassiter said perturbed.

“It's because of some new undercover stuff that happened overnight.”

“I only close my door when I'm firing someone.”

I closed it anyway. “I was out of line and also unaware. I apologize.” I sat facing her across her cluttered desk. “I understand that illicit sex in the White House, or on Capitol Hill for that matter, is nothing new, but corruption, favors, sex, and murder all bundled together could be.”

“This is not about the serial killer?” she half asked.

“It could lead to that, but what I have right now is classified, eyes only.”

I filled her in on the FBI's involvement. When I finished my narrative, I retrieved my water bottle from my bag, took a long pull on it, and sat back.

“What does any of this have to do with the serial killing?” my boss asked.

“Nothing and everything.”

Lassiter's expression hardened. She looked like she might come out of her chair.

Whoops, the wrong thing to say. Our relationship was obviously not back on an even keel. “We're at the beginning of this. Stuff is going on that makes anything possible.”

“There isn't a news person I've read or heard who is connecting anything to the White House. Walsh says it's serial, right?”

“He does. The FBI does too.”

“But Laura Wolfe doesn't?” Lassiter asked sarcastically.

“No. I agree it could be, but the new stuff opens it up to a lot of speculation that broadens the investigation.”

“There isn't a thing you said that can be written.”

“Correct. What we get from the FBI I can't write about and Captain Walsh cannot make public. The FBI is interested in my information and I theirs. It's a quid pro quo.”

“Sounds like the Feds have deniability and your friend Walsh is smack dab in the middle,” she said in her hard tone, but less hostile.

“But they know Max has a hammer he can use on them. They want my inside information. It's a crap shoot, but it's a plus for our side.”

“Nothing is ever simple with you, is it?”

I started to reply, but Lassiter shut me down.

“I get the picture, but I can't have you idle. I don't want any office jealousies cropping up, so after the weekend, as originally planned, you are going to have to take some other assignments. We can't blame this on your pregnancy because that will get the folks upstairs curious, and you might be looking at a desk job. Neither of us wants that for you, right?”

“Right. I can handle it. Besides, the FBI isn't in a big hurry, so things may drag. The main thing is, I wanted this on your radar.”

“Makes me want to go home and read a good mystery.”

What's with the mysteries? Max, now Lassiter.

“I do have some specifics. Captain Walsh thinks the FBI is worried about espionage. They've assigned a mole to get close to Carr. The Alexandria townhouse will stay staked out.”

“All right. Collect all your background and copy me on the important stuff by hand. Do not use Mary or any news assistant. Deliver it to me personally. Stick to your pal Walsh like glue. We will treat your accident as not-an-accident. And we'll have no secrets.

“You won't write about the serial killings or Rausch. Maybe whoever is mad at you will think you're off the story, no longer a threat. The whole thing is yours, if and when. Let's see what happens.”

“I don't write, but I can investigate and develop inside information?”

“Yes. With the FBI's backing and Walsh right there—I wouldn't dare break up that troika. Go with it.”

I stood up to go.

“How are you feeling? The truth.”

“Fine really. I had a good night's sleep. No problems this morning. I'm seeing my doctor a little later today. Mary is on a crusade to change my eating habits.”

Lassiter had already turned to something else, and I went back to my desk profoundly relieved. Things had improved. A message slip saying Marsha had called sat on my desk. I returned the call and got the law student.

“I hung out with Kat and Scott after the game. He's going to his mom's tonight. The Execs have softball practice from six to seven, so she'll be free after that.”

“Okay. My husband won't be home. How about we do it on
Scalawag?
I'll pick up some finger food. Make it social.”

“Sounds good to me.”

I looked at my wall of notes, but became distracted by Mary's colorful reminders. I was drawn to the diet book and opened to a tab: “Fortifying Your Diet with Folic Acid.”

Mary came in carrying a large manila envelope.

“This came by uniformed cop.” She handed it over and saw the open book. “Learning about your new diet?”

“Just browsing. I saw Lassiter. Things are going to be all right.”

“You try the snacks in that bag?” Mary asked as though she hadn't heard me.

“Two. They're good. This might not be all bad.”

“You're improving in two areas,” she said and left.

Inside the envelope were four sheets of letter-sized paper, some photos, and a note from Max. I looked over the papers and then read his note.

“This is a numbered list, one through eight, of the interns. Name, personal history, and a paragraph or two about each. Memorize the number to the name, that's how we'll ID them from now on. Also, the code name for the Graysons: VP is Hawk. Ms. is Sparrow.”

Max had circled Alma Norman and put an A after it. She was the second woman from Atlanta recommended by Manchester. Next to Sarah McDowell, he wrote: “Had abortion. What do they put in their water over there?”

Three ex-interns. Beth, broken relationship; Janet, dead; Sarah, fired. Both Janet and Sarah were pregnant. They each accompanied the Vice President to social functions. Did their duties extend to more than that? My meeting with Kat was crucial.

I spent about forty minutes reading, studying, and looking at pictures of all eight women. This was a good trade for the FBI tapping me. Sarah and Alma were voluptuous and pretty. Lisa was zoftig, but plainer than the other two.

I looked at my watch. It was getting to be doctor time.