Death of an Intern (8 page)

T
he next day, Max picked me up at 11:30. We were lunching at the Hotel Washington on the corner of 15th and Pennsylvania Avenue NW. Their rooftop outdoor Terrace Restaurant has a spectacular view. It is a favorite of Jerry's and mine and is convenient to both our offices.

The view takes in the Washington Monument, Jefferson Memorial, and the upper portions of the White House. Heavy trees block direct view of its south grounds. Max has no trouble finding a place to park his unmarked cruiser.

Once we were seated and the server had taken our orders, Max said, “You may be stepping on some sensitive toes with this second story of yours.”

“Lassiter okayed it. Haven't you ever had a case that looked like one thing, but turned out to be something all together different?”

He was about to respond when the clatter of a helicopter, which had been in the background, now came on with a roar. Marine One, the President's helicopter, had moved in over the south lawn of the White House preparing to land. Customers rushed to the west rail for a better look. Unfortunately, they would find it to be more hearing than seeing.

The waiter arrived with our lunches as I was looking around casually. Not all diners were at the rail. Kat Turner, for one. She sat with a weeping young woman I thought might be Sarah McDowell, a coworker of Janet's I had met at the anniversary party.

“Max,” I said loudly over the noise. He looked at me. “Over there,” I nodded, “Kat Turner on the left with Sarah McDowell from the Vice President's office.”

“Miss Sarah seems a bit upset.”

“She worked with Janet on political and fundraising activities.”

“Could be a grief session.”

I wasn't convinced. “Maybe.”

“You worry about that on your own time.” He began eating. I followed suit.

The helicopter finally landed, and its engine shut down.

Max paused between bites and looked at me seriously. “I'd like you to check out something with those White House friends of yours.”

I studied his face for some inkling of where he was coming from. He gave nothing. “My one and probably only visit made me no friends,” I admitted.

“There is that friend of Jerry's. We can't poke around there without being noticed.”

“Poking?” My interest heightened.

“Researching.” His demeanor remained professional.

“Anything to do with serial killings?”

“Maybe. We've uncovered drug activity at a shelter where Thalma Williams worked. The Narcs are on that. Drugs alone are not unusual, but this particular operation has its roots in Atlanta.”

I couldn't find the theme of this.

“We discovered a porno movie outfit that traces back to a legit sporting goods operation owned by a George Manchester. It turns out he is a big fundraiser for the Vice President and the party and is a frequent Washington visitor.”

“Thalma?”

He grinned. “No, but someone close to her. This is about as convoluted as some of your other ideas, but it is a connection. I've had more twisted threads pan out.”

I leaned in on the table, loving this. “You put that together fast.”

“With the help of some former Washington cops now working in Atlanta. We need to keep eating. I don't have much time.”

After one mouthful, I had a question. “George Manchester? Could he have been at the Vice President's reception?”

“Most likely. He was in Washington that night. We don't have anything much on him, only on his lobbying group. He has an apartment in the Watergate and runs his political consultancy and fundraising from there. Manchester Enterprises, Inc. His association with the Vice President goes back to the end of his first senatorial term about five, six years ago. He has been big in party politics for a lot of years,” Max concluded.

“I'll call Ralph. I don't know what else I can do.” My mind was racing. How did this fit in?

“I've got to get out of here,” he said, waving to a waiter.

I turned to look at the two young women, but they had gone. I went back to finishing my lunch.

Max dropped me off at the paper. I had barely entered the newsroom when I was jolted by a shrill voice yelling, “Hey, Wolfe!” Not sure where the voice came from, I stopped and was almost run over by Gerty Lane, our ancient White House correspondent. I turned to face a pissed off woman.

“You are way off base on your serial-killer story. You know nothing about what the Secret Service can and cannot do. Some psycho killed those poor unfortunate women. There are no other scenarios. You're a minor leaguer playing in the big leagues, and you just struck out.”

I girded myself to stay calm. “Hard ball is hard ball, no matter where you play it
Gertrude
.”

Gerty's truculence escalated. “Keep to your dirty streets, and keep your ass off my beat. I'll worry about the White House.”

Tension gripped me. “I go where the story is. If it's in the White House, that's where I'll be.”

Gerty lost it. “The White House filed a complaint against you. Journalism 101—get the facts. Don't make insinuations. Check both sides before you put your fingers on the keyboard.”

I half smiled; Gerty had just set me up. “At least that's more productive than where you keep yours.”

I walked away quickly, leaving a boiling Lane yelling, “You are a disgrace to this paper!”

Most of the newsroom heard the outburst. Some were grinning; some gave me a wink. I could care less about Gerty. I passed Mary's desk and waved to her to follow. I flopped into my swivel chair and exhaled hard.

“I heard,” Mary said. “I didn't think it was that bad.”

“What, Gerty or the article?”

“Both.”

“Please. I need cheering up and a lot of help. Captain Walsh asked me to research some new info he picked up relating to Thalma Williams and a possible, would you believe, connection to the Vice President.”

“That little girl? I don't want to be critical of your darling captain, but I think he's been around you too long. What possible—”

“Drugs.”

“The Vice President?”

“No. It's someone at one of the shelters who was close to Thalma. This person had a connection with a supplier in Atlanta who appeared to work out of a porno film outfit that may be part of a legitimate business owned by a man who is very close to the Vice President.”

“And you did that in one breath. I'm going out and come back in. This beats a lot of your—”

“It's Walsh's, not mine. Anyway, he's asked me to check it out. Like I've got great White House contacts.”

“You could always ask Gerty,” she said dryly.

There was a beat, then I laughed, and the more I laughed, the funnier it was. Even Mary cracked a smile. I've heard that laughter is good for the soul, and I believe it. When I collected my thoughts, I felt the tension had indeed washed out of me. I ripped a wrapper from a handy candy bar in my desk drawer and took a bite.

Mary frowned, but went on to fill me in on many calls and requests. I thanked my news assistant and then gave her stuff to track down. “Everything else of mine can wait.”

Mary nodded and left.

I punched in a number on my desk phone.

“Mr. Field's office,” the soft matronly voice of Sophie Wells greeted me.

“Hi, Soph, this is Laura.”

“Why aren't you using our private line?”

“I need your help on something.”

“If we can,” she replied.

“Our friend, Ralph Morgan, at the White House? Do you have his work number?”

“Yes, we do. In fact, Mr. Morgan called this morning.”

A shot of adrenaline went through me. “Did Jerry talk with him?”

“No, we had a deposition. We haven't had time to get back to Mr. Morgan.”

“Well, ah, the number?”

Sophie gave it to me. “Shall we wait to call Mr. Morgan?”

“Seems I'm stirring the pot with his bosses and I'm not sure why. I suspect Mr. Morgan was asked to call, put in a word, like the good ole boys do. Which Jerry is not.” I punctuated the ‘not.'

“We agree, but they don't know that. Shall we wait?”

“It wouldn't hurt.”

“Please let us know if or when.”

“Thank you, and thanks for the help.”

“Our pleasure. Have a nice day.” The line went dead.

I have often wondered what Sophie thought of me. Oh well, move on. I called Ralph, who was tied up. I left my name as Mrs. Jerry Fields. Not a thing I enjoyed doing.

What possible connection could a nice white girl from Iowa have with a black girl from the District who worked for a nonprofit? Janet did have that friendship with Tishana Rice, but that was from work inside the White House. I tried to erase racial thoughts.

I couldn't wrap my arms around the idea that Janet or Marsha did drugs. Marsha was too heavily focused on law school work. She even forsook boys for the books. I saw nothing in Janet's room that said drugs. Granted, I hadn't looked in drawers or searched the closet, but the townhouse didn't reek of drugs.

This whole connection seemed meaningless, but I'd promised Max. If I failed to get anything worthwhile, that was too bad, but if I didn't try…My relationship with Max Walsh had been built on respect, trust, understanding, and loyalty. Words that carried tremendous importance to both of us. Max and I had more than a professional relationship; we were friends. And Max and Jerry had been friends long before me.

Mary interrupted my thoughts, calling on the intercom. “Mr. Morgan.”

I picked up. “Ralph, thanks for getting back to me.”

“No problem. Is this because of my call to Jerry?”

“Jerry? No.” Well, it wasn't. “I'm following up on something I heard at MPD today.”

“Well, I'm not sure…” He sounded hesitant.

“I understand I stirred up a bee's nest. I don't know why. I was only looking for background on Janet. She and I had talked at the reception. You introduced us.”

“I'd forgotten that. I realize you have a job to do. We had been told, even before you showed up, not to talk with the press. Frankie Grayson and Adam Smith are sticklers about that. They've been burned before.”

I made a note for future reference. “I'm sorry they involved you.”

“Frankie Grayson is very protective of her brother's image. She may overreact, but that's her,” he said matter-of-factly.

“I doubt I'll be making social calls on her any time soon. Look, the reason for my call is something I'd rather not discuss over the phone.”

“Is this about—?”

“No. This is for an important friend. How's lunch tomorrow?”

“Best it not be around here.”

My hopes buoyed. “The Potowmack Landing restaurant?” There was a pause. I guessed he was checking his calendar.

“Let's say 11:30, but I have to be back by 1:00.”

“That'll work for me. Let's meet outside at the café. See you then, and thanks.”

I pulled out a bag of chips and munched while calling Marsha. I got her voice mail and asked if I could pick her up after her last class.

I wanted to go to her townhouse.

T
he offices of the Vice President of the United States were busily at work doing the country's business. Frankie observed that everybody was on the job. She was pleased at how well her troops had handled themselves. As she neared her office, she found Donna Talbot talking with her secretary Maude.

“I have some messages for you, Ms. Grayson.” Her secretary handed her a few message slips.

“Hold my calls please.” She gestured for Talbot to follow and to close the door.

“Have you found out anything about the reporter?” the Grayson twin asked, as she went behind her desk and dropped the messages on it.

“Some professional history.”

“Find out who she's been talking to in here,” Frankie said. She picked up a copy of the
Star
. Laura's article had a big red circle around it. “I wouldn't put it past her to have made up the
unnamed source
, but check it out anyway.”

“We can go over the telephone records since Monday,” Talbot suggested.

“Good. I asked Ralph Morgan to call the reporter's husband. They're old buddies. Check his calls. Kat and Sarah too.”

“Why the women?”

“They talked to Wolfe at the reception. Kat had that thing with Wolfe during her office visit. I'm not saying they talked, maybe she called them. Let's keep tabs.”

“I'll get a printout.”

“Find out Wolfe's politics. What happened to Janet's roommate? What's her name?”

Talbot flipped pages in her notebook. “Marsha Hines.”

“Send someone to their townhouse undercover to get Janet's stuff out of there.”

“It'll have to be off the record,” Talbot said hesitantly.

“See what you can do,” she said brusquely. She wanted no dissent.

“Oh,” Talbot interjected, “since I'm the Service's representative to the Joint Task Force on the serial killings, I'll be getting copies of MPD's reports.”

Frankie smiled. “Let me know if anything reflects on us. Nothing should, but people come up with crazy theories.”