The First Counsel (51 page)

"Where you going?" a deep voice asks.

I spin around, crashing into the now-closing elevator doors.

"Sorry, Michael," he laughs. "Didn't mean to startle you."

I take a deep breath. It's just Fidel, the doorman. He's watching TV behind the front desk--and with the sound turned off, he's easy to miss.

"Damn, Fidel, that was a full heart attack!"

He just smiles as wide as he can. "Orioles are beating the Yanks--top of the second."

"Wish them luck for me," I say, turning back to the elevator. I push the call button and once again the doors slide open.

As I step inside, Fidel calls out, "By the way, your brother stopped by."

Just as the elevator's about to slam shut, I shove my arm between the doors. "What brother?" I ask.

Fidel looks alarmed. "W-With the brown hair. He was here ten minutes ago--said he had to grab something from your apartment."

"Did you give him my key?"

"No," Fidel says, stammering. "He said he had it." Picking up the phone, he adds, "Do you want me to call the--"

"No! Don't call anyone. Not yet." I jump back into the elevator and let the doors close. Instead of pressing the button for the seventh floor, I press six. Just to be safe.

When the elevator opens on the sixth floor, I dash directly toward the stairs that are straight across the hall. Quietly, I run up to the seventh. If it's the FBI hoping to catch me by surprise, I shouldn't be here. But if it's Simon--if he killed Vaughn to keep things quiet, he could be planting somethi--I cut myself off. Don't think about it. You'll find out soon enough.

On the landing of the seventh floor, I peer through the small window in the stairwell door. The problem is, my apartment's all the way at the end of the hall, and I can't see there from here. There's no way around it--I have to open it for a look. I put my hand on the doorknob and take a deep breath. It's okay, I tell myself. Just turn it. Nice and easy. Not too fast.

I slowly pull the heavy metal door toward me. Each creak sounds like a tiny scream. Down the hall, I hear voices mumbling. More like arguing. Using my foot as a doorstop, I prop open the door and carefully peer into the hallway. As I ease the door backwards, the hall starts to come into view. The elevator . . . the trash room . . . my neighbor's door . . . my door--and the two men in dark suits fidgeting with my locks. Sons of bitches are breaking in. My upper body is about halfway into the hall when a loud ping announces the arrival of the elevator. The doors slide open, and the two men in dark suits look straight up--at me.

"There he is!" one of them shouts. "FBI! Stay where you are!"

Directly across from me, Fidel steps out of the elevator, oblivious to what's going on. "Michael, I wanted to make sure you--"

"Grab him!" the second agent shouts.

Grab him? Who's he talking t--My head jerks back as I'm plowed into from behind. I feel an arm slide across my throat, and another under my armpit. These guys came prepared.

Panicking, I jab my elbow backwards as hard as I can and connect squarely with my attacker's gut. He lets out a throaty gasp, and as his grip goes weak, I slip free.

"What the . . . ?" Fidel blurts. Down the hallway, the other two agents are charging toward us.

"Get back in the elevator!" I shout at Fidel. The doors are about to close.

Before anyone can react, I dive forward, tackling Fidel and hurling us both toward the elevator. We squeeze in just as the doors slam shut. Over my shoulder, I swing my arm back and pound the button marked Lobby. As we start moving, I hear the FBI agents pounding on the elevator door. It's too late.

My hands are shaking as I help Fidel up from the floor.

"T-That's the guy who said he was your brother," Fidel says.

Still shaking, I barely hear what he's saying.

"Are they really the FBI?" he asks.

"I think so . . . I'm not sure."

"What did you--"

"I didn't do anything, Fidel. Whoever comes, you tell them that. I'm innocent. I'll prove it." Looking up, I see we're almost at the lobby.

"Then why're they--?"

"They'll be coming down the stairs," I interrupt. "When you see them, tell them I went out the back. Okay? I went out back."

Fidel nods.

The moment the elevator doors open, I dart out toward the front of the lobby. As an escape route, it may be more conspicuous, but Connecticut Avenue is the only place I'm going to catch a cab. Of course, as I bound out of the building, there's not a single one around. Damn. I start running up the block. Anything to get away. If I plan on saving myself, I need to catch my breath and think.

A minute into my mad dash, I turn around just as two of the FBI agents burst out the front door. They didn't believe Fidel--they only sent one out back.

Across the street, there's a cab coming in the opposite direction. "Taxi!" I scream.

Finally, something goes my way. He pulls a wide, illegal U-turn and stops right in front of me.

"Where you going?" he asks in a loose Midwestern accent. As he turns around to face me, he's got a thick arm wrapped around the back of the passenger seat.

"Anywhere . . . Straight . . . Just get out of here," I say, kicking myself for coming to find the note. I knew this would happen.

He slams the gas and sends me flying backwards in my seat.

I turn to look back. The agents are shouting something, but I can't hear them. It doesn't matter--they've answered my question. The word's out. And all eyes are on me.

* * *

Ten minutes later, we pull into an above-ground parking garage right off Wisconsin Avenue. The cabbie swears it's the closest pay phone that can't be seen from the street. I take his word for it.

"Do you mind waiting?" I ask as I hop out to the phone.

"You pay, I stay--American way."

I pick up the receiver and dial Trey's number. His line rings twice before he picks up.

"This is Trey."

"How we doing?" I ask.

"Mi--" He stops himself. Someone's in the office. "Where the hell are you? Are you okay?" he whispers.

"I'm fine," I say unconvincingly. In the background, I hear the other phones in his office ringing. "What's happening there?"

Another two phones go off. "It's a friggin' zoo--like nothing you've ever seen. Every reporter in the country has called us. Twice."

"How bad am I going to be hit?"

There's a short pause on the other line. "You're Dan Quayle."

"Have they issued--"

"No statements from anyone--Simon, Press Office, not even Hartson. Rumor is they're going live at five-thirty--to make sure they have something for the nightlies. I'm telling you, man, I've never seen anything like it--the place is paralyzed."

"And your friend at the Post?"

"All I know is they got a photo of you standing outside the building--probably the one taken by that photographer. Unless they get something better, he says it's running A1 tomorrow."

"Can't he--"

"I'm trying my best," he says. "There's just no way around it. Inez got everything--you leaving Caroline's office, the WAVES records, the tox reports, the money . . ."

"She found the money?"

"My buddy says she knows someone at D.C. police. They typed your name in and it came up under 'Financial Investigations.' Ten thousand big ones seized from Michael Garri . . ." Trey's voice trails off. "What?" he asks, sounding muffled. He's got a hand over the receiver. "Says who?"

"Trey!" I shout. "What's going on?"

I hear people talking, but he doesn't answer.

"Trey!"

Still nothing.

"Trey!"

"Are you there?" he finally asks.

I'm so sick, I'm going to vomit. "What the hell's going on?" "Steve just got back from the Press Office," he says hesitantly.

"Is it bad?"

I can't hear it, but I know I'm getting the rub. It's a record-breaker. "I wouldn't panic until they confirm--"

"Just tell me what it is!"

"He says they found a gun in your car, Michael."

"What?"

"Wrapped in an old map; hidden in your glove compartment."

I feel like I just took a kick in the neck. My body's reeling. I hold on to the phone booth to stand up. "I don't own a . . . How did they . . . Oh, jeez, they're going to find Vaughn . . ."

"It's just a rumor, Michael--for all we know, it's--" Once again, he stops short. So does everyone in the background. The place is silent. All I hear are phones ringing. Someone must've walked in.

"What're they saying?" a female voice demands. I recognize it instantly.

"Here you go, Mrs. Hartson," another voice says.

"I gotta run," Trey whispers into the phone.

"Wait!" I shout. "Not y--" It's too late. He's gone.

Lowering the phone to its cradle, I look over my shoulder for help. The only one there is the cab driver, who's already lost in his newspaper. I hear the taxi coughing and wheezing from years of abuse. The rest of the garage is silent. Silent and abandoned. I put my hand over my stomach and feel the knife twisting in my gut. I have to . . . I have to get help. I pick up the receiver and stuff another set of coins in the pay phone. Without even thinking, I dial her number. It's the first thought that comes to my brain. Forget what happened--call her. I need the front lines; I need to know what's going on; and more than anything else, I need some honesty. Guerrilla honesty.

"This is Pam," she says as she picks up the phone.

"Hey," I say, trying to sound upbeat. After our last conversation, she's probably ready to rip me apart.

She pauses long enough to let me know she recognizes my voice. I close my eyes and get ready for the tongue-lashing.

"How you doing, Pete?" she asks with a strain in her voice.

Something's wrong. "Should I--"

"No, no," she interrupts. "The FBI never called--they wouldn't trace the phone lines . . ."

That's all I need to hear. I slam the phone back into its cradle. I have to hand it to her--regardless of how pissed she was, she came through. She'll be taking major heat for that one. But if they've already closed in on my closest friends . . . Damn, maybe Trey didn't even know. Maybe they already . . . I back up from the phone and race toward the cab. "Let's get out of here," I shout to the driver.

"Where to?" he asks as the tires screech toward Wisconsin Avenue.

I've only got one other option. "Potomac, Maryland."

Chapter
34

Almost there," the cabbie announces twenty minutes later.

I raise my head just enough to peek out the left window. Flower beds, manicured lawns, plenty of cul-de-sacs. As we drive past the recently built McMansions that dot Potomac's way-too-conscious-to-be-natural landscape, I slouch down in the seat, trying to stay out of view.

"Not a bad neighborhood," the driver says with a whistle. "Check out the lawn frogs on that one."

I don't bother to look. I'm too busy trying to come up with other places to run. It's harder than I would've thought. Thanks to the FBI's original background check, my file is filled with my entire network. Family, friends. That's how they check you out--they take your world. Which means if I'm looking for help, I have to step outside the maze. The thing is, if someone's outside the maze, there's usually a good reason for it.

"There it is," I say, pointing to what I have to admit is a stunning New England-style colonial on the corner of Buckboard Place.

"Turn here?" the cab driver asks.

"No, keep going straight." As we pass the house, I turn around and watch it through the back window. About two hundred yards away, I point to the empty driveway of a messy little rambler. Unkempt lawn, peeling shutters. Just like our old place. The black eye of the block. "Pull in here," I say, studying the dusty front windows. No one's home. These people work.

Without a word, we roll into the driveway, which runs perpendicular to the street. He pulls the cab in so that everything but the back window and the trunk are hidden by the house next door. It's a great hiding spot--a room with a view.

Diagonally down the block, I keep my eyes on the old colonial. It's got a spacious two-car garage. The driveway's empty.

"So how long until he gets back?" the cabbie asks. "You're running up some serious tab."

"I told you, I'll cover it. Besides," I add, looking down at my watch, "he'll be here soon--he doesn't work full days anymore."

Settling in for the wait, the cab driver reaches for the radio. "How about I turn on the news, so we can--"

"No!" I bark.

He raises an eyebrow. "Whatever you want, man," he says. "Whatever you want."

* * *

Within fifteen minutes, Henry Meyerowitz turns onto the block in his own personal midlife crisis--a 1963 jet black Porsche roadster convertible. I shake my head at the SMOKIN personalized plates. I hate my mother's family.