Washington Deceased (11 page)

“How do you know that?” she demanded.

“There is no one in the United States government, including the President, who can get an American citizen on American soil killed just by picking up the telephone and giving an order that it be done. The executive branch isn't a pyramidal monolith directed from the top down as business corporations supposedly are. It is a collection of competing interest groups coexisting in uneasy tension.”

“So what?”

“So, the Gardner execution theory assumes that at least two elements of this collection—say, the White House staff and the Bureau of Prisons—collaborated in some way in an effort to murder an American citizen to keep him from telling something he knew.”

“And that couldn't have happened?”

“Ms. Gardner, there is nothing that your father could possibly know that could conceivably be as damaging to anyone as the revelation of such a homicidal conspiracy would be. It wouldn't make any sense to kill Desmond Gardner in order to shut him up if by the very act of killing him you put infinitely more damaging information in the hands of several other people who could reveal it in the future.”

As soon as he had finished his answer, Michaelson saw from the waves of dismay washing across Wendy's face that he'd made a mistake—that instead of convincing her that he was right he had only reduced whatever confidence she had in his judgment.

“Do you mind telling me,” he asked her then by way of diversion, “whether anything in particular has happened today to raise this specific possibility in your own mind?”

“Well, one thing.”

“To wit?”

“I tried to reach dad by phone. The prison said that he'd left instructions that no calls were to be put through to him except from his lawyer. And his lawyer is incommunicado.”

“Does that alarm you?”

“It surprises me. Why shouldn't dad take a call from me, unless there's something he's afraid to tell me?”

“Because he's now a veteran of the American criminal justice system. One thing that he has had drilled into his skull is that in connection with any potential crime or criminal charge he must not under any circumstances tell the police anything, except on the advice of his lawyer.”

“We're not talking about the police. We're talking about me.”

“Not only you, unfortunately. Because your father is in prison, the government has the right to open every piece of mail he receives and listen in on every phone conversation he has. The only exception is for communications with his lawyer.”

“But he didn't do anything,” Wendy protested.

“All the more reason not to help anyone trying to prove that he did. More important, he has your involvement to consider. When you first talked to me, you told me that your father thought his life might be in danger. Somebody brought a firearm into Honor Cottage B-4, and that firearm was used yesterday to kill the man your father had identified as the source of his fears.”

“You're not saying that I smuggled that gun in there?”

“Of course not. But put yourself in your father's position: If you were he, could you be absolutely sure?”

They had reached the Lincoln Memorial. They stood in the vibrant April sunshine between the reflecting pond and the marble monument, looking toward the path that led to the Vietnam Memorial.

Wendy was experiencing something entirely new to her, something for which nothing in her background or education had prepared her: doubt. For the first time, a mind that had always been secure in perfect if often erroneous certainty began to wonder—what if?

“Anything else we should talk about at the moment?” Michaelson asked.

“No,” Wendy said slowly. “I don't think there is.”

“I'll see you at Cavalier Books at 4:00.”

Chapter Sixteen

The lunch-hour rush at Cavalier Books lasted until 2:00 p.m. Marjorie Randolph waited until it was over before embarking on the impossible assignment she had accepted from Michaelson. Promptly, at 2:01, she walked determinedly back to the store's small stockroom, sat at her functional desk, and consulted a battered address book with a black, leatherette cover. She had to look through half a dozen names before she found the one she wanted.

She dialed a number and listened to the phone ring twice.

“Department of State,” a gender-neutral voice answered.

“May I speak with Mr. Morton please?”

“Just a moment.”

One more ring.

“Mr. Morton's office.”

“Hello, Cynthia, this is Marjorie Randolph at Cavalier Books.”

“Oh, hello,” Cynthia Brooks said. “Did you want to speak to Mr. Morton?”

“No, actually, I wanted to speak with you. Do you have a moment?”

“Of course.”

Of course. The State Department hadn't been pressed for time since early in the Kennedy administration.

“Well, I was calling to tell you that we have a new shipment of English mysteries, eight titles, that won't go on the shelf until Saturday at noon. One of them is a new John Wainwright, and there's a new Jennie Melville as well. I thought that you might want to come down for an early look at them.”

“Marjorie, you living, breathing doll. I'll be there promptly at nine Saturday morning.”

“Well, bring some coffee. We don't open until 9:30.”

“Half-past, then. Thank you very much, Marjorie.”

“Happy to be able to be of service. Can you transfer me to another number at State or do I have to dial in again?”

“I can transfer you. Whose number do you want?”

“Charles Blair's. His secretary is actually the one with whom I'd like to speak.”

“Oh, does she like cozies too?”

“No, I only allow myself one specially favored customer per agency. I'm calling her for something entirely different. I'm supposed to try to get Mr. Blair to a dinner party, and I thought I'd have a better chance if I had some idea of what his schedule looks like. In fact, if you could smooth the way for me I'd very much appreciate it.”

“It's the least I can do,” Cynthia said. “Hang on.”

There followed a delicate sound rather like an electronic sigh. Marjorie waited in telephonic limbo for several seconds and then heard Cynthia come back on the line.

“Marjorie, do I still have you?”

“Yes.”

“And you're on, Gloria?”

“Yeess,” a trilling voice said patiently.

“Very well,” Cynthia said. “Gloria, Marjorie Randolph is a very great friend of mine. She's trying to arrange an invitation for your boss, and she needs to know when would be a good time.”

“When were you thinking of generally?” Gloria asked.

“This week,” Marjorie hedged, reluctant to come right out with something as absurd as tomorrow night.

“Oh, I don't think you have much hope of that,” Gloria clucked. “Mr. and Mrs. Blair are having an affair this evening. McRobert Pond will be there and some media people, and Mr. Blair has told me a dozen times he expects it to be dreadfully boring. I'm afraid he and Mrs. Blair will be partied out for this week by the time that's over.”

“There's no hope at all, you don't think?” Marjorie asked.

“Nope. None at all.”

“Oh, well. Thank you for your help. See you Saturday, Cynthia.”

The three women exchanged goodbyes and Marjorie hung up.

No hope at all, she thought to herself. This is going to be more of a challenge than I thought.

***

“Do you have an appointment to see Mr. Logan?” the young woman at the reception desk asked Michaelson.

“I do not. I'll be happy to wait. I'd appreciate it if you'd tell Mr. Logan that I'd be obliged for five minutes of his time at his convenience this afternoon to talk with him about his client Desmond Gardner.”

“He's in conference right now. He could be tied up for some time yet.”

“As I said, I'll be happy to wait.”

Michaelson sat down and began to leaf through a copy of the
ABA Journal
. An article on an organization called Lawyers Without Frontiers, dedicated to bringing the benefits of American litigation technology to mass-tort victims in the third world, caught his eye. The receptionist, with what appeared to be infinite reluctance, called Jeff Logan's secretary to relay Michaelson's message.

***

“Marjorie, I really don't feel comfortable doing this.”

“Good for you. I wouldn't have the nerve to ask you except that it's the only way I can think of to accomplish something Richard specially asked me to accomplish.”

“I understand how important that is to you and you know how much I want to help, but I don't even know the man.”

“All you have to know about McRobert Pond is that he's the most libidinous Senior Fellow—that's capital
S
, capital
F
—at the Pierpont Endowment for the Republic,” Marjorie told her young assistant manager as she maneuvered her into the stockroom.

“What's the Pierpont Endowment for the Republic?”

“It's a think tank with offices two floors above the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace. It's sort of a government in exile for the party that's out of power at the moment.”

“What will I say to him?”

“Just say that he probably doesn't remember you but you met him at a reception a few weeks ago while you were a student intern at Carnegie, your name is Carrie, and you happen to be in Washington tonight and you wonder if he'd like to have a drink with you this evening.”

“But none of that is true. Except my name.”

“Of course it isn't, Carrie, love. It is true, however, that there are periodically student interns at Carnegie, that Pond occasionally meets them, and that the only thing he remembers about any of the female ones is how much he'd like to sleep with them, which is invariably a lot.”

“But how.….”

“It is also true that on the telephone you sound like the kind of woman who inspires in men fantasies worthy of Henry Miller.”

“But what.….”

“I guarantee you that Mr. Pond will pretend to remember you and will accept your invitation with alacrity. All you must remember is that you're only going to be in Washington tonight and that you must meet at seven o'clock—no earlier and no later.”

“But what if I don't like him?”

“You certainly won't like him, precious goose. He's a snake.”

“But I'll be—leading him on, won't I?”

“Not for long. Let him buy you a drink. Look into his eyes while he discourses at length on the International Monetary Fund. Nod occasionally.”

“That's not leading him on?”

“Then, when he puts his hand on your knee and suggests that the two of you adjourn to someplace with a horizontal surface, throw the rest of your drink in his face, assert with outraged dignity that he has obviously misapprehended your intentions, stand up, stamp your pretty little foot, and walk out.”

“I wouldn't do this for anyone but you,” Carrie said.

Her face a portrait of misgiving, Carrie dialed the number Marjorie gave her for the Pierpont Endowment for the Republic. To her astonishment, she reached McRobert Pond without difficulty and the conversation ensued exactly as Marjorie had said it would.

***

Wendy Gardner was visibly moping when she walked back into Cavalier Books just before 3:00. With the ebbing of certainty had come dissipation of the intellectual energy that depended on it. Disspirited and psychologically adrift, she no longer knew what to think or whom to believe. The mental stamina necessary to reason critically through the information she had eluded her. Emotionally, she had reached a point analogous to the twelfth mile of a marathon for a half-trained runner; she didn't collapse; she just said the hell with it and dropped out of the race.

Wendy still had the copy of
D.C. After Dark
, the tabloid that she'd taken from Cox's office. Bringing it over to the tea-and-coffee bar, she paged listlessly through stories about upcoming rock concerts, record and film reviews, columns of iconoclastic opinion, and reams of personal ads.

***

“Hello. This is Jennifer Blair. I'm not able to come to the phone right now, but if you'll please leave your name, number and a brief message at the tone, I'll try to return your call.”

Beep.

“Hello, Jennifer. This is Marjorie Randolph at Cavalier Books. I just wanted to let you know that the copy of
Ladies' Own Erotica
that you asked us to order for you is in. It'll be up by the cash register with your name on it whenever you find it convenient to drop by.”

Marjorie hung up the phone. If that doesn't draw a call back in under sixty seconds, she said to herself, party tonight or not, I'll give Carrie a raise.

The phone rang less than half a minute later. Marjorie answered it.

“Cavalier Books,” she said.

“Marjorie? This is Jennifer Blair.”

“Oh, hello, Jennifer. I'm glad you got my message.”

“Marjorie, there must be some mistake. I didn't ask you to order a copy of…that book for me.”

“You didn't? My word, I wonder how that happened. Oh, well. No harm done. I'll just take your name off and put the book on the shelf. Thank you for calling, Jennifer.”

“You're welcome.”

Here we go, Marjorie thought. McRobert Pond was a jerk, and you certainly couldn't count on him to phone his hostess with an eleventh-hour decision to bail out of her party. Pond's secretary, on the other hand, was a peach, and Marjorie was certain that she would have seen to it that Jennifer Blair got the unwelcome but essential news immediately after Carrie's seductive phone call to Pond. Michaelson was an obvious substitute for Pond, and Jennifer Blair could hardly help thinking of Michaelson when she talked to Marjorie.

A pause of one second ensued. The agony of Jennifer Blair's indecision seemed palpable to Marjorie over the line, and she wondered if her own suspense were equally apparent.

“Uh, Marjorie,” Jennifer Blair said then, “as long as I have you on the line….”

“Yes, Jennifer?”

“You know Richard Michaelson, don't you?”

“Yes, he comes in here occasionally. I'm expecting him later this afternoon, in fact.”

“Do you know where I might reach him?”

“Well, he has an office at Brookings, but I happen to know he's away from there for the rest of the day.” Marjorie counted silently to three. Then she dropped the other shoe. “You see, Richard and I are going out this evening.”

“I see. Marjorie, I wonder if I might ask you a very great favor.”

“Of course you may, Jennifer.”

“The thing is, Charles and I are planning a small dinner tonight, and I've had a last-minute cancellation that's rather a bore. If you could spare Richard this one night, it would help out enormously.”

Marjorie glared indignantly at the mouthpiece. Plebian, she thought.

“To fill in, you mean?” she said sweetly to Jennifer Blair.

“Yes. I know that it's ridiculously short notice, but….”

“Well, Jennifer, Richard and I have nothing specific planned for tonight, but I couldn't break a date with him that I'd already agreed to. My sainted mother would come back from the grave to upbraid me mercilessly.”

“Oh, Marjorie, you would
both
of course be more than welcome.”

That's one thing I like about you, Jenny old girl, Marjorie thought. You know when you're licked.

“In that case,” Marjorie said, “I think you can count on us.”

“Thank you ever so much, Marjorie. Drinks from 6:15, dinner promptly at 7:00.”

“Thank you for inviting us. We'll see you this evening.”

Marjorie hung up. She walked back into the store proper, humming “The Four Seasons.” She felt just short of giddy with satisfaction. Richard had been right. The task he'd set her had been impossible. She had nevertheless accomplished it, and she was probably the only person in Washington who could have done it.

Her high spirits lasted until her eyes fell on Wendy Gardner, looking like someone who had been jilted by her first love, failed the bar exam, and been told that Margaret Mitchell had plagiarized
Gone With the Wind
all in the same afternoon. Marjorie assumed that Wendy's crestfallen demeanor had something to do with the project Michaelson was working on with her, so she decided that she might as well get to the bottom of it.

Marjorie walked gingerly toward the small platform with its two tiny tables. When she reached Wendy's table, she waited for a moment to see if Wendy would glance up long enough from the personals in
D.C. After Dark
to notice her. Despairing quickly of that possibility, Marjorie decided to plunge ahead.

“I trust that you and Richard got things cleared up between you,” she said.

Wendy glanced up, startled and a trifle confused.

“Oh, uh, yeah, I suppose so,” she said.

Wendy remained seated and Marjorie remained standing. Wendy seemed dimly aware that there was something anomalous in this situation, but appeared to have no clue as to what to do about it.

“If you'll forgive my saying so,” Marjorie continued, “you seem a bit out of sorts over the whole thing.”

“I guess so,” Wendy responded. “Uh, look, would you, uh, like to sit down or something?”

There may be hope for her yet, Marjorie thought as she dropped gratefully into the chair opposite Wendy.

“Thank you. He's very good at what he does, you know. Richard, I mean.”

“I'm sure he is,” Wendy said with a shrug. “But, uh, he's not really very nice, is he?”