Verheek spoke without hesitating. "You a law student?"
The young man glanced at him while pulling money from his jeans. "Afraid so."
"Did you know Thomas Callahan?"
"Who are you?"
"FBI. Callahan was a friend of mine."
The student sipped the beer and was suspicious. "I was in his con law class."
Bingo! So was Darby. Verheek tried to appear uninterested. "Do you know Darby Shaw?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"We need to talk to her. That's all."
"Who is we?" The student was even more suspicious. He took a step closer to Gavin as if he wanted some hard answers.
"FBI," Verheek said nonchalantly.
"You got a badge or something?"
"Sure," he said as he pulled a card from his pocket. The student read it carefully, then handed it back. "You're a lawyer, not an agent."
This was a very valid point, and the lawyer knew he would lose his job if his boss knew he was asking questions and in general impersonating an agent. "Yes, I'm a lawyer. Callahan and I were in law school together."
"Then why do you want to see Darby Shaw?"
The bartender had eased closer and was eavesdropping.
"Do you know her?"
"I don't know," the student said, and it was obvious he did in fact know her but was not about to talk. "Is she in trouble?"
"No. You know her, don't you?"
"Maybe. Maybe not."
"Look, what's your name?"
"Show me a badge, and I'll tell you my name."
Gavin took a long drink from the bottle and smiled at the bartender. "I need to see her, okay? It's very important. I'll be at the Hilton for a few days. If you see her, ask her to call." He offered the card to the student, who looked at it and walked away.
At three, he unlocked the door to his room, and checked the phone. No messages. Wherever Darby was, she still had not called. Assuming, of course, she was still alive.
Garcia called for the last time. Grantham took the call before dawn Saturday, less than two hours before they were to meet for the first time. He was backing out, he said. The time was not right. If the story broke, then some very powerful lawyers and their very rich clients would fall hard, and these people were not accustomed to falling, and they would take people with them. And Garcia might get hurt. He had a wife and little daughter. He had a job that he could endure because the money was great. Why take chances? He had done nothing wrong. His conscience was clear.
"Then why do you keep calling me?" Grantham asked.
"I think I know why they were killed. I'm not certain, but I've got a good idea. I saw something, okay?"
"We've had this conversation for a week now, Garcia. You saw something, or you have something. And it's all useless unless you show it to me." Grantham opened a file and took out the five by sevens of the man on the phone. "You're driven by a sense of morality, Garcia. That's why you want to talk."
"Yeah, but there's a chance they know that I know. They've been treating me funny, as if they want to ask if I saw it. But they can't ask because they're not sure."
"These are the guys in your firm?"
"Yeah. No. Wait. How'd you know I was in a firm? I haven't told you that."
"It's easy. You go to work too early to be a government lawyer. You're in one of those two-hundred-lawyer firms where they expect the associates and junior partners to work a hundred hours a week. The first time you called me you said you were on the way to the office, and it was something like 5 A.M."
"Well, well, what else do you know?"
"Not much. We're playing games, Garcia. If you're not willing to talk, then hang up and leave me alone. I'm losing sleep."
"Sweet dreams." Garcia hung up. Grantham stared at the receiver.
Three times in the past eight years he had unlisted his phone number. He lived by the phone, and his biggest stories came out of nowhere over the phone. But after or during each big one, there had been a thousand insignificant ones from sources who felt compelled to call at all hours of the night with their hot little morsels. He was known as a reporter who would face a firing squad before revealing a source, so they called and called and called. He'd get sick of it, and get a new, unlisted number. Then hit a dry spell. Then rush to get back in the D.C. directory.
He was there now. Gray S. Grantham. The only one in the book. They could get him at work twelve hours a day, but it was so much more secretive and private to call him at home, especially at odd hours when he was trying to sleep.
He fumed over Garcia for thirty minutes, then fell asleep. He was in a rhythm and dead to the world when it rang again. He found it in the darkness. "Hello."
It was not Garcia. It was a female. "Is this Gray Grantham with the Washington Post?"
"It is. And who are you?"
"Are you still on the story about Rosenberg and Jensen?"
He sat in the darkness and stared at the clock. Five-thirty. "It's a big story. We've got a lot of people on it, but, yes, I'm investigating."
"Have you heard of the pelican brief?"
He breathed deeply and tried to think. "The pelican brief. No. What is it?"
"It's a harmless little theory about who killed them. It was taken to Washington last Sunday by a man named Thomas Callahan, a professor of law at Tulane. He gave it to a friend with the FBI, and it was passed around. Things snowballed, and Callahan was killed in a car bombing Wednesday night in New Orleans."
The lamp was on and he was scribbling. "Where are you calling from?"
"New Orleans. A pay phone, so don't bother."
"How do you know all this?"
"I wrote the brief."
He was wide awake now, wild-eyed and breathing rapidly. "Okay. If you wrote it, tell me about it."
"I don't want to do it that way, because even if you had a copy you couldn't run the story."
"Try me."
"You couldn't. It'll take some thorough verification."
"Okay. We've got the Klan, the terrorist Khamel, the Underground Army, the Aryans, the - "
"Nope. None of the above. They're a bit obvious. The brief is about an obscure suspect."
He was pacing at the foot of the bed, holding the phone. "Why can't you tell me who it is?"
"Maybe later. You seem to have these magical sources. Let's see what you find."
"Callahan will be easy to check out. That's one phone call. Give me twenty-four hours."
"I'll try to call Monday morning. If we're gonna do business, Mr. Grantham, you must show me something. The next time I call, tell me something I don't know."
She was at a pay phone in the dark. "Are you in danger?" he asked.
"I think so. But I'm okay for now."
She sounded young, mid-twenties, maybe. She wrote a brief. She knew the law professor. "Are you a lawyer?"
"No, and don't spend your time digging after me. You've got work to do, Mr. Grantham, or I'll go elsewhere."
"Fine. You need a name."
"I've got one."
"I mean a code name."
"You mean like spies and all. Gee, this could be fun."
"Either that or give me your real name."
"Nice try. Just call me Pelican."
His parents were good Irish Catholics, but he had sort of quit many years ago. They were a handsome couple, dignified in mourning, well tanned and dressed. He had seldom mentioned them. They walked hand-in-hand with the rest of the family into Rogers Chapel. His brother from Mobile was shorter and looked much older. Thomas said he had a drinking problem.
For half an hour, students and faculty had streamed into the small chapel. The game was tonight and there was a nice crowd on campus. A television van was parked in the street. A cameraman kept a respectable distance and shot the front of the chapel. A campus policeman watched him carefully and kept him in place.
It was odd seeing these law students with dresses and heels and coats and ties. In a dark room on the third floor of Newcomb Hall, the Pelican sat with her face to the window and watched the students mill about and speak softly and finish their cigarettes. Under her chair were four newspapers, already read and discarded. She'd been there for two hours, reading by sunlight and waiting on the service. There was no other place to be. She was certain the bad guys were lurking in the bushes around the chapel, but she was learning patience. She had come early, would stay late, and move in the shadows. If they found her, maybe they would do it quick and it would be over.
She gripped a wadded paper towel and dried her eyes. It was okay to cry now, but this was the last one. The people were all inside, and the television van left. The paper said it was a memorial service with private burial later. There was no casket inside.
She had selected this moment to run, to rent a car and drive to Baton Rouge, then jump on the first plane headed to any place except New Orleans. She would get out of the country, perhaps Montreal or Calgary. She would hide there for a year and hope the crime would be solved and the bad guys put away.
But it was a dream. The quickest route to justice ran smack through her. She knew more than anyone. The Fibbies had circled close, then backed off, and were now chasing who knows who. Verheek had gotten nowhere, and he was close to the Director. She would have to piece it together. Her little brief had killed Thomas, and now they were after her. She knew the identity of the man behind the murders of Rosenberg and Jensen and Callahan, and this knowledge made her rather unique.
Suddenly, she leaned forward. The tears dried on her cheeks. There he was! The thin man with the narrow face! He was wearing a coat and tie and looked properly mournful as he walked quickly to the chapel. It was him! The man she'd last seen in the lobby of the Sheraton on, when was it, Thursday morning. She'd been talking to Verheek when he strolled suspiciously through.
He stopped at the door, jerked his head nervously around - he was a klutz, really, a giveaway. He stared for a second at three cars parked innocently on the street, less than fifty yards away. He opened the door, and was in the chapel. Beautiful. The bastards killed him, and now they joined his family and friends for last respects.
Her nose touched the window. The cars were too far away, but she was certain there was a man in one watching for her. Surely they knew she was not so dumb and so heartbroken as to show up and mourn her lover. They knew that. She had eluded them for two and a half days. The tears were gone.
Ten minutes later, the thin man came out by himself, lit a cigarette, and strolled with hands stuck deep in his pockets toward the three cars. He was sad. What a guy.
He walked in front of the cars but did not stop. When he was out of sight, a door opened and a man in a green Tulane sweatshirt emerged from the middle car. He walked down the street after the thin one. He was not thin. He was short, thick, and powerful. A regular stump.