Gray nodded and sipped the last of his coffee.
"What if it's another firm?" Keen asked. "What if the firm is not in Washington? What if the conspirators don't break? What if there's only one legal mind at work here and it belongs to a part-time paralegal in Shreveport? What if one of Mattiece's in-house lawyers devised the scheme?"
"Sometimes you irritate the hell out of me. Do you know that?"
"These are valid questions. What if?"
"Then we go to Plan C."
"And what's that?"
"I don't know yet. She hasn't gotten that far."
She had instructed him to stay off the streets and to eat in his room. He had a sandwich and fries in a bag, and was obediently walking to his room on the eighth floor of the Marbury. An Asian maid was pushing her cart near his room. He stopped at his door and pulled the key from his pocket.
"You forget something, sir?" the maid asked.
Gray looked at her. "I beg your pardon."
"You forget something?"
"Well, no. Why?"
The maid took a step closer to him. "You just left, sir, and now you are back."
"I left four hours ago."
She shook her head and took another step for a closer look. "No, sir. A man left your room ten minutes ago." She hesitated and studied his face intently. "But, sir, now I think it was another man."
Gray glanced at the room number on the door. 833. He stared at the woman. "Are you certain another man was in this room?"
"Yes, sir. Just minutes ago."
He panicked. He walked quickly to the stairs, and ran down eight flights. What was in the room? Nothing but clothes. Nothing about Darby. He stopped and reached into a pocket. The note with the Tabard Inn address and her phone number was in the pocket. He caught his breath, and eased into the lobby.
He had to find her, and quick.
Darby found an empty table in the reading room on the second floor of the Edward Bennett Williams Law Library at Georgetown. In her new hobby as a traveling critic of law school libraries, she found Georgetown's to be the nicest so far. It was a separate five-story building across a small courtyard from Mc-Donough Hall, the law school. The library was new, sleek, and modern, but still a law library and quickly filling with Sunday students now thinking of final exams.
She opened volume five of Martindale-Hubbell, and found the section for D.C. firms. White and Blazevich ran for twenty-eight pages. Names, birth dates, birthplaces, schools, professional organizations, distinctions, awards, committees, and publications of four hundred and twelve lawyers, the partners first, then the associates. She took notes on a legal pad.
The firm had eighty-one partners, and the rest were associates. She grouped them by alphabet, and wrote every name on the legal pad. She was just another law student checking out law firms in the relentless chase of employment.
The work was boring and her mind wandered. Thomas had studied here twenty years ago. He'd been a top student and claimed to have spent many hours in the library. He'd written for the law journal, a chore she would be enduring under normal circumstances.
Death was a subject she'd analyzed from different angles in the past ten days. Except for going quietly in one's sleep, she was undecided as to the best approach. A slow, agonizing demise from a disease was a nightmare for the victim and the loved ones, but at least there was time for preparation and farewells. A violent, unexpected death was over in a second and probably best for the deceased. But the shock was numbing for those left behind. There were so many painful questions. Did he suffer? What was his last thought? Why did it happen? And watching the quick death of a loved one was beyond description.
She loved him more because she watched him die, and she told herself to stop hearing the explosion, and stop smelling the smoke, and stop watching him die. If she survived three more days, she would be in a place where she could lock the door and cry and throw things until the grieving was over. She was determined to make it to that place. She was determined to grieve, and to heal. It was the least she deserved.
She memorized names until she knew more about White and Blazevich than anyone outside the firm. She eased into the darkness and caught a cab to the hotel.
Matthew Barr went to New Orleans, where he met with a lawyer who instructed him to fly to a certain hotel in Fort Lauderdale. The lawyer was vague about what would happen at the hotel, but Barr checked in Sunday night and found a room waiting for him. A note at the desk said he would receive a call in the early a.m.
He called Fletcher Coal at home at ten, and briefed him on the journey so far.
Coal had other things on his mind. "Grantham's gone crazy. He and a guy named Rifkin with the Times are making calls everywhere. They could be deadly."
"Have they seen the brief?"
"I don't know if they've seen it, but they've heard of it. Rifkin called one of my aides at home yesterday and asked what he knew about the pelican brief. The aide knew nothing, and got the impression Rifkin knew even less. I don't think he's seen it, but we can't be certain."
"Damn, Fletcher. We can't keep up with a bunch of reporters. Those guys make a hundred phone calls a minute."
"Just two. Grantham and Rifkin. You've already got Grantham wired. Do the same for Rifkin."
"Grantham's wired, but he's using neither the phone in his apartment nor the one in his car. I called Bailey from the airport in New Orleans. Grantham hasn't been home in twenty-four hours, but his car's still there. They called and knocked on his door. He's either dead in the apartment, or he sneaked out last night."
"Maybe he's dead."
"I don't think so. We were following, and so were the Fibbies. I think he got wind of it."
"You must find him."
"He'll turn up. He can't get too far away from the newsroom on the fifth floor."
"I want Rifkin wired too. Call Bailey tonight and get it started, okay?"
"Yes, sir," Barr said.
"What do you think Mattiece would do if he thought Grantham had the story and was about to spread it across the front page of the Washington Post?" Coal asked.
Barr stretched on the hotel bed and closed his eyes. Months ago he had made the decision never to cross Fletcher Coal. He was an animal.
"He's not afraid of killing people, is he?" Barr said.
"Do you think you'll see Mattiece tomorrow?"
"I don't know. These guys are very secretive. They speak in hushed tones behind closed doors. They've told me little."
"Why do they want you in Fort Lauderdale?"
"I do not know, but it's much closer to the Bahamas. I think I'm going there tomorrow, or perhaps he's coming here. I just don't know."
"Perhaps you should exaggerate the Grantham angle. Mattiece will snuff out the story."
"I'll think about it."
"Call me in the morning."
She stepped on the note when she opened her door. It said:
Darby, I'm on the patio. It's urgent,
Gray.
She took a deep breath and crammed the note in her pocket. She locked the door, and followed the narrow, winding hallways to the lobby, then through the dark sitting room, by the bar, through the restaurant, and onto the patio. He was at a small table, partially hidden by a brick wall.
"Why are you here?" she demanded in a whisper as she sat close to him. He looked tired and worried.
"Where have you been?" he asked.
"That's not as important as why you're here. You're not supposed to come here unless I say so. What's going on?"
He gave her a quick summary of his morning, from the first phone call to Smith Keen to the maid in the hotel. He'd spent the rest of the day darting all over the city in various cabs, almost eighty bucks' worth of cabs, and he waited until dark to sneak into the Tabard Inn. He was certain he had not been followed.
She listened. She watched the restaurant and the entrance to the patio, and heard every word.
"I have no idea how anyone could find my room," he said.
"Did you tell anyone your room number?"
He thought for a second. "Only Smith Keen. But he'd never repeat it."
She was not looking at him. "Where were you when you told him your room number?"
"In his car."
She shook her head slowly. "I distinctly told you not to tell anyone. Didn't I?"
He would not answer.
"It's all fun and games, isn't it, Gray? Just another day at the beach. You're a big stud reporter who's had death threats before, but you're fearless. The bullets will bounce off, won't they? You and I can spend a few days here frolicking around town playing detective so you can win a Pulitzer and get rich and famous, and the bad guys aren't really so bad because, hey, you're Gray Grantham of the Washington Post and that makes you a mean son of a bitch."
"Come on, Darby."
"I've tried to impress upon you how dangerous these people are. I've seen what they can do. I know what they'll do to me if they find me. But no, Gray, it's all a game to you. Cops and robbers. Hide-and-seek."
"I'm convinced, okay?"
"Listen, hotshot, you'd better be convinced. One more screwup and we're dead. I'm out of lucky breaks. Do you understand?"
"Yes! I swear I understand."
"Get a room here. Tomorrow night, if we're alive, I'll find you another small hotel."
"What if this place is full?"
"Then you can sleep in my bathroom with the door closed."
She was dead serious. He felt like a first-grader who'd just received his first spanking. They didn't speak for five minutes.
"So how'd they find me?" he finally asked.
"I would assume the phones in your apartment are tapped, and your car is bugged. And I would assume Smith Keen's car is also wired. These people are not amateurs."
He spent the night in room 14 upstairs, but slept little. The restaurant opened at six, and he sneaked down for coffee, then sneaked back to his room. The inn was quaint and ancient, and had somehow been formed when three old townhouses were connected. Small doors and narrow hallways ran in all directions. The atmosphere was timeless.
It would be a long, tiresome day, but it would all be spent with her, and he looked forward to it. He'd made a mistake, a bad one, but she'd forgiven him. At precisely eight-thirty, he knocked on the door to room 1. She quickly opened it, then closed it behind him.
She was a law student again, with jeans and a flannel shirt. She poured him coffee, and sat at the small table where the phone was surrounded by notes from a legal pad.
"Did you sleep well?" she asked, but only out of courtesy.