'My cause is to solve a major crime. I thought you might want to help,' she said.
I said nothing in return. I wasn't really in the mood to deliver a lecture on the role of the press and so forth, which, in this case, seemed to involve making sure the FBI was doing its job and not pulling one over on the public.
She, in turn, hesitated, again smoothing out her skirt in what I assumed was a nervous habit picked up in some all-girl's school, or as we'd say now, all-women's, even if they were only sixteen or seventeen years old. All around us, the pace of the room had picked up ever so slightly, as a well-dressed clientele flowed in to chat about the upcoming election-Washington's version of a Super Bowl for the wing-tip shoes and wire-rimmed glasses set.
'I'll be straight with you,' Stevens said, leaning closer so that the people around us couldn't hear. 'I wasn't aware that the Wyoming angle was being treated quite this seriously within the bureau. I had never heard of Mr. Walbin before your ditched story.'
Finally, something of significance-an FBI agent admitting to a reporter that she has not been fully apprised of the important details of her own investigation-a presidential assassination attempt, no less. I struggled to conceal my shock. Then, of course, I began wondering if I was being snookered, by Drinker or by Stevens.
'Are you aware of any sort of tip that the bureau had received prior to the assassination attempt?' I asked.
'No.'
There was silence. We were leaning close, causing me to wonder what people around us might be thinking-that perhaps we were a couple having a serious conversation about our relationship, or discussing having children, or changing jobs, or matters of divorce. She seemed more vulnerable than I had seen her before, and, I sensed, more vulnerable than she liked.
She asked, 'Why did you pull that story?'
'The honest truth is, I wasn't sure if it was true.'
'How sure are you on the Wyoming information?'
I replied, 'It's out there. It's in circulation. I keep hearing about it, and because I keep hearing about it, I have to run with something on it, because if I don't, someone else will, and I really hate the meaninglessness of second place in the news business.'
She considered that for a moment, then said, 'I'll be straight again.
I'm hoping we might form some sort of relationship based on our mutual needs. I've never done this with a reporter before. But I've never been in an investigation where crucial facts were withheld from me.'
'Have you approached Drinker or your direct superiors?' I asked.
'No. Not until I know more. I'm not playing from a position of ignorance anymore.'
I liked that, this lack of blind loyalty, these street smarts. I said,
'You should read tomorrow's Record carefully and tell me what you think.'
'What do you have?'
I shook my head. 'Can't,' I said.
'I have some theories on this case,' she said. She stared at me, her mouth slightly open as if not sure whether to elaborate.
'As in?'
'I'm going to pursue them on my own,' she said. 'At some point, we may be able to help each other.'
I said, 'Do those theories involve Tommy Graham and Mick Wilkerson?'
'No,' she said, without even a flicker of hesitation.
Stevens took a sip of her wine, locked her gaze on me, and said, 'Looks like I've given you more than you've given me.'
I caught the waiter's eye as he walked by, thinking it might be time to get a check, get out while I was ahead, as Stevens was kind enough to point out. When he came to the table, Stevens quickly said, 'Another glass of the merlot, please.' I caught myself and added, 'And another Heineken for me.'
'So you've been a reporter your entire adult life?' she asked, displaying her knowledge of me and offering to change the tone of the conversation. I didn't say anything, so she added, 'I'm tired, and you look like hell. Why don't we just have a drink?'
There's that Dean Martin thing again, but it wasn't a bad idea. We sipped our beverages, we traded small talk about the newspaper business and the FBI and growing up in rural Indiana, as she did, as compared to South Boston, as I did. She told me she liked my house. I ordered a $19 shrimp cocktail and a $22 cheese and fruit plate, and could just about hear Peter Martin asking sarcastically, 'What's this, two dollars a grape?'
Outside, she offered to drop me in Georgetown on the way to her Arlington condominium. Outside my house, she asked, 'Could I use your bathroom?'
In the foyer, she knelt down on the floor, skirt and all, to give Baker an enormous hug and a kiss on his fluffy ears, telling him he was a wonderful boy all the while. In his excitement, the poor dog seemed ready to have a heart attack at the prospect of any company at this hour of the evening, let alone female.
'Don't you need to use the bathroom?' I asked finally as she stroked Baker's head with no apparent inclination to move.
She laughed and said, 'No. I was just looking for an excuse to say hello to your dog. I absolutely adore him. Sorry.'
We both smiled over that, and the telephone rang. It was about ten-thirty, and as I looked at the phone with a mix of longing and fear, she looked at me, amused.
'I'll just let that kick over to my answering service,' I said.
'Deja vu,' she said with a mischievous grin. 'Are you a character in an Anne Tyler novel or something? Why don't you pick up the telephone?
A hot woman? An anonymous source? Maybe the president of the United States leaking to you again?'
She walked toward the telephone as I tried not to panic. Eternity seemed to descend on this living room, at least insofar as this ringing phone was concerned. It seemed as if it would ring forever. At last, she reached over and picked it up herself, saying in a playful voice,
'Flynn residence, may I help you?'
Then she looked at me blankly and slowly put the phone back on the hook. 'Hung up,' she said. 'I must have scared her off.'
twelve
Thursday, November 2
The dream was one of those hazy ones where the whole seems clearer than the sum of its parts. I remember realizing I was supposed to meet Katherine, but couldn't recall where or when or why. She wasn't at home and wasn't at work, and she didn't have her cell phone with her, so I sat at my desk in the bureau trying to figure out what time we said we would be getting together and where we were supposed to meet.
Then it struck me that maybe I couldn't reach her because she had gone to the hospital and had the baby. She hadn't called me because she wanted to surprise me with our new child. So maybe that's where we were supposed to gather, at Georgetown Hospital, in the maternity ward, to celebrate the most momentous day of our lives. So the real question was whether I should be angry at her for excluding me from our baby's birth or pleased that she was trying to make it a surprise.
Best I can remember, it was about here that the jagged sound smashed into my subconscious and stirred me into a state of semi-reality. At first I thought it was my alarm clock, but when I groped around my nightstand with a blind hand and shut it off, the sound kept firing away at my brain. Then I realized it was the telephone, and it occurred to me that Katherine might be calling to say she was dining with her sister and wanted to know if I would like to meet them for dessert. To say the least, I was confused. The bedroom was completely black and cool outside my comforter, and I glanced at the illuminated clock and saw it was four-thirty in the morning, which only added to the fog.
