She could take it off after she got rid of the groceries. She turned on the light and went to set the groceries down but froze. The table she wanted to set them on was lying on the floor in a half dozen pieces. Liz called out Michael’s name. She listened intently for a reply, then yelled his name louder. Duke came back down the hallway and rubbed his neck against her leg. Scarlatti reached down and patted his head. She set the groceries on the floor and headed for the stairs, calling Michael’s name again. Her heart began to quicken, and she called for Duke to follow.
Once upstairs, she inspected the steam-streaked mirror in the bathroom and then checked the den before heading back downstairs, all the time calling Michael’s name more frantically. She flew down the stairs to the basement and threw open the door to the garage. His truck was there. She turned and sprinted back up the stairs to the kitchen and checked to see if his keys were on the hook-they were. Scarlatti bit her lip while she thought of all the things Michael had just told her.
She couldn’t help but think the worst. I was only gone for thirty minutes, she thought to herself. She took a deep breath and tried to think of where he could be, but her mind kept coming back to the broken table in the front hallway.
Her hand sprang for the phone on the kitchen wall, but she stopped short. “Should I
call the police?” she asked out loud. She willed herself to calm down and not overreact.
“I’ll call Tim. Maybe Tim and Seamus stopped by, and they went to pick me up at the store.”
Scarlatti quickly punched in Tim’s phone number, and after several rings Michael’s brother answered. “Tim, this is Liz. Do you know where Michael is?” Tim paused for a second. “I think he’s at his house.”
“No, he isn’t.” Liz’s voice grew more frantic. “I’m here right now!”
She spoke at a rapid pace. “I came by an hour ago, and he was napping.
I got him up, and he got in the shower while I went to the store. I just got back, and he’s nowhere in the house … and that little table by the front door is smashed. like someone fell on it. и …
Something isn’t right, Tim.”
“Calm down, Liz. Is his truck gone?”
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“No! His truck is here … his keys are here … I was only gone for a half hour. He knew I was coming right back. Something bad has happened. I’m calling the police!”
“No!” yelled Tim. “Seamus and I will be over in less than five minutes.
Try to stay calm, and don’t call the police until we get there.” Liz hung up the phone and paced. She asked herself, who would take him and why? Could it be Coleman? No
…. What about Stansfield? Michael had said it himself. If the story were to get out, the
CIA would be shut down immediately. Liz looked at the phone again and hesitated for only a second. She called information, got the general number for the CIA, and hit the connect button. A man answered on the third ring and Liz said, “Director Stansfield, please.” The operator remained professional despite the fact that someone was calling the
Agency’s general number on a Saturday evening and asking to talk to the director. “The director isn’t in right now. May I take a message?”
“Yes. I assume you have a way to get ahold of him in an emergency?”
There was a pause, then a hesitant, “Yes, if the message warrants it.”
“Believe me it does! Tell him Liz Scarlatti from the Washington Reader wants to talk about the events surrounding Arthur Higgins, Mike Nance, Stu Garret, and Congressman
Michael O’Rourke. Give him that message immediately, and have him call me back at the following number in the next five minutes, or I’m going to press with what I have.” Liz gave the man Michael’s number and hung up. The day had been long, and it was time to go home and get some sleep. Kennedy and Stansfield exited the director’s office, and the door automatically locked behind them.
Stansfield transferred his briefcase from his right hand to his left and went to shake
Kennedy’s hand. Before he could complete the gesture, his bodyguard approached from behind a desk in the reception area with a deeply concerned look on his face. “Sir, I just received a strange call from our operator.” The man looked down at a piece of paper. “A
Liz Scarlatti from the Washington Reader called. She would like to ask you about the relationship between Arthur Higgins, Mike Nance, Stu Garret, and Michael O’Rourke.
She left a number and said if she doesn’t hear from you in five minutes, she’s going to press with what she has.”
Stansfield’s tired shoulders slumped another several inches as he reached for the paper. Without saying a word, he turned to go back to his office and Kennedy followed.
Stansfield dropped his briefcase and his jacket on the nearest chair and walked behind his desk. “How in the hell could this get out so fast?” asked Kennedy. Stansfield shook his head. “It’s either O’Rourke or the White House.” He set the piece of paper down and pointed to a second phone on the credenza. “If you would please, Irene. Call down to
Charlie and have him run a trace on this call.” Stansfield began dialing the number. The startling ring of the phone caused Liz to jump.
She snatched the phone off the wall and said, “Hello.”
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“Miss Scarlatti?” asked Stansfield. “Yes, this is she.”
