nothing we said was quite true or quite fair. I invited her to leave. She took me up on it.” Mary’s arm had turned under mine, her fingers touching me. I finished it. “If we ever get to the point where we really need to get into this, perhaps I will. But we’re not there yet.”
“What happened to her?” she asked in a subdued voice.
“The other guy was smarter, and more patient. So now she’s a psychiatrist’s wife in Boston. I never see her.”
“Is that why you came to Washington?” Her eyes had softened into curiosity.
I shrugged. “Not necessarily. I had a lot of reasons.”
Mary looked down at the table. She finally spoke. “I’m sorry, Chris. Perhaps I’ve acted badly this morning- under the circumstances.”
She sounded as if she weren’t sure. But then it was a new situation, I thought. For her and for me. And she didn’t know all of it.
Her fingers held my arm now. I stopped drawing my squares and circles. I reached and pulled her up, suddenly wanting to cheat the voice on the phone. My white shirt fell in the corner. Her hair lay on her shoulders, where the collar had touched. The sun made her skin rich olive. It looked warm.
Thirteen
McGuire sat staring at Capitol Hill, where new commissioners were confirmed. His fingers were rubbing the armrest and his feet inched the chair back and forth on its rollers. I wondered if he ever sat still.
He looked up at me. “Sit down, Chris.” I pulled up a chair while he tried on his rubbery smile. It looked sick, like a minister’s smile at a big contributor’s dirty joke.
“You’re late this morning,” he started, then fished for some banter to match his smile. “You out getting laid or something?”
“That’s very droll. Particularly under the circumstances.”
“You can’t lose your sense of humor.”
That would be a shame, I thought. “Why don’t you call the Lehman household, Joe. They’re starving for a joke.”
“Look, I’m as sick about this Lehman thing as you are.” He waited. I didn’t answer. “Did you find out anything in Boston?”
“Not really.”
“Then where the hell were you yesterday?”
“Out getting laid.”
His smile evaporated. “Don’t bullshit around. Where were you?”
“I was at Lehman’s house.”
The chair stopped moving. “I didn’t say you could do that. What were you doing there?” His voice quickened into staccato.
“I was hoping to find something.”
“The day after the guy was killed?” McGuire sounded both appalled and intrigued.
“That’s right.”
“Christ, do you realize how we look? One of our guys bothering people after the husband gets killed. That’s just awful.” His mind shifted. “Find anything?”
So much for compassion. I wondered who else wanted to know. The attache case sat at my feet, the memo still in it. “Nothing much. Old financial statements, junk like that.”
His eyebrows converged anxiously. “Are you sure?”
Something was wrong. “Did something happen here that I should know?”
The question brought on his cheerless smile. “You’re meeting with William Lasko this afternoon. At 3:30.”
Lasko again. The news hit my stomach like an indigestible lump. I didn’t trust myself to say anything. So I tried to stare out an explanation. His frozen smile was a ghastly rictus of embarrassment.
“Lasko’s attorney called this morning and asked for a meeting.” He paused. “A Mr. Catlow,” he added vaguely.
The last was very cute. I figured McGuire must have almost forgotten Catlow’s name, since Monday. I wanted to remind him, then knock out his teeth. But I didn’t. I waited for more.
He gave it in a reluctant voice, as if the words were extracted by my silence. “Lasko thinks this case clouds his reputation. He’s asked for a meeting to answer any questions we may have.”
That was straightforward enough. But something in McGuire’s voice tipped me.
“Do you have a stenographer to take it all down?”
That was it. McGuire shook his head at the floor, not facing me. “No. This is just an informal meeting.” He tried to say it casually, as if this was our standard routine.
I wanted to do something. Anything but sit. But I sat, and let the anger simmer. When I spoke it came out dry and precise. “I don’t need to tell you that this meeting is worse than worthless, do I, Joe? I mean, you do know that?” He stared back at me, looking both trapped and outraged. I went on. “With no transcript, we’ll never prove perjury. He’ll lie to us anytime it suits him.”
“He’s the President’s friend. Remember that. And he’s coming to us voluntarily.”
“Little wonder. You know damned well why he’s coming. In return for lies that will never hurt him, he’ll find out exactly what I know. He’ll listen to the questions. If I ask him about Sam Green, he’ll find out about that. If he’s tied with Green somehow, he’ll get to Green before we do. If I know something from Lehman, my questions will tell him that. If he lies to me about fact ‘X’ and I can’t follow it up, he can figure I don’t know about fact ‘X.’ That’s the way it works. Maybe I should just start reporting to Lasko direct.”
“The man has influence, damn it. And you don’t have a fucking thing on him.”
“I think Lasko had Lehman killed.”
His eyes flashed. “Look, I don’t want you talking that kind of irresponsible garbage.” He spoke with the emphatic contempt of a drill sergeant. “I’ve put up with your shit around here, for the time being. But you start smearing anyone else and you’re out on your ass.” His voice held a sort of submerged dread beneath the anger, as though silence would make murder less real.
So I said it again, very slowly. “I think Lasko killed Lehman.”
He flushed. “Say that outside this office and you’re fired.”
“Does that include to the Boston police?”
“Especially the Boston police.”
I stood up, not trusting myself to continue. “Is that all?”
His voice rose in anger. “No, it isn’t. You horsed around at Lehman’s house without authority. You’ve gone over my head on the Lasko subpoena. Now you’ve appointed yourself a detective. If you think Woods is going to keep covering your ass, forget it. When I fire you, I’ll have all the reason in the world. And no law firm will hire you to run coffee.”
It was almost out in the open, I thought. I balled my fists in my pockets to steady myself. “I wouldn’t fire me just yet, Joe. It would stink too much.” Our eyes locked. “Are we through now?” I asked.
McGuire’s gaze broke. He nodded, his eyes angled away from me. An uneasy mix of anger and chagrin haunted the gesture. Against the bare wall, he looked as solitary as the last tenant in a condemned building.
I picked up my case and walked to the door. I opened it, then leaned back. “By the way, Joe, have you started making funny phone calls?”
I was looking for recognition in his eyes. All I got was anger-and puzzlement. I slammed the door and left.
Suppressed rage overcame me. I moved half-blind through the corridors, back to my section. It was still there, the clatter and greyness, as if nothing had changed. A mail boy delivered a stack of memos and the agency newsletter. Three of the girls sat at Debbie’s desk, talking and stirring their coffee with the serene complacency of civil servants. It was a big day. One of the girls had won the ECC bowling championship.
