“No.”
“Any idea who called?”
“No. He wouldn’t say.”
“Did he tell you enough to let you guess?”
“No.” McGuire looked edgy, like a man being forced to play Twenty Questions with his twelve-year-old son. “He disguised his voice. I’ve told you all I know.”
“It’s not much.”
It was intended as a statement of fact. But McGuire took it as criticism. His eyes bored in. “We can’t let this go. Lasko’s controversial. If I don’t check this out and then get caught with my pants down, I’ll have to answer over on the Hill.” McGuire was using his usual institutional “I.” The motive had a tired familiarity. “This thing has to be done carefully. No wild charges and no one pissed off. And I want a report on every new development.”
I nodded. McGuire leaned back, hands folded on his belly, taking in Feiner with a tight smile. The smile looked like an invisible hand was stretching his mouth sideways at both ends. “Now,” McGuire was holding school, “what are you going to do?”
My three years made the question insulting. McGuire knew it; he was reminding Feiner that he could make me do tricks. I wondered if I should roll over and beg or stick my paw out to shake hands. “What are you going to do?” he demanded again.
“I’m going to call up Lasko and ask him to confess.”
McGuire’s reaction was surprisingly mild. “Seriously.”
I selected a civil answer. “Seriously, I’ll get trading data from the major brokerage houses in New York to see who’s been buying and selling Lasko Devices stock and when. I’ll have our local office-Lasko’s in Boston, I think-lay a subpoena on the company for trading data. If any stock trades look strange, I’ll haul in the trader for questioning. And I’ll check the stock’s price history in the Journal.”
McGuire’s rubber smile restretched, this time for me. “While you were out of town, I had Ike”-he gestured at Feiner with his thumb-“get out a subpoena to Lasko Devices. They are in Boston. Jim Robinson has checked the Journal and gotten the trading records. And I’ve asked Central Records to send you the Lasko file.”
I smiled back, half at McGuire’s one-upmanship and half to admit that he knew his job. “Assuming those idiots in Records haven’t lost the Lasko file,” I said, to remind him that nothing was perfect. His smile strained wider. It was a good time to leave.
“Is that it?” I asked.
“No.” McGuire looked at his watch. “I’ve got Mary Carelli at ten o’clock.”
It didn’t ring any bells. “Who’s she?”
“Mary Carelli is special assistant to Chairman Woods.”
“And?”
McGuire surprised me by sounding defensive. “Look. All our cases have to be approved by a vote of the commissioners who run this place. They stop approving, we stop prosecuting. The Chairman runs the other commissioners, and Woods is just over from the White House staff. Lasko’s the President’s friend. If we hurt Lasko, it hurts the White House, and that hurts us. So I tell Chairman Woods what we’re on to. We have to get along or my program goes down the drain. So,” he concluded, “don’t fuck up.”
I considered that. “Maybe you’d better clue me in, Joe. Who’s running this case-us, Woods, or the White House staff?”
McGuire looked stung. “There’s nothing wrong with talking to our own Chairman,” he snapped. Technically, he was right about that. But the repetition of the words “White House” seemed to diminish him. The restless body slumped. For the first time I wondered whether McGuire wanted to be a commissioner.
McGuire snapped out of his reverie. “You’re to get along with Miss Carelli. I’ve put you on this because you’re good. Don’t screw it up.”
He had said that before. “I haven’t yet,” I answered quietly.
He knew that was true. Some other people knew it too. It was the main fact that kept me sitting in McGuire’s office instead of cleaning out my own. But the problem was bigger than Hartex or I. Something had gone sour in McGuire’s psyche. The drive to achieve had turned into an addiction to praise. His staff aped him and outsiders plied him with obsequies. It was as if McGuire was presiding over his own memorial service. Newsweek had done him in.
Two
McGuire’s munchkin opened the door, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Miss Carelli’s here,” she bubbled.
She was eclipsed by a striking young woman. Tall and slender, her long hair was as black as her eyes, which took us in with a quick, opaque stare. The eyes were her startling feature; they were wide set on high Indian cheekbones. I figured her for my age, twenty-nine, but she threw off a primal force.
The impact was softened a bit by her delayed smile; the flash of white teeth gave her an amused adventurous look. “Gentlemen,” she nodded. The word was faintly sardonic. I watched her as the gentlemen said their hellos. It struck me that she thought that she was slumming.
Feiner whisked out a chair with the expertise of a butler. She sat, long legs flashing as they crossed under her simple white dress. The dress set off a dark tan which had been acquired with some trouble. The little vanity was curious; it made her seem less remote. I filed the thought away and sat back.
“I appreciate your time, Mr. McGuire.” Her voice was low and carefully modulated. The effect was almost consciously well bred.
McGuire was unusually formal. “Of course. The Lasko case is a complicated matter.”
She nodded. “Chairman Woods has asked me to monitor the case. I’d like someone here to keep me up to date.” The language and tone mixed command with request. But the eyes didn’t miss anything. I revised my opinion. She wasn’t slumming; she was an anthropologist.
McGuire’s interest in the girl was strictly derivative; he spoke through her as if she were a microphone wired to the Chairman’s ear. “We’ll be happy to do that. I’ve assigned Chris here”-his thumb jabbed at me-“to keep your office informed.”
She had forgotten my name. She looked at me now with the cool appraising air of a scientist touring a dog pound, searching for experimental subjects. I hoped she would pass me up.
“Now you’re who?”
“I’m Christopher Paget.”
She nodded briskly. “OK, I’d appreciate it if you would come by my office this afternoon.” It was not a request. The Chairman was becoming a palpable presence.
“I’ll be sure and do that,” I said dryly.
McGuire shifted uncomfortably and looked through the ceiling at the Chairman’s office, four stories up. The girl made a quick mental calculation and decided to overlook it. “I’ll call you to set up a time.”
I nodded. She looked at me a split-second more, then turned back to McGuire. She spoke with more assurance, as if knowing that my annoyance signaled McGuire’s compliance. “Anything surrounding Lasko is very delicate. The Chairman wants to clear investigative steps before they happen. He’s concerned that this case not hurt the agency.” Her eyes flashed to me. “We have to keep out of trouble.” I figured she intended to keep me well out of trouble. I kept silent, and made a mental reservation about the frequency of my reports.
McGuire was nodding for me. “Chris will keep in touch. Is there anything else we can do?” His solicitous voice still seemed to waft upwards.
“Not now.” Ms. Carelli knew when to get off stage. She rose quickly. “Thank you for your time.” She swept us with a quick, obligatory smile, and let herself out. The closing door cut off the last probe of the black eyes, looking at me.
“Terrific,” I said, to no one in particular.
McGuire turned. “Just what’s your problem?”
“Other than Typhoid Mary?” It might as well be now, I thought. “The Hartex case. This one is starting like
