“Not many, even overlooking the special handling for Lasko.”
“That’s hardly unique,” he said in a defensive tone.
“And neither are you if you sign off on this.”
He shook his head. “The thing is, Chris, we’re not criminal investigators. This case has gone beyond what we do. What’s happened to you is proof of that. I don’t want you hurt. It’s time for someone else to take it on.”
I kept trying. “But I’m on the right track, if you’ll keep me on it. We can’t just settle and forget it. That’s what Lasko wants. I think he’s let Green confess to give us enough to settle the case. There’s something else here that Lasko is desperate to keep hidden.”
Woods thought for a moment. “What bothers me,” he said to McGuire, “is dropping the rest of it.” McGuire didn’t reply, and Woods continued. “What I propose is that Chris report all this to the Department of Justice and let them look into it.”
McGuire nodded. Feiner looked pleased. And I was out of a case, just like that. The pit of my stomach seemed to drop two feet. I could almost sense Lasko at the table, smiling. I made a last stab in Woods’ direction. “You know damned well Justice will sit on this. If we feel pressure over here, look at them. The Attorney General is a cabinet member, for Christsakes.”
“I don’t accept that,” Woods replied calmly. “And it’s the best thing we can do. Your investigation has been unconventional, to put it mildly. This case belongs at Justice.” His voice was very final.
I hoped no one knew I was hunting Martinson. Then it hit me that I wasn’t anymore. I forgot myself and remembered Tracy. Someone would have to find him for her-Di Pietro, I hoped. “I’d like to brief the Boston police before I write this up,” I said.
“What for?” McGuire asked.
“Because Lehman is their business. You said so yourself.”
That stung him. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough?”
Woods spoke over him. “If Chris confines himself to facts, I think that’s acceptable. We can’t pretend facts don’t exist.”
McGuire flushed and was silent.
“All right,” Woods said smoothly. “If you recommend settlement to the Commission, I’ll support it. I’ll set up a meeting. Chris will make his report and brief the police on Monday, if he likes. Then this case is closed.”
“It isn’t good enough,” I said to Woods. “It’s not even close.”
Woods looked at me evenly. “I’m sorry, Chris. You’ve been through a lot, worked hard, and done well. But I think this is the right thing for you and for the agency.” He glanced around. “Is there anything else?”
They all turned to me. My eyes moved over them slowly, one by one. Then I stood, slid my chair in carefully, and left them sitting there.
I stalked back to the office and called Di Pietro, while I could still think. He agreed to meet me Monday, with no particular enthusiasm. That only made me angrier. I wanted to leave right then. But to go before Monday, without orders, could only give away my plans and endanger Martinson. I had to wait-and hope. And I needed Di Pietro. So I thanked him for his time.
I had been standing with the phone in hand, talking. I slammed it down and slumped into my plastic chair. For some reason, I began staring at the one thing there I owned: my bookends, onyx, carved with fierce Aztec faces. I called them mine. They were Great-grandfather Kenyon’s, really. He’d picked them up in Mexico in the last century, while he was picking up part of Mexico. I looked at them glumly. The only thing I could say for McGuire’s settlement was that it might make me safe-as safe as the nicest little bureaucrat at the sleepiest agency in town. I wondered why it felt so bad.
I was still staring at the bookends when McGuire opened the door. I was surprised. He’d never done that before.
“Don’t you think you’ve done enough?” I parroted.
He ignored that. “You think Woods is your friend, don’t you?”
I wondered where that came from. He stood in front of my desk, his face completely expressionless. “Are you going to be my friend, Joe? That’s a real comfort.”
His eyes narrowed, as if debating whether to say more. I watched him, feeling as friendly as the Aztec carvings. “I’m just telling you to watch your step,” he answered quietly.
I shrugged. “I guess you know what happens to people who don’t watch their step.” I looked up at him, but what I saw was Tracy-and Lehman in the street.
His eyes sparked, then turned blank. “Shut up, Chris,” he said, very softly. He wheeled and snapped the door behind him, as if kissing me off.
Life goes on, I thought. Cases come and go and widows get over it. Husbands get lost and stay that way. I couldn’t worry about that. After all, I had important things to do. Greenfeld and I were playing squash.
Twenty-Four
The green ball ricocheted off the white walls, pursued by an echo, a rubberized whine which carried into the next hit. Greenfeld and I scrambled after it, armed with wooden rackets. The only other sound was the quick, hollow thud of our tennis shoes.
Greenfeld played with tenacious alertness, as if squash were his job. The ball shot to my backhand. I wheeled and slammed it hard and low to the left corner. Greenfeld sped for the left wall. The stretched arc of his racket ripped air and missed the green blur by half an inch. He shook his head. We usually played even. Today I was beating hell out of him.
It kept up. I flowed on a savage adrenalin rush, half-conscious. The last point was low and to my right. I lunged, skidded on my chest, and hacked wildly from the elbow. The ball looped off the front wall. Greenfeld went for it and missed. Another half inch. My game.
He stared at the ball, dying in small bounces in a far corner. It gave a last rubbery whimper and rolled into stillnes. He turned, hands on hips.
“You’ll never do that again,” he said.
“I know.”
We showered and dressed in silence, then taxied toward the Hill. Greenfeld lost hard. He leaned against the right rear door, thinking it over. “Crew was your sport in college, right?”
“Yeah.”
“That explains the forearms,” he said, as if he’d caught me cheating.
“It also was perfect training for my current position. I sat absolutely still until someone shouted at me. Then I would stroke as fast as they told me, no faster, until someone said to stop. Then I stopped.”
Greenfeld’s absent smile turned inquisitive without changing at all. “What happened over there?”
“Nothing. Doesn’t it always?”
His eyes sharpened. “Did they screw up your case?”
“No, we’ve got a splendid result. Lasko has promised never to do it again, without conceding he did it in the first place.”
“You don’t sound impressed.”
“Are you?”
“Not very.”
“Well, that makes you smarter than most of your colleagues in the financial press. Not to mention Congress.”
“You’ll have to go farther to flatter me. Particularly after that squash game. Now why”-his voice arched-“do I get the feeling you’re holding out?”
“I don’t know, Lane. Paranoia, maybe.”
He didn’t smile. I decided to answer. “If I’m holding out, it’s because there’s something still at stake.” Martinson, for instance. “We can’t always work the same side of the street.”
“I’m not persuaded,” he said with irony.
“You don’t know what I know.”
