Holly followed the directions, opened Gaynes’s closed door, walked in, flashed an FBI ID and sat down.
“So, what can we do for the FBI today?” Gaynes asked. He was a short, heavily jowled man with oily dyed- black hair.
“You have a reporter named Edward ‘Ned’ Partain?”
“Yes,” Gaynes replied. “He’s out of town on a story.”
“I know,” Holly replied. “In Panama. He’s dead.”
Gaynes’s eyes widened. “Wait a minute,” he said. He looked at the card Holly had sent him, then picked up the phone and dialed the number on the card, which connected him not to the FBI switchboard but to a facsimile at Langley. “Do you have an agent named Hope Branson?” he asked. “All right, Assistant Director Branson. Please connect me with her office.” He waited, then listened. “Never mind,” he said, and hung up the phone.
“Now,” he said to Holly, “what the hell are you talking about?”
“The body of Ned Partain was found aboard a tanker bound from the Panama Canal to Galveston, Texas, yesterday. He appeared to have fallen from some place along the canal onto the deck of the ship.”
“Was this a homicide?” he asked.
“Possibly. The autopsy is being conducted as we speak.”
The phone on Gaynes’s desk rang. “Excuse me,” he said, and picked it up. He was on the phone for less than a minute. “That was the Panama City police. Apparently, what you told me is true.”
“Tell me why Partain was in Panama,” Holly said.
“We don’t tell the FBI that sort of thing.”
Holly handed him the court order. She waited while he read it, then said, “Tell me what I want to know, or you’ll be in the federal detention center in twenty minutes.”
“I’ve never seen a document like this,” Gaynes said. “Hold on.” He called the number on the letterhead, asked for the judge’s clerk and questioned him, then hung up and turned back to Holly. “What do you want to know?”
“We don’t like it when American journalists die in foreign countries,” Holly said. “Tell me everything about Partain’s assignment.”
“Ned was in Panama to interview a man who is believed to be Teddy Fay.”
Holly snorted. “Teddy Fay is dead,” she said, “confirmed and reconfirmed.”
“Maybe,” Gaynes said.
Holly held up the e-mailed print of Teddy’s photograph. “Is this the man you thought was Teddy Fay?”
Gaynes looked surprised. “Yes.”
“This man is a CIA officer on assignment in South America. Where did you get the photograph?”
“From a woman named Darlene Cole, who works for a law firm in town. She knew Fay years ago.”
“Which law firm?”
“Barton and Falls,” Gaynes said.
“Give me all the copies you have of the photo and the negative.”
“I don’t have the negative,” Gaynes said. “Ms. Cole was cagey about that.”
“How many copies do you have?”
“Look, you’re out of line here.”
Holly handed him the search warrant. “I can have a team of agents here in half an hour to tear apart your offices, but of course, you’ll be in detention by then.”
Gaynes went to a safe in a corner of his office, punched a number into the keypad, and opened it.
Holly watched him and memorized the combination. It might come in handy one of these days.
Gaynes took out an envelope, examined the contents, and handed it to Holly.
She found half a dozen copies of the photo and tucked them into her purse. “Give me the card I gave you,” Holly said, “and the court order and search warrant.”
Gaynes surrendered the documents.
“You are under a federal court injunction not to speak of this to anyone,” Holly said. “I was never here, do you understand?”
Gaynes nodded. “I understand.”
“If you talk about this to anyone on your staff or off, bad things will happen,” she said.
“All right, all right,” he said, raising both hands. “Will you let me know more about Ned Partain?”
“The Panama City police will deal with you on that,” Holly said. “Good day.” She rose and walked out of the office, satisfied with her day’s work.
As she passed the reception desk, a skinny, slightly disheveled young man wearing a backpack was talking with the receptionist. “But I have to see Gaynes right now,” he said. “Ned Partain is out of town, and this is too important to wait.”
“I told you, he’s with somebody,” the woman replied.
Holly pressed the elevator button. “Not anymore,” she said. “Mr. Gaynes is entirely free.”
“What is your name again?” the secretary asked.
“Felix Potter,” the young man said.
The elevator arrived, and Holly got on.
“It’s about some very important tapes,” the young man said.
The elevator door closed, and Holly rode down.
35
Felix sat in the reception room at the National Inquisitor for more than three hours, getting hungrier and hungrier but determined to see Willard Gaynes. Finally, the receptionist got up and went to the ladies’ room, and Felix saw his chance. He was through the door and into the editorial offices before the woman had a chance to get her knickers down.
He stopped for a moment and assessed the layout of the floor. There was a sea of desks in a large newsroom, and offices, apparently for higher-ranking people, along the walls. Where would he sit if he were Willie Gaynes? he asked himself. The corner office, that’s where.
Felix walked purposefully along one side of the newsroom, not dawdling but not hurrying, either. He was wearing a necktie and his best jacket, so he wasn’t dressed too differently from how the other men present were dressed. The corner office was dead ahead, and the door was closed. He stopped, took a deep breath, let it out, rapped on the door, opened it, and stepped in.
Gaynes was sitting at his desk, talking on the telephone. He looked up at Felix and put a hand over the mouthpiece. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
“I’m one of Ned Partain’s best sources, Mr. Gaynes, and Ned told me that if ever I couldn’t reach him about something important I should come directly to you.”
Gaynes pointed at a sofa. “Sit over there and shut up,” he said, then went back to his phone conversation. “Seсor, please give me the name and number of that funeral home,” he said, then jotted down the information. “Can you tell me, seсor, was this accidental or a homicide?” He listened. “All right, I understand that the official investigation will take some time, but can you give me your personal opinion, based on your experience as a police officer?” He listened again, and his face grew more serious. “Thank you, seсor,” he said. “Please call me at this number should you learn anything new about the case, and may I call you again, if I have any questions? Thank you, seсor, and good-bye.” He hung up and turned to Felix, but he said nothing. He seemed to be deep in thought.
Felix waited him out, and suddenly Gaynes seemed to snap out of his reverie.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asked, as if he hadn’t asked before.
“I’m Felix Potter, Mr. Gaynes, one of Ned Partain’s sources. Ned told me to contact you if I had something important and couldn’t find him, and I can’t find him.”
“That’s because Ned is in Panama, playing the role of corpse,” Gaynes said. “I’ve never lost a man due to violence before, and I’m having a little trouble digesting it.”
“Ned has been murdered?” Felix asked.
“It appears so. That’s the opinion of the Panamanian police officer I just spoke to, anyway. You’ve worked with Ned, you say?”
