“I want all the prints of the photograph, and the negative,” Holly said, “and I don’t have time to argue with you.”
Darlene’s eyes swiveled toward her wallet on the desk, then snapped back to Holly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Holly produced a pair of handcuffs. “You are under arrest for a Title I violation of the National Security Act,” she said. “You do not have the right to remain silent, and you do not have the right to an attorney for the first one hundred and twenty days of your detention. Stand up and put your hands behind your back.”
Darlene sat wide-eyed and unmoving. Holly walked around the desk, jerked her out of the chair, threw her against the wall, and handcuffed her. “Sit down,” she said, shoving her back into the chair.
Holly picked up the wallet and emptied it of its contents: credit cards and photographs. She flicked through the pile until she found a small envelope, which yielded a strip of thirty-five-millimeter negatives. Holding it up to the light, she compared the frames to the photo of Teddy Fay. “Right,” she said. “Where are the prints?”
Darlene said nothing.
“All right, let’s get out of here,” Holly said. “We’ll continue this discussion in a cell downtown.”
“I don’t have any prints,” Darlene yelled, bursting into tears. “I gave them all to Ned Partain.”
“If you’re lying to me, I’ll find out,” Holly said. “Under the act, you’re eligible for extreme interrogation techniques, and you’ll tell me everything.”
“I swear I don’t have any prints,” Darlene sobbed. “You’ve got the negatives, so take them and leave me alone.”
Holly jerked her to her feet and unlocked the cuffs. “As I told you, Ned Partain is dead, murdered, and you could be next. You’d better not breathe a word to a soul about my visit, and you’d better forget you ever talked to Partain, or you could be joining him down at the morgue in Panama City, do you understand me?”
“Yes, yes, I understand,” Darlene sobbed.
“If I were you, I’d move to another city far away and change my name. The people who killed Partain have long memories.” Holly unlocked the door and walked to her car, laughing under her breath.
Back at Langley, Holly walked into Lance Cabot’s office and deposited the prints and negatives on his desk. “I believe that’s all there is,” she said.
“I don’t want to know how you got this stuff,” Lance said.
“What stuff?” Holly asked, then she turned and went back to her office.
Lance put the prints and negatives in an envelope, sealed it, and wrote “birth documents” on the envelope and locked it in his safe. No need to mention this to Katharine Lee, he thought. He felt comfortable in his skin for the first time since he had received the call from Owen Masters in Panama City.
Was Owen going to be a problem? Did he have an ax of some sort to grind? Or would he be the loyal time server he had always been and keep his mouth shut?
Lance resolved to think more on this when he was calmer and more relaxed.
37
Martin Stanton was standing before a bathroom mirror in his pajama bottoms when the phone began ringing. He shaved faster, hoping it would stop. It didn’t. Finally, he grabbed the receiver next to the toilet in the giagantic bathroom. “Yes?”
“This is the hotel operator, Mr. Vice President. I have a gentleman on the line who says he is your attorney.”
“Yes, I’ll take the call.” There was a click. “Jake?”
“Yes, Mr. Vice President. How are you this morning?”
“Nearly shaven. Can you hang on for a minute?”
“Of course.”
Stanton went back to the mirror, moistened his beard, and completed the project. Rinsed and toweled dry, he returned to the phone, put down the toilet seat, and sat. “All right, Jake, what’s up?”
“I’ve just been on the phone with Betty’s attorney, and he says she says she wants another fifty thousand, to help her resettle. And the Cadillac.”
Stanton tried not to scream. “Our settlement gives her fifty thousand for resettlement expenses already.”
“She says it’s not enough.”
“She wants to reupholster, recurtain, recarpet, and repaint every square inch of the house,” Stanton said. “I won’t do it, not anymore.”
“I don’t blame you, Marty. We’ve already given her about sixty percent of your estate. It may be we’ve reached the point where we have to draw the line, tell them to accept what’s on the table or we’ll see them in court.”
“I think you’re right. Give her the Cadillac, tell her she can have it today, if she signs the settlement as is, but nothing else. This is the end of the line.”
“All right, with your stated permission, I’ll tell her attorney just that. He’s smart enough to know that a judge, or even a jury, is not going to give her more than sixty percent of community property. She might even get less.”
“Then do it, Jake, right now. Let me know what to expect. Oh, just to let them know I’m serious, tell them that if she doesn’t sign, or if she signs and then complains about it, I’ll release the settlement agreement to the press.”
“All right, Marty. I’ll get back to you.” He hung up.
Stanton hung up, too. His blood pressure was up; he could feel it throbbing against his temples. How did what started out as an amicable attempt to settle turn into this? It was insane!
He put on his wristwatch and checked it. An hour until his first appearance. He chose a suit and tie and got dressed. As he finished, the doorbell rang, and the Secret Service agent in the living room answered it. Stanton walked into the living room to find an attractive woman standing in the foyer. “Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning, Mr. Vice President,” she said, extending a hand. “I’m Elizabeth Wharton, your campaign manager, if that meets with your approval.”
“Please come in, Ms. Wharton. I didn’t even know I had a campaign manager yet.”
“The president, knowing that you had not had time to assemble a staff, directed his campaign manager, Senator Sam Meriwether, to appoint someone to help. If you would prefer someone else, that will be fine.”
“Tell me about yourself… may I call you Elizabeth?”
“Liz will be fine, sir. I’m from the small town of Delano, Georgia, President Lee’s hometown. I graduated from the University of Georgia with a master’s degree in history. I taught history at Agnes Scott College in Atlanta for seven years, working on Democratic campaigns on the side, then I worked on Senator Meriwether’s staff when he was in the House, and I managed his campaign for the Senate.”
“Sounds like a good background, Liz. Let’s see how it works out.”
She opened a leather envelope and produced a sheet of paper. “Here’s your revised schedule for today. You’re speaking at a brunch this morning attended by members of the San Francisco alumnae association of Brandeis University. They’re just about all Jewish, and we’ve included a statement of your support for Israel in your speech, which I wrote, myself, last night.” She handed him half a dozen pages. “Please read it on the way to the event, and if you don’t like any of it, please feel free to wing it, but remember to include your support of Israel.”
“I’m sure it will be fine,” Stanton said, tucking the pages into an inside pocket. She was very attractive indeed, he thought, and obviously very smart. The doorbell rang again, and a middle-aged Filipino man was admitted.
“This is your valet for the campaign,” Liz said, “Alfredo Garcia. Alfredo will pack and unpack for you and
