Mounting Fears

40

SHELLY BACH PARKED HER CAR IN THE BASEMENT GARAGE OF THE NATIONAL Inquisitor building and, as she walked to the elevator, noted the number of Porsches, Mercedes, and BMWs parked there. She doubted if the parking garage at The Washington Post sported so many.

In the reception room she showed her ID to the receptionist. "I'd like to see Mr. Gaynes," she said.

The woman dialed a number. "A lady from the FBI to see you," she said.

"Special Agent Shelly Bach," Shelly said.

The receptionist repeated this information into the phone, then hung up. "Through the door, down the hall to the corner office," she said.

Shelly followed the directions and found William Gaynes waiting for her at his open door, looking her up and down.

"Oh, a different one today," he said.

"You and I spoke on the phone yesterday," Shelly said, holding up her ID, "only you hung up."

"All right, come on in," Gaynes said resignedly.

Shelly took a chair and crossed her legs. "Tell me about this visitor you had," she said. "Start with a physical description."

"Tall," Gaynes replied, "like you. Short reddish hair, a good suit, great shoes, probably Manolos. On the whole, rather good looking."

"And what did her ID look like?"

"Like yours."

"You said she showed you a court order and a search warrant?"

"Signed by a federal judge. I called the number on his letterhead, and his clerk confirmed it."

"The judge's name?"

"I can't remember," Gaynes replied. "Not one I was familiar with."

"Someone went to a great deal of trouble and preparation to convince you of something," Shelly said. "What was it?"

"She told me that a reporter of mine, a valued reporter named Ned Partain, had died, was probably murdered in Panama. A moment later, somebody who said he was a Panamanian policeman called and confirmed it."

"My, what a coincidence. Well, if she wasn't FBI-and she wasn't-maybe he wasn't a Panamanian policeman."

Gaynes sat up. "You mean Partain might not be dead?"

"I have no idea," Shelly said, "but give me a minute, and I'll find out." She whipped out her cell phone and pressed a button. "This is Bach. Ascertain a reported death in Panama, name of Ned Partain, reporter, circumstances, too. Call me back immediately."

"How do I know you're FBI?" Gaynes asked.

"You called the Hoover Building yesterday and got me on the phone. I'm not the cleaning lady." She handed him her card. "You can keep this one."

Gaynes read it and dropped it into a desk drawer. "What do you want?"

"I want to know what she wanted," Shelly said. "She didn't turn up here with a lot of fake paper just to tell you your reporter was dead. She could have done that with a fake phone call." Shelly's phone rang. "Yes?"

"Death of Ned Partain confirmed," her assistant said. "Possibly accidental but probably homicide. Officer in charge of case: Sergeant Pepe Norte, Panamanian National Police, based in Panama City. Body iced and air-freighted to W. Gaynes, with a y, care of the National Inquisitor."

"Hang on," Shelly said. "Mr. Gaynes, Partain is dead, and his body was shipped to you this morning. I'd like to have an autopsy performed by our people. That all right with you?"

"What's it going to cost me?" Gaynes asked.

"It will be gratis."

"Gratis is good. Do your thing."

Shelly raised her pen. "Who is his next of kin?"

"He had an ex-wife, nobody else that I know of."

"Then I guess your permision will do." Shelly turned back to her phone. "Tell AD Smith I'd like the body met and taken to our ME for autopsy."

"Will do." She hung up.

"All right, Mr. Gaynes," Shelly said, "What did the fake FBI lady want?"

"Some photographs," Gaynes said.

"Of whom or what?"

"Teddy Fay."

Shelly stared at him, momentarily speechless.

"Allegedly," Gaynes said. "A woman named Darlene Cole called Ned and said she had taken the photo and that she had seen Fay in Panama while she was there on a cruise. We paid her for the shot, but she retained the negative." He read out the name of Cole's employer, address, and phone number while Shelly copied them down.

"Let me see the photograph," Shelly said.

"I gave all the prints we had to your supposed colleague," Gaynes said.

"All of them?"

"All of them. She said the photo wasn't of Teddy Fay but of an American intelligence agent on assignment in Panama, and she threatened me with all sorts of crap if I didn't forget she'd ever been here."

"Describe the man in the photo."

"Mid to late fifties, balding, gray hair, medium everything."

"This is preposterous," Shelly said, half to herself.

"Tell me about it."

SHELLY VISITED the law office where Darlene Cole worked and found her at her desk. Cole seemed happy to tell her everything.

"You didn't give her all the negatives, did you?" Shelly asked.

"She went through my wallet and found them. There were six, I think. I sold Gaynes a print of the best one."

"Do you have any other photographs of the man who said he was Teddy Fay?"

"No. I took those one afternoon eight or nine years ago, when Teddy-if that's his name-and I were sailing on Chesapeake Bay. Was he really Teddy Fay?"

"No," Shelly said. "Fay is dead."

"Was the guy I knew really an American spy?"

"Maybe." Shelly gave her a card. "If you should suddenly discover more negatives or prints, call me, please."

"Do I have to worry about Teddy Fay coming to see me?"

"I told you, he's dead."

"What about whoever the guy was?"

"I shouldn't think he'll be a problem," Shelly said. She stood up. "Thank you for your help."

SHELLY DROVE BACK to the Hoover Building, went to see Kerry Smith, and told him what she had learned.

Kerry picked up his phone, dialed a number, and asked for Katharine Rule.