The Pelican Brief

Nineteen

Mrs. Chen owned the duplex, and had been renting the other half to female law students for fifteen years. She was picky but private, and lived and let live as long as all was quiet. It was six blocks from campus.

It was dark when she answered the door. The person on the porch was an attractive young lady with short dark hair and a nervous smile. Very nervous.

Mrs. Chen frowned at her until she spoke.

“I’m Alice Stark, a friend of Darby’s. May I come in?” She glanced over her shoulder. The street was quiet and still. Mrs. Chen lived alone with the doors and windows locked tightly, but she was a pretty girl with an innocent smile, and if she was a friend of Darby’s, then she could be trusted. She opened the door, and Alice was inside.

“Something’s wrong,” Mrs. Chen said.

“Yes. Darby is in a bit of trouble, but we can’t talk about it. Did she call this afternoon?”

“Yes. She said a young woman would look through her apartment.”

Alice breathed deeply and tried to appear calm. “It’ll just take a minute. She said there was a door through a wall somewhere. I prefer not to use the front or rear doors.” Mrs. Chen frowned and her eyes asked, Why not? but she said nothing.

“Has anyone been in the apartment in the last two days?” Alice asked. She followed Mrs. Chen down a narrow hallway.

“I’ve seen no one. There was a knock early yesterday before the sun, but I didn’t look.” She moved a table away from a door, pushed a key around, and opened it.

Alice stepped in front of her. “She wanted me to go in alone, okay?” Mrs. Chen wanted to check it out, but she nodded and closed the door behind Alice. It opened into a tiny hallway that was suddenly dark. To the left was the den, and a light switch that couldn’t be used. Alice froze in the darkness. The apartment was black and hot with a thick smell of old garbage. She’d expected to be alone, but she was a second-year law student, dammit! not some hotshot private detective.

Get a grip. She fumbled through a large purse and found a pencil-thin flashlight. There were three of them in there. Just in case. In case of what? She didn’t know. Darby had been quite specific. No lights could be seen through the windows. They could be watching.

Who in hell are they? Alice wanted to know. Darby didn’t know, said she would explain it later but first the apartment had to be examined.

Alice had been in the apartment a dozen times in the past year, but she’d been allowed to enter through the front door with a full array of lights and other conveniences. She had been in all the rooms, and felt confident she could feel around in the darkness. The confidence was gone. Vanished. Replaced with trembling fear.

Get a grip. You’re all alone. They wouldn’t camp out here with a nosy woman next door. If they had indeed been here, it was only for a brief visit.

After staring at the end of it, she determined that the flashlight worked. It glowed with all the energy of a fading match. She pointed it at the floor, and saw a faint round circle the size of a small orange. The circle was shaking.

She tiptoed around a corner in the direction of the den. Darby said there was a small lamp on the bookshelves next to the television, and that the light was always on. She used it as a nightlight, and it was supposed to cast a faint glow across the den to the kitchen. Either Darby lied, or the bulb was gone, or someone had unscrewed it. It didn’t matter, really, at this point, because the den and kitchen were pitch-black.

She was on the rug in the center of the den, inching toward the kitchen table where there was supposed to be a computer. She kicked the edge of the coffee table, and the flashlight quit. She shook it. Nothing. She found number two in the purse.

The odor was heavier in the kitchen. The computer was on the table along with an assortment of empty files and casebooks. She examined the mainframe with her dinky little light. The power switch was on the front. She pushed it, and the monochrome screen slowly warmed up. It emitted a greenish light that covered the table but did not escape the kitchen.

Alice sat down in front of the keyboard and began pecking. She found Menu, then List, then Files. The Directory covered the screen. She studied it closely. There were supposed to be somewhere around forty entries, but she saw no more than ten. Most of the hard-drive memory was gone. She turned on the laser printer, and within seconds the Directory was on paper. She tore it off and stuffed it in the purse.

She stood with her flashlight and inspected the clutter around the computer. Darby estimated the number of floppy disks at twenty, but they were all gone. Not a single floppy. The casebooks were for con law and civil procedure, and so dull and generic no one would want them. The red expandable files were stacked neatly together, but empty.

It was a clean, patient job. He or they had spent a couple of hours erasing and gathering, then left with no more than one briefcase or bag of goods.

In the den by the television, Alice peeked out the side window. The red Accord was still there, not four feet from the window. It looked fine.

She twisted the bulb in the nightlight, and quickly flicked the switch on, then off. Worked perfectly. She unscrewed it just as he or they had left it.

Her eyes had focused; she could see the outlines of doors and furniture. She turned the computer off, and eased through the den to the hall.

Mrs. Chen was waiting exactly where she’d left her. “Okay?” she asked.

“Everything’s fine,” Alice said. “Just watch it real close. I’ll call you in a day or two to see if anyone has been by. And please, don’t tell anyone I was here.”

Mrs. Chen listened intently as she moved the table in front of the door. “What about her car?”

“It’ll be fine. Just watch it.”

“Is she all right?”

They were in the den, almost to the front door. “She’s gonna be fine. I think she’ll be back in a few days. Thank you, Mrs. Chen.”

Mrs. Chen closed the door, bolted it, and watched from the small window. The lady was on the sidewalk, then gone in the darkness.

Alice walked three blocks to her car.

Friday night in the Quarter! Tulane played in the Dome tomorrow, then the Saints on Sunday, and the rowdies were out by the thousands, parking everywhere, blocking streets, roaming in noisy mobs, drinking from go cups, crowding bars, just having a delightful time raising hell and enjoying themselves. The Inner Quarter was gridlocked by nine.

Alice parked on Poydras, far away from where she wanted to park, and was an hour late when she arrived at the crowded oyster bar on St. Peter, deep in the Quarter. There were no tables. They were packed three deep at the bar. She retreated to a corner with a cigarette machine, and surveyed the people. Most were students in town for the game.

A waiter walked directly to her. “Are you looking for another female?” he asked.

She hesitated. “Well, yes.”

He pointed beyond the bar. “Around the corner, first room on the right, there’s some small tables. I think your friend is there.”

Darby was in a tiny booth, crouched over a beer bottle, with sunglasses and a hat. Alice squeezed her hand. “It’s good to see you.” She studied the hairdo, and was amused by it. Darby removed the sunglasses. The eyes were red and tired.

“I didn’t know who else to call.”

Alice listened with a blank face, unable to think of something appropriate and unable to take her eyes off the hair. “Who did the hair?” she asked.

“Nice, huh. It’s sort of the punk look, which I think is making a comeback and will certainly impress folks when I start interviewing for a job.”

“Why?”

“Someone tried to kill me, Alice. My name’s on a list that some very nasty people are holding. I think they’re following me.”

“Kill? Did you say ‘kill’? Who would want to kill you, Darby?”

“I’m not sure. What about my apartment?”

Alice stopped looking at the hair, and handed her the printout of the Directory. Darby studied it. It was real. This was not a dream or a mistake. The bomb had found the right car. Rupert and the cowboy had had their hands on her. The face she had seen was looking for her. They had gone to her apartment and erased what they wanted to erase. They were out there.

“What about floppies?”

“None. Not a single one. The expandable files on the kitchen table were placed together real neat and are real empty. Everything else appears to be in order.

They unscrewed the bulb in the nightlight, so there’s total darkness. I checked it. Works fine. These are very patient people.”

“What about Mrs. Chen?”

“She’s seen nothing.”

Darby stuffed the printout into a pocket. “Look, Alice, suddenly I’m very scared. You don’t need to be seen with me. Maybe this was not a good idea.”

“Who are these people?”

“I don’t know. They killed Thomas, and they tried to kill me. I got lucky, and now they’re after me.”

“But why, Darby?”

“You don’t want to know, and I’m not going to tell. The more you know, the more danger you’re in. Trust me, Alice. I can’t tell you what I know.”

“But I won’t tell. I swear.”

“What if they make you tell?”

Alice glanced around as if all was fine. She studied her friend. They had been close since freshman orientation. They had studied hours together, shared notes, sweated exams, teamed up for mock trials, gossiped about men. Alice was hopefully the only student who knew about Darby and Callahan. “I want to help, Darby. I’m not afraid.”

Darby had not touched the beer. She slowly spun the bottle. “Well, I’m terrified. I was there when he died, Alice. The ground shook. He was blown to pieces and I was supposed to be with him. It was intended for me.”

“Then go to the cops.”

“Not yet. Maybe later. I’m afraid to. Thomas went to the FBI, and two days later we were supposed to be dead.”

“So the FBI is after you?”

“I don’t think so. They started talking, and someone was listening very closely, and it found the wrong ears.”

“Talked about what! Come on, Darby. It’s me. Your best friend. Stop playing games.”

Darby took the first tiny swallow from the bottle. Eye contact was avoided. She stared at the table. “Please, Alice. Allow me to wait. There’s no sense telling you something that could get you killed.” A long pause. “If you want to help, go to the memorial service tomorrow. Watch everything. Spread the word that I called you from Denver where I’m staying with an aunt with a name you don’t know, and that I’ve dropped out this semester but I’ll be back in the spring. Make sure that rumor gets started. I think some people will be listening carefully.”

“Okay. The paper mentioned a white female near the scene when he was killed, as if she might be a suspect or something.”

“Or something. I was there and I was supposed to be a victim. I’m reading the papers with a magnifying glass. The cops are clueless.”

“Okay, Darby. You’re smarter than I am. You’re smarter than every person I’ve ever met. So what now?”

“First, go out the back door. There’s a white door at the end of the hall where the rest rooms are. It goes into a storage room, then to the kitchen, then out the back door. Don’t stop. The alley leads to Royal. Catch a cab and ride back to your car. Watch your rear.”

“Are you serious?”

“Look at this hair, Alice. Would I mutilate myself like this if I was playing games?”

“Okay, okay. Then what?”

“Go to the service tomorrow, start the rumor, and I’ll call you within two days.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Here and there. I move around a lot.”

Alice stood and pecked her on the cheek. Then she was gone.

For two hours, Verheek stomped the floor, picking up magazines, tossing them around, ordering room service, unpacking, stomping. Then for the next two hours he sat on the bed, sipping a hot beer and staring at the phone. He would do this until midnight, he told himself, and then, well, then what?

She said she would call.

He could save her life if she would only call.

At midnight, he threw another magazine and left the room. An agent in the New Orleans office had helped a little, and given him a couple of law school hangouts close to campus. He would go there and mix and mingle, drink a beer, and listen. The students were in town for the game. She wouldn’t be there, and it wouldn’t matter because he’d never seen her. But maybe he would hear something, and he could drop a name, leave a card, make a friend who knew her or maybe knew someone who knew her. A long shot, but a helluva lot more productive than staring at the phone.

He found a seat at the bar in a joint called Barrister’s, three blocks from campus. It had a nice little varsity look to it with football schedules and pinups on the walls. The crowd was rowdy and under thirty.

The bartender looked like a student. After two beers, the crowd thinned and the bar was half empty. There would be another wave in a moment.

Verheek ordered number three. It was one-thirty. “Are you a law student?” he asked the bartender.

“Afraid so.”

“It’s not that bad, is it?”

He was wiping around the peanuts. “I’ve had more fun.”

Verheek longed for the bartenders who served his beer in law school. Those guys knew the art of conversation. Never met a stranger. Talk about anything.

“I’m a lawyer,” Verheek said in desperation.

Oh, hey, wow, this guy’s a lawyer. How rare. Someone special. The kid walked off.

Little son of a bitch. I hope you flunk out. Verheek grabbed his bottle and turned to face the tables. He felt like a grandfather amid the children. Though he hated law school and the memories of it, there had been some long Friday nights in the bars of Georgetown with his pal Callahan. Those were good memories.

“So what kind of law?” The bartender was back. Gavin turned to the bar, and smiled.

“Special counsel, FBI.”

He was still wiping. “So you’re in Washington?”

“Yeah, in town for the game Sunday. I’m a Redskins freak.” He hated the Redskins and every other organized football team. Don’t get the kid started on football. “Where do you go to school?”

“Here. Tulane. I’ll finish in May.”

“Then where?”

“Probably Cincinnati for a clerkship for a year or two.”

“You must be a good student.”

He shrugged it off. “You need a beer?”

“No. Did you have Thomas Callahan?”

“Sure. You know him?”

“I was in law school with him at Georgetown.” Verheek pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to the kid. “I’m Gavin Verheek.” The kid looked at it, then politely laid it next to the ice. The bar was quiet and the kid was tired of chitchat.

“Do you know a student by the name of Darby Shaw?”

The kid glanced at the tables. “No. I haven’t met her, but I know who she is. I think she’s second year.” A long, rather suspicious pause. “Why?”

“We need to talk to her.” We, as in FBI. Not simply he, as in Gavin Verheek. The “we” part sounded much graver. “Does she hang out in here?”

“I’ve seen her a few times. She’s hard to miss.”

“I’ve heard.” Gavin looked at the tables. “Do you think these guys might know her?”

“Doubt it. They’re all first year. Can’t you tell? They’re over there arguing property rights and search and seizure.”

Yeah, those were the days. Gavin pulled a dozen cards from his pocket and laid them on the bar. “I’ll be at the Hilton for a few days. If you see her, or hear anything, drop one of these.”

“Sure. There was a cop in last night asking questions. You don’t think she was involved in his death?”

“No, not at all. We just need to talk to her.”

“I’ll keep my eyes open.”

Verheek paid for the beer, thanked the kid again, and was on the sidewalk. He walked three blocks to the Half Shell. It was almost two. He was dead tired, half drunk, and a band cranked up the second he walked through the door. The place was dark, packed, and fifty fraternity joes with their sorority sues were immediately dancing on tables. He weaved through the uprising and found safety in the back near the bar. They were three deep, shoulder to shoulder, and no one moved. He clawed his way forward, got a beer to be cool, and realized again he was by far the oldest one there. He retreated to a dark but crowded corner. It was hopeless. He couldn’t hear himself think, let alone carry on a conversation.

He watched the bartenders: all young, all students. The oldest looked late twenties, and he rang up check after check as if he was closing out. His moves were hurried, as if it was time to go. Gavin studied every move.

He quickly untied his apron, flung it in a corner, ducked under the bar, and was gone. Gavin elbowed through the mob, and caught him as he stepped through the kitchen door. He had an FBI business card ready. “I’m sorry. I’m with the FBI.” He stuck the card in his face. “Your name is?”

The kid froze, and looked wildly at Verheek. “Uh, Fountain. Jeff Fountain.”

“Fine, Jeff. Look, nothing’s wrong, okay? Just a couple of questions.” The kitchen had shut down hours ago, and they were alone. “Just take a second.”

“Well, okay. What’s up?”

“You’re a law student, right?” Please say yes. His friend said most of the bartenders here were law students.

“Yes. At Loyola.”

Loyola! Where the hell! “Yeah, well, that’s what I thought. You’ve heard about Professor Callahan at Tulane. Funeral’s tomorrow.”

“Sure. It’s all over the papers. Most of my friends go to Tulane.”

“Do you know a second-year student there by the name of Darby Shaw? Very attractive female.”

Fountain smiled. “Yeah, she dated a friend of mine last year. She’s in here occasionally.”

“How long ago?”

“It’s been a month or two. What’s wrong?”

“We need to talk to her.” He handed Fountain a stack of cards. “Hang on to these. I’ll be at the Hilton for a few days. If you see her around, or if you hear anything, drop one of these.”

“What might I hear?”

“Something about Callahan. We need to see her real bad, okay?”

“Sure.” He stuck the cards in a pocket.

Verheek thanked him and returned to the revelry. He inched through the mob, listening to the attempts at conversation. A fresh mob was entering, and he wrestled his way out the door. He was too old for this.

Six blocks away, he parked illegally in front of a fraternity house next to the campus. His last stop for the night would be a dark little pool hall, which, at the moment, was not crowded. He paid for beer at the bar, and surveyed the place. There were four pool tables and the action was light. A young man in a T-shirt walked to the bar and ordered another beer. The shirt was green and gray with the words TULANE LAW SCHOOL stamped across the front with what appeared to be an inmate identification number under the words.

Verheek spoke without hesitating. “You a law student?”

The young man glanced at him while pulling money from his jeans. “Afraid so.”

“Did you know Thomas Callahan?”

“Who are you?”

“FBI. Callahan was a friend of mine.”

The student sipped the beer and was suspicious. “I was in his con law class.”

Bingo! So was Darby. Verheek tried to appear uninterested. “Do you know Darby Shaw?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“We need to talk to her. That’s all.”

“Who is we?” The student was even more suspicious. He took a step closer to Gavin as if he wanted some hard answers.

“FBI,” Verheek said nonchalantly.

“You got a badge or something?”

“Sure,” he said as he pulled a card from his pocket. The student read it carefully, then handed it back. “You’re a lawyer, not an agent.”

This was a very valid point, and the lawyer knew he would lose his job if his boss knew he was asking questions and in general impersonating an agent. “Yes, I’m a lawyer. Callahan and I were in law school together.”

“Then why do you want to see Darby Shaw?”

The bartender had eased closer and was eavesdropping.

“Do you know her?”

“I don’t know,” the student said, and it was obvious he did in fact know her but was not about to talk. “Is she in trouble?”

“No. You know her, don’t you?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Look, what’s your name?”

“Show me a badge, and I’ll tell you my name.”

Gavin took a long drink from the bottle and smiled at the bartender. “I need to see her, okay. It’s very important. I’ll be at the Hilton for a few days. If you see her, ask her to call.” He offered the card to the student, who looked at it and walked away.

At three, he unlocked the door to his room, and checked the phone. No messages. Wherever Darby was, she still had not called. Assuming, of course, she was still alive.