The Pelican Brief

Thirty-Eight

The game plan called for her to be on this elevator at this point in the search, but she thought enough unexpected events had occurred to warrant a change in the game plan. He thought not. They had engaged in a healthy debate over this elevator ride, and here she was. He was right; this was the quickest route to Curtis Morgan. And she was right; it was a dangerous route to Curtis Morgan. But the other routes could be just as dangerous. The entire game plan was deadly.

She wore her only dress and her only pair of heels. Gray said she looked really nice, but that was to be expected. The elevator stopped on the ninth floor, and when she walked off it there was a pain in her stomach and she could barely breathe.

The receptionist was across a plush lobby. The name WHITE AND BLAZEVICH covered the wall behind her in thick, brass lettering. Her knees were weak, but she made it to the receptionist, who smiled properly. It was ten minutes before five.

“May I help you?” she asked. The nameplate proclaimed her to be Peggy Young.

“Yes,” Darby managed, clearing her throat. “I have a five o’clock appointment with Curtis Morgan. My name is Dorothy Blythe.”

The receptionist was stunned. Her mouth fell open, and she stared blankly at Darby, now Dorothy. She couldn’t speak.

Darby’s heart stopped. “Is something the matter?”

“Well, no. I’m sorry. Just a moment.” Peggy Young stood quickly, and disappeared in a rush.

Run! Her heart pounded like a drum. Run! She tried to control her breathing, but she was battling hyperventilation. Her legs were rubbery. Run!

She looked around, trying to be nonchalant as if she was just another client waiting on her lawyer. Surely they wouldn’t gun her down here in the lobby of a law office.

He came first, followed by the receptionist. He was about fifty with bushy gray hair and a terrible scowl. “Hi,” he said, but only because he had to. “I’m Jarreld Schwabe, a partner here. You say you have an appointment with Curtis Morgan.”

Keep it up. “Yes. At five. Is there a problem?”

“And your name is Dorothy Blythe?”

Yeah, but you can call me Dot. “That’s what I said. Yes. What’s the matter?” She sounded genuinely irritated.

He was inching closer. “When did you make the appointment?”

“I don’t know. About two weeks ago. I met Curtis at a party in Georgetown. He told me he was an oil and gas lawyer, and I happen to need one. I called the office here, and made an appointment. Now, will you please tell me what’s going on?” She was amazed at how well these words were coming from her dry mouth.

“Why do you need an oil and gas lawyer?”

“I don’t think I have to explain myself to you,” she said, real bitchy-like.

The elevator opened, and a man in a cheap suit approached quickly to join the conversation. Darby scowled at him. Her legs would give way just any second.

Schwabe was really bearing down. “We don’t have any record of such an appointment.”

“Then fire the appointment secretary. Do you welcome all new clients this way?” Oh, she was indignant, but Schwabe did not let up.

“You can’t see Curtis Morgan,” he said.

“And why not?” she demanded.

“He’s dead.”

The knees were jelly and about to go. A sharp pain rippled through the stomach. But, she thought quickly, it was okay to look shocked. He was, after all, supposed to be her new lawyer.

“I’m sorry. Why didn’t anyone call me?”

Schwabe was still suspicious. “As I said, we have no record of a Dorothy Blythe.”

“What happened to him?” she asked, stunned.

“He was mugged a week ago. Shot by street punks, we believe.”

The guy in the cheap suit took a step closer. “Do you have any identification?”

“Who in the hell are you?” she snapped loudly.

“He’s security,” said Schwabe.

“Security for what?” she demanded, even louder. “Is this a law firm or a prison?”

The partner looked at the man in the cheap suit, and it was obvious neither knew exactly what to do at this point. She was very attractive, and they had upset her, and her story was somewhat believable. They relaxed a little.

“Why don’t you leave, Ms. Blythe?” Schwabe said.

“I can’t wait!”

The security man reached to assist her. “Here,” he said.

She slapped his hand. “Touch me and I’ll sue your ass first thing tomorrow morning. Get away from me!”

This shook them a bit. She was mad and lashing out. Perhaps they were being a bit hard.

“I’ll see you down,” the security man said.

“I know how to leave. I’m amazed you clowns have any clients.” She was stepping backward. Her face was red, but not from anger. It was fear. “I’ve got lawyers in four states, and I’ve never been treated like this,” she yelled at them. She was in the center of the lobby. “I paid a half a million last year in legal fees, and I’ve got a million to pay next year, but you idiots won’t get any of it.” The closer she got to the elevator, the louder she yelled. She was a crazy woman. They watched her until the elevator door opened and she was gone.

Gray paced along the end of the bed, holding the phone and waiting for Smith Keen. Darby was stretched out on the bed with her eyes closed.

Gray stopped. “Hello, Smith. I need you to check something quick.”

“Where are you?” Keen asked.

“A hotel. Look back six or seven days. I need the obituary for Curtis D. Morgan.”

“Who’s he?”

“Garcia.”

“Garcia! What happened to Garcia?”

“He died, obviously. Shot by muggers.”

“I remember that. We ran a story last week about a young lawyer who was robbed and shot.”

“Probably him. Can you check it for me? I need his wife’s name and address if we have it.”

“How’d you find him?”

“It’s a long story. We’ll try to talk to his widow tonight.”

“Garcia’s dead. This is weird, baby.”

“It’s more than weird. The kid knew something, and they knocked him off.”

“Do you think you’re safe?”

“Who knows?”

“Where’s the girl?”

“She’s with me.”

“What if they’re watching his house?”

Gray hadn’t thought about it. “We’ll have to take that chance. I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes.”

He placed the phone on the floor and sat in an antique rocker. There was a warm beer on the table, and he took a long drink. He watched her. A forearm covered both eyes. She was in jeans and a sweatshirt. The dress was thrown in a corner. The heels had been kicked across the room.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“Wonderful.”

She was a real smartass, and he liked that in a woman. Of course, she was almost a lawyer, and they must teach smartassness in law school. He sipped the beer and admired the jeans. He enjoyed this brief moment of uninterrupted staring without getting caught.

“Are you staring at me?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Sex is the last thing on my mind.”

“Then why’d you mention it?”

“Because I can feel you lusting after my red toenails.”

“True.”

“I’ve got a headache. A real, genuine, pounding head ache.”

“You’ve worked for it. Can I get you something?”

“Yes. A one-way ticket to Jamaica.”

“You can leave tonight. I’ll take you to the airport right now.”

She removed the forearm from her eyes and gently massaged both temples. “I’m sorry I cried.”

He finished the beer with a long drink. “You earned the right.” She was in tears when she stepped off the elevator. He was waiting like an expectant father, except he had a .38 in his coat pocket — a .38 she knew nothing about.

“So what do you think of investigative reporting?” he asked.

“I’d rather butcher hogs.”

“Well, in all honesty, not every day is this eventful. Some days I simply sit at my desk and make hundreds of phone calls to bureaucrats who have no comment.”

“Sounds great. Let’s do that tomorrow.”

He kicked his shoes off and placed his feet on the bed. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Minutes passed without a word.

“Do you know that Louisiana is known as the Pelican State?” she asked with her eyes closed.

“No. I didn’t know that.”

“It’s a shame really, because the brown pelicans were virtually wiped out in the early 1960s.”

“What happened to them?”

“Pesticides. They eat nothing but fish, and the fish live in river water filled with chlorinated hydrocarbons from pesticides. The rains wash the pesticides from the soil into small streams which eventually empty into rivers which eventually empty into the Mississippi. By the time the pelicans in Louisiana eat the fish, they are loaded with DDT and other chemicals which accumulate in the fatty tissues of the birds. Death is seldom immediate, but in times of stress such as hunger or bad weather, the pelicans and eagles and cormorants are forced to draw upon their reserves, and can literally be poisoned by their own fat. If they don’t die, they are usually unable to reproduce. Their eggs are so thin and fragile they crack during incubation. Did you know that?”

“Why would I know that?”

“In the late sixties, Louisiana began transplanting brown pelicans from southern Florida, and over the years the population has slowly increased. But the birds are still very much in danger. Forty years ago there were thousands of them. The cypress swamp that Mattiece wants to destroy is home to only a few dozen pelicans.”

Gray pondered these things. She was silent for a long time.

“What day is it?” she asked without opening her eyes.

“Monday.”

“I left New Orleans a week ago today. Thomas and Verheek had dinner two weeks ago today. That, of course, was the fateful moment when the pelican brief changed hands.”

“Three weeks ago tomorrow, Rosenberg and Jensen were murdered.”

“I was an innocent little law student minding my own business and having a wonderful love affair with my professor. I guess those days are gone.”

Law school and the professor might be gone, he thought. “What’re your plans?”

“I have none. I’m just trying to get out of this damned mess and stay alive. I’ll run off somewhere and hide for a few months, maybe a few years. I’ve got enough money to live for a long time. If and when I reach the point when I’m not looking over my shoulder, I might come back.”

“To law school?”

“I don’t think so. The law has lost its allure.”

“Why’d you want to be a lawyer?”

“Idealism, and money. I thought I could change the world and get paid for it.”

“But there are so damned many lawyers already. Why do all these bright students keep flocking to law school?”

“Simple. It’s greed. They want BMWs and gold credit cards. If you go to a good law school, finish in the top ten percent, and get a job with a big firm, you’ll be earning six figures in a few short years, and it only goes up. It’s guaranteed. At the age of thirty-five, you’ll be a partner raking in at least two hundred thousand a year. Some earn much more.”

“What about the other ninety percent?”

“It’s not such a good deal for them. They get the leftovers.”

“Most lawyers I know hate it. They’d rather be doing something else.”

“But they can’t leave it because of the money. Even a lousy lawyer in a small office can earn a hundred thousand a year after ten years of practice, and he may hate it, but where can he go and match the money?”

“I detest lawyers.”

“And I guess you think reporters are adored.”

Good point. Gray looked at his watch, then picked up the phone. He dialed Keen’s number. Keen read him the obit, and the Post story about the senseless street killing of this young lawyer. Gray took notes.

“A couple of other things,” Keen said. “Feldman is very concerned about your safety. He expected a briefing in his office today, and he was pissed when he didn’t get one. Make sure you report to him before noon tomorrow. Understand?”

“I’ll try.”

“Do more than try, Gray. We’re very nervous over here.”

“The Times is sucking wind, isn’t it?”

“I’m not worried about the Times right now. I’m much more concerned about you and the girl.”

“We’re fine. Everything’s lovely. What else have you got?”

“You have three messages in the past two hours from a man named Cleve. Says he’s a cop. Do you know him?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he wants to talk tonight. Says it’s urgent.”

“I’ll call him later.”

“Okay. You guys be careful. We’ll be here till late, so check in.”

Gray hung up and looked at his notes. It was almost seven. “I’m going to see Mrs. Morgan. I want you to stay here.”

She sat between the pillows and crossed her arms on her knees. “I’d rather go.”

“What if they’re watching the house?” he asked.

“Why would they watch the house? He’s dead.”

“Maybe they’re suspicious now, because a mysterious client appeared today looking for him. Even though he’s dead, he’s attracting attention.”

She thought about this for a minute. “No. I’m going.”

“It’s too risky, Darby.”

“Don’t talk to me about risks. I’ve survived in the minefields for twelve days. This is easy.”

He waited on her by the door. “By the way, where am I staying tonight?”

“Jefferson Hotel.”

“Do you have the phone number?”

“What do you think?”

“Dumb question.”

The private jet with Edwin Sneller aboard landed at National in Washington a few minutes after seven. He was delighted to leave New York. He’d spent six days there bouncing off the walls in his suite at the Plaza. For almost a week, his men had checked hotels and watched airports and walked streets, and they knew damned well they were wasting their time, but orders were orders. They were told to stay there until something broke and they could move on. It was silly trying to find the girl in Manhattan, but they had to stay close in case she made a mistake like a phone call or a plastic transaction that could be traced, and suddenly they were needed.

She made no mistakes until two-thirty this afternoon when she needed money and went to the account. They knew this would happen, especially if she planned to leave the country and was afraid to use plastic. At some point, she would need cash, and she’d have to wire it since the bank was in New Orleans and she wasn’t. Sneller’s client owned eight percent of the bank; not a lot, but a nice little twelve-million-dollar holding that could make things happen. A few minutes after three, he’d received a call from Freeport.

They did not suspect her to be in Washington. She was a smart girl who was running away from trouble, not to it. And they certainly didn’t expect her to link up with the reporter. They had no idea, but now it seemed so logical. And it was worse than critical.

Fifteen thousand went from her account to his, and suddenly Sneller was back in business. He had two men with him. Another private jet was en route from Miami. He had asked for a dozen men immediately. It would be a quick job, or no job at all. There was not a second to spare.

Sneller was not hopeful. With Khamel on the team, everything seemed possible. He had killed Rosenberg and Jensen so cleanly, then disappeared without a trace. Now he was dead, shot in the head because of one little innocent female law student.

The Morgan house was in a neat suburb in Alexandria. The neighborhood was young and affluent, with bikes and tricycles in every yard.

Three cars were parked in the drive. One had Ohio plates. Gray rang the doorbell and watched the street. Nothing suspicious.

An older man opened the door slightly. “Yes,” he said softly.

“I’m Gray Grantham with the Washington Post, and this is my assistant, Sara Jacobs.” Darby forced a smile. “We would like to speak with Mrs. Morgan.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Please. It’s very important.”

He looked at them carefully. “Wait a minute.” He closed the door and disappeared.

The house had a narrow wooden porch with a small veranda over it. They were in the darkness and could not be seen from the street. A car passed slowly.

He opened the door again. “I’m Tom Kupcheck, her father, and she doesn’t want to talk.”

Gray nodded as if this was understandable. “We won’t be five minutes. I promise.”

He walked onto the porch and closed the door behind him. “I guess you’re hard of hearing. I said she doesn’t want to talk.”

“I heard you, Mr. Kupcheck. And I respect her privacy, and I know what she’s been through.”

“Since when do you guys respect anyone’s privacy?”

Evidently, Mr. Kupcheck had a short fuse. It was about to blow.

Gray kept calm. Darby backed away. She’d been involved in enough altercations for one day.

“Her husband called me three times before he died. I talked to him on the phone, and I don’t believe his death was a random killing by street punks.”

“He’s dead. My daughter is upset. She doesn’t want to talk. Now get the hell out of here.”

“Mr. Kupcheck,” Darby said warmly. “We have reason to believe your son-in-law was a witness to some highly organized criminal activity.”

This calmed him a bit, and he glared at Darby. “Is that so? Well, you can’t ask him about it, can you? My daughter knows nothing. She’s had a bad day and she’s on medication. Now leave.”

“Can we see her tomorrow?” Darby asked.

“I doubt it. Call first.”

Gray handed him a business card. “If she wants to talk, use the number on the back. I’m staying at a hotel. I’ll call around noon tomorrow.”

“You do that. For now, just leave. You’ve already upset her.”

“We’re sorry,” Gray said, as they walked off the porch. Mr. Kupcheck opened the door but watched them as they left. Gray stopped, and turned to him. “Has any other reporter called or stopped by?”

“A bunch of them called the day after he was killed. They wanted all sorts of stuff. Rude people.”

“But none in the past few days?”

“No. Now leave.”

“Any from the New York Times?”

“No.” He stepped inside and slammed the door.

They hurried to the car parked four doors down. There was no traffic on the street. Gray zigzagged through the short suburban streets, and crisscrossed his way out of the neighborhood. He watched the mirror until he was convinced they were not being followed.

“End of Garcia,” Darby said as they entered 395 and headed for the city.

“Not yet. We’ll make one final, dying gasp tomorrow, and maybe she’ll talk to us.”

“If she knew something, her father would know. And if her father knew, why wouldn’t he cooperate? There’s nothing there, Gray.”

This made perfect sense. They rode in silence for a few minutes. Fatigue was setting in.

“We can be at the airport in fifteen minutes,” he said. “I’ll drop you off, and you can be out of here in thirty minutes. Take a plane anywhere, just vanish.”

“I’ll leave tomorrow. I need some rest, and I want to think about where to go. Thanks.”

“Do you feel safe?”

“At this moment, yes. But it’s subject to change in seconds.”

“I’ll be glad to sleep in your room tonight. Just like in New York.”

“You didn’t sleep in my room in New York. You slept on a sofa in the sitting room.” She was smiling, and this was a good sign.

He was smiling too. “Okay. I’ll sleep in the sitting room tonight.”

“I don’t have a sitting room.”

“Well, well. Then where can I sleep?”

Suddenly, she was not smiling. She bit her lip and her eyes watered. He had pushed too far. It was Callahan again.

“I’m just not ready,” she said.

“When might you be ready?”

“Gray, please. Just leave it alone.”

She watched the traffic ahead and said nothing. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Slowly, she lay down in the seat and placed her head in his lap. He gently rubbed her shoulder, and she clutched his hand. “I’m scared to death,” she said quietly.