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WASHINGTON, D.C. (Thursday, Dec. 13, 2012) — Kristy shook Mac awake at noon. She jumped back startled when he woke up swinging. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Best just to call my name.”
“I guess,” she said shakily. “Stan Warren is on the phone for you.”
Mac sat up. He’d ended up on the floor for the night. Kristy had been given the bed. Troy got the couch.
“Heard from Troy?”
Kristy nodded. “He called a bit ago. Steve Addison and his wife got their flight just fine. He dropped off the car, took the train back to Virginia to get the Saturn and bring it here.”
Mac nodded. He went into the bathroom, splashed some water on his face. Came out and took the phone. “Good morning,” he said.
“Look Mac, we’ve got to talk,” Warren said urgently.
“So talk.”
“Face to face.”
“No. This is just fine. What’s on your mind?”
“Steve Addison didn’t show up for work this morning,” Warren said. Mac had the feeling that wasn’t what Warren had wanted to talk about.
“Addison? Parker’s contact?”
“You know where he might be?” Warren asked.
“Not a clue,” Mac said simply. “Anything else you want to ask? ‘Cause I’ve got another name for you.”
“Yeah?”
“The FBI agent who kidnapped Kristy is a guy named Bill James. He’s out of D.C. You know him? Gravelly voice? Big man, 50-ish, probably a former cop somewhere?”
“You sure?”
“So I’ve been told. We’ve all run into him, so to speak. We can give positive ID.”
“I’ll check it out.” Warren hesitated. “You started work on that Rolodex?”
“Why? Are you in there?” Mac asked and then hung up the phone.
Kristy shook her head. “You are so rude to him,” she said.
Mac grinned at her. “He loves it,” he teased. She laughed.
“What are we doing today?” she asked. She went into the kitchen. “You want some breakfast?”
Mac followed her into the room. “You don’t have to cook for me,” he said, taking the skillet from her hand. Kristy looked at him with surprise.
“I don’t mind, I like cooking,” she said. “And it makes me feel useful in this.”
Mac opened the refrigerator, took out some eggs. “You’ve been shopping,” he observed.
Kristy nodded. “I asked the security guard downstairs if there was a place that could deliver. He helped me out.”
Mac nodded his approval. Good, he thought, she didn’t just go waltzing out to the store. Wariness was good. He scrambled the eggs, made toast. “You want some?” he asked.
Kristy hesitated, then nodded. “If I let you cook for me, will you be easier about letting me cook for you?” she asked as she took the plate.
Mac smiled, one of the genuine smiles that lit up his face. “Deal,” he said.
“What are we going to do today?” Kristy repeated.
“Going to go down to the Examiner bureau and start calling those names.” He nodded in the direction of the printout from Parker’s Rolodex.
“All of them?” Kristy asked with dismay.
Mac shook his head. “No, I’m going to do some sorting first,” he said. “But we’re going to need more than one computer and an Internet connection. The Examiner has those.”
Kristy gathered up the dishes, put them in the sink.
The Examiner bureau was in a ramshackle building off the Blue Metro Line — down by the FBI building, Mac noticed with amusement. D.C. was a city of pale cement sidewalks and government buildings that provided a bland backdrop to the hustle of people who never looked at each other, never looked at the buildings. You always knew if you were in the tourist areas where people rubbernecked all the time, or in government canyons where no one looked around.
The building housing the Examiner was sitting on a corner, maybe a bank at one time, Mac thought. Unlike the surrounding buildings, it was red brick, darkened with age and pollution. Things seemed just a bit off true — windowsills, for instance. Apparently, the building was home to several newspaper bureaus and a couple of trade publications. The Examiner was on the third floor. The elevator creaked, the floors were wood but needed to be refinished. The hallway to the office was dimly lit.
Inside the suite of offices, however, was a small, modern newsroom with the hum of computers, ringing telephones and countless voices. Mac took a long slow breath. When did a newsroom start feeling like home, he wondered?
“Can I help you?” the reporter closest to the door asked.
“Looking for Jason Whitcomb. I’m Mac Davis.”
The young woman smiled. “We’ve been expecting you. Jason asks if you’ve shown up yet about every 15 minutes.” She punched a number into the phone. “Jason, Mac is here.”
She smiled at Kristy. “I’m Julie,” she said.
Kristy smiled back. “Kristy.”
A lanky man with stooped shoulders and wire-rimmed glasses ducked out of an office. “Mac? Come on back,” he called.
Kristy hesitated, but Mac pulled her along. “You’re part of the team,” he said to her, as they walked back through the three cubicles that housed reporters. The cubicles were generous. Mac figured once there had been more reporters on staff. One of the first layoffs had included most of the bureaus, including this one. It was a testament to the kind of publisher the Examiner had that there was still a bureau at all. Mac didn't really understand why newspapers were cutting their editorial product, when that was what they had to sell. It was like saving money by continuing to produce the colorful boxes for cereal and cutting back on the cereal in the box. Sooner or later people were going to notice. He pulled his thoughts back into order.
Up close, Jason looked to be approaching 50, his thinning hair was gray rather than blond as it had appeared to be from a distance. The sign on the door said bureau chief.
Jason saw Mac’s glance at the door. “Chief’s in New York this week,” he said. “I get to be acting chief in his absence.” He gestured toward chairs. “Have a seat. Janet said to expect you today.”
Mac paused to look around the office. It had a bank of windows along one side, and bookshelves on the other three. The desk was pushed up under the window; a small table with chairs around it filled the end next to the door. At least, Mac assumed that was the configuration underneath a multi-layer of paper, magazines, reports and books that covered every surface.
Kristy said nothing, just moved the books out of a chair onto the floor and sat down. Mac sighed and did the same. He pulled out his recorder and started the tape of Springer.
“Shit,” Jason said almost reverently when the recorder got to the part about Hightower’s death. Mac said nothing; he queued up to another spot when it was done, played Addison’s story.
“Not a good guy,” Jason observed when the recording finished. “Ignoring your unusual reporting style, I’d say we’ve got a story here. What’s your plan?”
Mac pulled out the computer disk with the Parker’s Rolodex file and the printout of it. He explained what it was and how he’d gotten it.
“I want to do some sorts on the computer file, then start calling people. Asking them about Parker, how they know him, has he done favors for them, asked them for favors. I figure there are other stories like these two. I want more of them.”
Jason nodded. “That could take a while.”
“Kristy will help,” Mac said. “And Troy Maxim, an aide in Murray’s office, will be here to work on it, too. What I need is a computer and some phones.”
“Wouldn’t mind making some of those calls myself,” Jason said, fingering the printout.
It took Mac an hour to get the file sorted the way he wanted. The majority of the names fell into two areas, D.C. and Seattle. He made a printout of names in the D.C. area and handed it to Jason. The names in Seattle he kept for himself, the third list he handed to Kristy.
“You might just look through the names first,” he suggested to Jason.
Jason grinned. “Can’t wait.”
Kristy looked at her list with some skepticism. “I’m not a reporter,” she said.
Mac shrugged. “People talk to you. If you get something good, or someone who doesn’t want to talk but you think there’s something there, just holler. One of us will be glad to take over from there.”
Mac took the Seattle list. His first goal was to figure out who was unusual on the list. He sat back down at the computer, called up the Examiner’s website and started plugging names into the search engine. Some names he could identify by himself. Kristy worked the phone from the table. Jason pulled the desk phone around and worked from it. Mac half listened.
Julie stuck her head in the door. “Troy Maxim is here.”
“Send him back,” Mac said.
Troy looked tired when he came into the small office. The clutter didn’t seem to bother him either, Mac noticed sourly. He slouched into a chair at the table. “Car is in the garage,” he said after being introduced to Jason. “I called in, talked to Senator Murray. Told her the whole thing. She says the confirmation hearing is scheduled for 2 p.m. on Monday. If we can get her the material by Monday morning, she will be more than happy to take it to the committee.”
“I’ll bet,” Mac said.
“Are we working a story or a Senate investigation?” Jason objected.
“We’re working a story,” Mac said. “One I expect to run in Monday morning’s newspaper. At that time Murray will have all the information she needs.”
Jason looked satisfied. “Then we’ve got work to do. This isn’t the kind of story you run at the last minute,” he observed. “We’ve got to have an attorney look at it. The powers that be in Seattle will go over it. We can’t file it Sunday at 4 p.m., an hour before deadline.”
Mac nodded. “What time should we shoot for?”
“I’m sure that the executive editor would like to see it Friday before 5 p.m. so he doesn’t have to work the weekend, and doesn’t have to pay Leatherstocking weekend rates,” Jason said with a laugh. "But if we can pull it together by noon on Sunday, we can give them a draft of the story. That’s 9 p.m. their time. Gives them time to piss in it, make it their own, and time for us to fix it again.”
Kristy and Troy looked bewildered, but Mac grinned. He and Jason were going to get along just fine.
Jason handed Troy some of names from his list and found him a phone in the newsroom.
At 4 p.m., Mac excused himself. “Anyone want coffee?” he asked. Vigorous nods. He went down to the street lobby, found a pay phone. He punched in Rodriguez’s number.
“Rodriguez.”
“It’s Mac Davis, Detective,” Mac said, holding the receiver between his shoulder and ear. He flipped through his notebook. “I’ve got some names for you to check out.”
“What, now I’m your personal investigator?”
“These names are from the Seattle area that appear in Parker’s Rolodex who remain unidentified,” Mac said calmly. “About 20 names. My guess is your shooter might be among them. Unless you think Parker hired the mayor to do it.”
“Mayor would have fucked it up,” Rodriguez growled. Mac didn’t point out that as far as a hit went, it hadn’t been a rip-roaring success. “Give me the names.”
Mac did, spelling them carefully, and providing contact information. He could hear Rodriguez typing them in. When he was done, Rodriguez grunted.
“Five of them with significant police files,” the detective said.
“Which five?” There was silence. “Come on, Nick, it’s public record.”
“You and your goddamn public record,” Rodriguez grumbled but gave him the names. “We’ll be checking them out. DA’s office tried to revoke your bail this morning, by the way.”
“What?” Mac yelped.
“Yeah, said there was reason to believe you were planning on leaving the country because you were in El Paso and everyone knows how easy it would be for you to slip across the border. Implied you were Mexican to begin with and would just be going home.”
“I’m not Hispanic.” He didn't think he was anyway.
“That’s what I told the judge. The chief of detectives had a little chat with the judge and the D.A.’s office and played the tape I made of your last call. Charges were dismissed.”
“Dismissed?”
“Yeah, I objected, of course,” Rodriguez said cheerfully. “I figure you’re guilty of something, why not this? But the tape was pretty clear.”
Mac leaned his head against the wall of the booth. “How’s Donnelly?” he asked at last.
“He’s going to make it. He’s groggy, doesn’t remember anything about that day, particularly. Still doesn’t like you, of course, but he is adamant that you didn’t know about his profile.”
“I told you that,” Mac interrupted. “If I’d known, he’d had a black eye, not a hole in his head.”
“He confirms he was doing the profile as a favor to Parker. He assumed it was something official.”
“Seems to be Parker’s style.”
“Yeah, well, take care, and don’t shoot anybody out there, OK?” Rodriguez said.
“Thanks, Nick,” Mac said quietly.
There was just a grunt at the other end and then dial tone.
Mac enjoyed the feeling of relief and freedom for a moment, then he pulled out Addison’s list of telephone numbers for Parker. He got him on his third try.
“Parker,” said the deep voice Mac remembered from their previous conversation.
“This is Mac Davis,” Mac said in his professional voice. “I’m a reporter from the Seattle Examiner. I would like to ask you a couple of questions for a profile we’re working on.”
“Davis? How the hell did you get this number?” Parker said with irritation.
“Does the name Joey Hightower mean anything to you?” Mac asked, ignoring Parker’s question.
Parker was silent. Then he sighed. “Where are you? We need to talk.”
“We are talking. About Joey Hightower. He was one of your contract employees in the drug operation, wasn’t he? Died in 2007. A burglar killed him during a botched robbery.”
“Springer tell you this?”
“And what about Allen Clayton, Parker? Seasoned CIA agent who gets killed by Mexicans when he’s been going there all his life? Hardly seems likely. Seems like working for you is a dangerous business.”
“So you got a question, you said,” Parker growled.
“Yeah, I got lots of them. But what I really want to know is how did you become a killer? Kellerman and others tell me that you are a man people are willing to die for. When did you cross the line, Parker? Was Hightower your first kill?”
Parker was silent. Whatever he had expected this wasn’t it. Mac went on, “Think back. What was your first black bag op?”
Parker sighed. “Long time ago,” he said slowly. “Lots of water since that bridge.”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve read your Marine files, you know,” Parker said. “You cut some corners yourself.”
“Yeah. So tell me, when did you realize that you had to make decisions and act on them, because waiting for a decision above was like Waiting for Godot.”
“A literate man? How interesting. Southeast Asia, I guess. When you were out in the field, you couldn’t wait for instructions. They didn’t know what the hell was really going on. So you did the best you could.”
“You were what, 25? A boot Leuy?”
“Yeah. Supplies didn’t show up. Jungle warfare — people shooting at you when you can’t see them, can’t chase them. Kids you gave candy to could be throwing a grenade the next time you saw them.” Parker fell silent.
“You did what needed to be done,” Mac said sympathetically. He adjusted the phone, shaking out the cramps in his writing hand.
“Sure. And got promoted for it. As long as you’re successful, people will ignore your methods. If you’re not successful, you’re dead, so what difference does it make?”
“After that?”
“Found out stateside wasn’t much different. Still people shooting at you when you can’t see them, still supplies and resources not being there when you need them.”
“And people still ignore the methods as long as you bring in the successes,” Mac said.
“And you’re dead if you don’t,” Parker said with a half-laugh.
“So was Hightower the first time you killed one of your own men to get the success,” Mac said in the same sympathetic tone of voice.
“Shit.” Parker hung up. Mac hung up the phone thoughtfully. He reread his notes, flagged a couple of good quotes. Closing the notebook, he headed back upstairs.
Parker stared at the phone on his desk as if it were contagious. What had possessed him to tell that kid all that? he wondered. Tired. I’m getting tired. He looked out the window of his office. He could clearly remember the first time he’d led a raid on villagers for supplies, then parlayed them on the black market for things he needed. Procurement. He snorted. Small potatoes in hindsight. He hadn’t slept well after the first time. The second time was easier. And the next... it always was.
He picked up the phone, dialed the El Paso courthouse.
“He’s not in,” a pleasant female voice said in answer to his request for Springer. “He called in yesterday, said he’d had a bad fall, was going to take a week of vacation time to heal up. Can I take a message?”
Parker thanked her, hung up, tried another number. No answer. Tried another. Still no answer. He grimaced. Should have had Warren take Davis out in Texas.
He dialed another number. “Steve Addison is on vacation,” said a recording. “Please leave your name and number and he will return your call when he returns.”
Parker called Addison’s home number, got a similar message.
“Sir, you’ve got a phone call,” his aide said, sticking his head in the door.
“Who is it?”
The aide told him, and Parker picked up his phone. “Yes, Senator, how are you today?”
The Senator told him in no uncertain terms how the day was going — shitty as hell. The usual good-natured Texas drawl was gone; this was the Harvard lawyer talking now. He’d gotten a call from the Seattle Examiner asking questions about past favors exchanged. He hadn’t appreciated it. If Parker wanted his support on this nomination, whatever was going on needed to stop. And stop now.
Parker agreed, soothing him, reminding him of their long history together. Of rough times in the past that they’d seen through together.
The Senator snorted. “That was then, this is now, pal,” he said.
Succeed or die, Parker thought, returning to gazing out the window. He called another number. “You still think you can take him out?” he asked the gravel-voiced man who answered.
“Yeah.”
“Tonight.”
“OK. What about the people with him?”
“Whatever you have to do,” Parker said.
Then he called Warren. “He’s got too much dirt, Stan. He’s got to go.”
“I thought you were going to get his bail revoked,” Stan Warren said.
“Didn’t work, they dismissed charges. My source didn’t know why,” Parker said with annoyance. And fear. How had that happened? That charge had been airtight. He’d created it, it ought to be. “Take him out.”
Warren was silent.
“You can, can’t you?” Parker taunted. He was an expert at pushing buttons; he didn’t hesitate now.
“I don’t know,” Warren said. “It’s not really my field of expertise.”
“If you don’t, I’ll get someone who can,” Parker said. He didn’t mention he’d already done just that.
“No, no,” Warren said slowly. “Leave it to me.”