Arlington Hospital, Arlington, Virginia June 28
Slight concussion, two stitches in the forehead, bruised ribs, a wrenched shoulder—Julia Lancette reported her condition to Clarence Dunne, who was sitting next to her bed in the hospital room. The nurse had told her she could leave as soon as the doctor came by. Dunne noticed that the chart hanging on the bed bore a different name than the one he had called her the previous night.
“I’d like to say thank you,” Lancette said. “Any news about our friend?”
“The license plate was stolen. No word on the car.”
“And I still haven’t figured out what you were doing there.”
“Maybe if we talk, it will help you sort things out.”
“You sound like my mom.”
“I have three boys … . Perhaps you’ll permit me to go first?”
“Shoot.”
“What should I call you?”
“Julia Lancette. The name on the chart. You read it on the way in.”
“But your business card … .”
“If you search a newspaper index you’ll find out I used to be an analyst with the CIA. Got into a pissing match about an estimate and almost got canned. It was my fifteen minutes.”
“I remember. But you were reinstated?”
“Right. But once you irritate these guys, reinstatement is meaningless. It’s like they let you back into the store and then tell you nothing is for sale.”
“And now you’re with Inter-Business Media. Never heard of it.”
“A news service. A small outfit.”
Dunne raised an eyebrow.
“A front?” he asked.
“Small outfit,” she said. “When I first joined there was a mistake and I received business cards with the wrong name, but, coincidentally, the same initials. We couldn’t figure out why. I kept the cards. Use them as a joke once in a while. I was in that bar, and this fellow demanded I give him a card. I gave him a phony one.”
Dunne did not believe her. But he admired her ability to think fast.
“I see … . And who were you looking for at the Gauntlet?”
“Who were you looking for, Mr. Dunne?”
Dunne decided to speak freely with her—more or less freely. Often you have to yield information to gain information. But mostly Dunne felt unencumbered by caution. His career was over. He had one shot here.
“Trying to find a man named Raymond who ran something like an escort service. That wouldn’t be who you were—”
“’Something like’? Why were you looking for him?”
“A tip that he might have information on the assassination.”
Lancette propped herself up in the bed.
“You’re working on the official investigation?” she asked.
“Not exactly. I wanted to vet this lead before turning it over.”
“And it vetted?”
“Not yet.”
She recalled the recent newspaper stories about Dunne. He had been accused of not sufficiently reviewing security procedures. He had been replaced as head of the White House detail. He had lost a president. Now he was on his own.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“And you?” he asked.
“A tip, too.”
She told him. Not everything, but much of it. A source had informed her that a man—the source did not know his name—who used to work at the Gauntlet might have information regarding the murder. The man had a scar on his ear and a glass eye. She went to the bar looking for him. Nothing came of it. She said nothing about the tattoo. That, she thought, might be too much.
“And your source?” Dunne asked.
“And yours?”
“Mine is no longer available.”
“Neither is mine now.”
“Trust is a funny thing, Ms. Lancette.”
There was a rap on the door. Jake Grayton entered, carrying yellow tulips.
“Hello,” he said. He paused to look at Dunne. “Small world.”
Grayton placed the flowers on a table.
“Doing alright?” he asked her.
“Not too bad.”
“Sorry I didn’t insist on driving you home. Hope it wasn’t the wine.”
“Had nothing to do with the wine,” she said.
Grayton pulled a chair to the side of the bed opposite Dunne.
“Guess you have a pretty good excuse,” he said to Dunne, “for not finishing the personnel evaluations.”
“Still working on them, Jake.”
“Good. What a surprise to see that you two were involved in the same accident last night. Never met before?”
“No,” Lancette answered.
“You’re lucky Clarence was there to help?”
“Yes,” she said. “Very.”
“Clarence, what were you doing on the parkway? I thought you lived in Bethesda?”
“My wife left her glasses at our boy’s house. I was running over to pick them up.”
“So late at night,” Grayton remarked. “That was fortunate. And the other driver?”
“Didn’t stop,” Dunne said. “No word on him yet.”
“Asshole,” Grayton said. “Julia, I’m sorry I let you drive home alone—”
“That wasn’t the problem.”
“You need a ride now?” Grayton asked.
She thought of her bashed-up Dart sitting at a repair shop.
“Clarence already offered,” Lancette said.
Dunne hadn’t, but he nodded.
“Okay, I hope you don’t mind if I check in on you later?” Grayton said.
“Not at all,” she replied. “Thanks for the flowers.”
“I have to be going … . I’ll call the parkway police. Let them know I’m interested in finding out who did this.”
“Good,” Lancette said.
As Grayton opened the door, he turned toward Dunne: “Clarence, end-of-day tomorrow on those evaluations?”
“Yes, Jake.”
“Small world,” Grayton said.
“You said that on the way in,” Dunne noted.
“And the size hasn’t changed since then.”
Grayton left the room.
Dunne drove Lancette home in his wife’s Volvo sedan. He followed Lancette’s directions through the large complex of identical brick townhouses and pulled up in front of her house. In her lap were the tulips.
“So what do we do now?” she asked.
“Tell each other what we lied about?” he said.
“Only if we get Grayton into the conversation.”
Dunne almost laughed.
“Someone’s out there,” he said.
“Think I’ll stay at my parents’ tonight.”
“Same last name?”
She nodded.
“Try a friend, then,” he suggested.
“Good advice.”
“Yeah. I know how to protect.”
Both were silent for a moment. Two mothers with their toddlers walked past the car.
“I’m mad,” she said. “I hate being made afraid.”
Dunne hoped she would explain more. Give her room, he told himself. She used her index finger to flick aside a tear.
“Hate it,” she said.
Nothing else was coming, Dunne thought.
“We should talk some more,” he said.
“Maybe,” she said. “I need to …”
She didn’t finish the sentence. Dunne wrote his phone numbers on a card and handed it to her.
“Where are you going to be?” he asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“Don’t stay here,” he said sternly.
“I won’t. I’ll call you. I will.”
“If you’re on to something and anything happens,” Dunne said, “I won’t know where to pick up.”
Lancette got out of the car.
“I could say the same about you,” she said.
She went inside and examined herself in the bathroom mirror. It hurt to comb her hair. She could feel a headache growing. The pain suppressants were wearing off. She placed a few strands of hair over the wound on her forehead. She went to the kitchen, found the phonebook, and dialed a car service.
“I’d like to schedule a pickup for later today,” she said.