Second District, Metropolitan Police Station June 30
Through an inside window in the interrogation room, Addis could see Margaret Hanover on a television by the sergeant’s desk. Then there was footage from the canal; next, a live shot from outside the station. Addis sat alone in the room. He was wrapped in a blanket. His clothes were wet. He listened to the air conditioner hum. He considered asking someone to shut it off.
A detective entered the room. He said that Addis was not under arrest but that Addis still had the right to an attorney. He asked if he could pose a few questions to Addis. Unofficial. No notes. No tape recorder.
“Go ahead,” Addis told him.
“Who was the woman?”
Addis said her name.
“Does she have relatives in the area?”
Addis said he thought her family lived nearby. Hadn’t she said something about staying at her parents’? he thought to himself. He wasn’t sure.
“Where did she work?”
“The CIA.” The detective paused. “An analyst,” Addis explained.
Shit, I’ve blown her cover. It’s going to be on the front page tomorrow … .
“And what was the nature of your relationship?”
“Friends.”
“Know her long?”
“Not really.”
“And, Mr. Addis, what happened?”
After I came into the possession of information indicating the Hanovers were involved in a shady land deal, Ms. Lancette and I discovered that the CIA was tied to the murder of the President of the United States. Then a maniac working for god-knows-who tried to kill us. He had to settle for one out of two.
“I’m not really sure,” Addis said. He explained that a crazy man in a Trailblazer drove up alongside the car and started waving a gun. Addis
tried to outrun him but he could not. There was a gunshot. One, maybe more. He lost control when he tried to get off the parkway.
“And the gun in the car?”
Yes, Clarence Dunne had put it in the glove compartment after the assassination. It probably was registered to Mr. Dunne. Addis had tried to use it to shoot out a window.
“It wasn’t fired.”
Yes, he had dropped it in the water.
“But the back window was shot out.”
Yes.
“By whom?”
Addis didn’t know. A blurry figure. He could not say if it was the driver of the Trailblazer.
“And your visit to the Kennedy-Warren? We were called by a resident there who saw you in the lobby with a woman. Was it Ms. Lancette?”
Addis explained that Lancette was trying to get something for a friend, and that he had been helping her.
“Who was her friend?”
Addis didn’t know.
“Anything else you can tell us now that might be of help?”
No, he didn’t think so.
The detective informed him that the White House was sending someone over. He asked if Addis wanted to make a phone call. “Not now,” Addis said.
“We recorded your alcohol as .09,” the detective said.
Addis said nothing.
“That’s as close as you can get.”
As close as you can get. Addis absorbed the words without responding. He closed his eyes and saw her in the water.
The detective left the room. Addis looked out at the television. More footage of the canal. A gurney. A white sheet. He felt cold. There was water in his ear.
Brewster McGreer pushed the door open. He wore a denim shirt and shorts. He stopped a foot shy of Addis and stood there.
“You alright?”
“Think so,” Addis said.
McGreer sat on the edge of the table.
“You need anything? They offer you coffee or something?”
“That’s okay.”
Addis waited for the real questions.
“You call your folks?”
“Not yet.”
McGreer drummed his fingers on the tabletop. He took a long breath.
“Okay, Nick, what the fuck happened? Who is she? What does she do for them? What are you up to? Why did Dunne give you a gun? Is this connected to what happened to him?”
Addis told him what he had told the detective.
“Bullshit, Nick,” McGreer said. “But let’s get the fuck out of here.”
“They said I could go?”
“Yes. I told them that you’d be available for questioning whenever they want. You’re fortunate there’s another D.C. budget crisis. The fucking mayor called me when I was coming over here. Asked if he could be of any help. I said, ‘Thanks.’ He made fucking sure to let me know that they were listing you at .09. Like maybe it was fucking .095, and—lucky day—they were rounding off down, not up. He probably thinks he’ll pull another $100 million out of our next budget.”
Addis shrugged.
“Come on,” McGreer said. He helped Addis up.
“Need to see a doctor?” he asked. “Have him look at those scratches.”
“No … . Where are we going?”
“Stephanie said I should bring you home.”
“I’d like to go to my place.”
“No fucking way. The fucking vultures will be swarming there.”
He led Addis out of the room. Water squished in Addis’s shoes. He kept the blanket draped over his shoulders. Cops were staring at him. The detective appeared and asked how he could reach Addis in the morning. McGreer gave the detective his own direct number. McGreer’s cell phone went off. He answered it and stepped aside.
“Did you find her parents?” Addis asked the detective.
“Yes. We sent two officers over. They’ll have to make the official identification.”
The morgue. Washed-out skin. Empty eyes. Blue lips. Then he remembered: the memo and the composition books.
“Did you find her handbag?”
“Not that I know of.”
“She had some composition books in her bag.”
“I’ll look at the report again. But nothing was recovered … . What’s in the books?”
“I’m not sure. Some writings. Her family might like to have them, if they’re not ruined … . And I had a manila folder. Some odds and ends. Financial records. Nothing important.”
“No.”
All gone. No surprise there.
“But we’re going to empty the lock in the morning,” the detective said, “and do a daylight search.”
McGreer returned, and a policewoman guided Addis and McGreer to the side entrance. McGreer had parked his car near the door. There were no reporters. They got into the Volvo station wagon.
“That was Kelly on the phone,” McGreer said. “First thing, he said: ‘Does this fuck us at all?’ I told him, I didn’t know. And that you were fucking telling some fucking story. He said: ‘Seven-thirty-in-the-morning meeting.’ Didn’t even ask how you were. You know what he fucking said next?”
Addis shook his head.
“‘Christ, he really screwed Margaret royally.’ He sounded happy.”
McGreer’s pager went off, and he looked at the number. “Dan Carey,” he said. He dug into his pocket and pulled out the cell phone. He tossed it on Addis’s lap and started the car.
“I’ve got fucking nothing to say to him,” McGreer said. “Call you folks … First, watch this.”
McGreer drove out of the parking lot. The television lights illuminated the car. Police officers scurried to keep the camera crews and reporters out of the path of the Volvo. Shit, Addis thought, we’re going to have a parade. As McGreer steered the station wagon on to Idaho Avenue, four squad cars, their lights flashing, moved to block the road behind the Volvo. The journalists could not follow. Addis heard horns blaring.
“I did ask the mayor for one favor,” McGreer said. He looked in the rearview mirror. “The fuckers did a good job.”
Addis dialed his parents. They had been called by several friends. They had been watching the news. He assured them he was fine, that he did not have to see a doctor. The woman? She was a new friend. No, he didn’t quite understand why it had happened. Maybe the guy was just a loon.
“Even a loon,” his father said, “has his reasons.”
Addis promised to call them in the morning and hung up. Neither he nor McGreer said much during the ride to Falls Church. When they were getting off the Beltway, McGreer asked Addis if he was warm enough. Addis nodded. He felt the hot, humid air against his face—McGreer had not turned on the air conditioner—and a chill inside him.
“Nick, who are you going to tell the truth to?” McGreer asked.
Fuck if I know.
Addis did not reply.
“Okay, then. I’m sure Stephanie has some hot milk or something like that for you. So you’ll get some rest tonight. And we’ll fucking deal with this in the morning.”
“How’s Clarence?” Addis asked.
“In and out,” McGreer said. “Can’t talk. Fucking doctors say it’s going to be a day or two before he’s stable. All that fucking excitement today probably didn’t help. The police haven’t been able to ask him much. We still don’t know what he was doing the fuck there. It’s just like—”
McGreer didn’t finish the thought. Addis could guess: … we don’t know what the fuck you were doing in the canal.
“But he asked for you today.”
“He did?”
“That’s what I was told. But the doctors say no visitors except family.”
Addis stared straight at the moving spot where the headlight beam struck the ground. He was silent.
“Wonder why he asked for you.”
Addis watched the light rush across the road.
“Of all people … . Not that you wouldn’t be on my fucking mind if I was fucking fighting for my life.”
Addis said nothing.
“But it did strike me as somewhat fucking odd. Doesn’t it strike you as fucking odd, Nick? The same man who gave you a gun for god-knows-fucking-what is calling out your name from his near-fucking deathbed.”
McGreer steered the car on to his street, and they both saw two news vans in front of his California-style home. He drove past them, and harsh lights illuminated the car. McGreer pushed a button and the garage door opened; he pulled the Volvo in and pressed the button again.
His wife, Stephanie, was waiting at the door to the garage. She was wearing an oversized Tulane T-shirt and gym shorts. She held a bathrobe. She hugged Addis and led him to the kitchen. She had made hot cocoa. She picked up a piece of paper from the counter. Nine reporters had called so far, she said. So had Alter, Wenner, O’Connor, Palmer, and others. Ken Byrd had phoned to ask about the press statement. The White House was receiving queries from around the world. The lead question: Who’s the woman? McGreer picked up the phone to call the police. He wanted those vans gone.
“And Jake Grayton,” Stephanie McGreer said. “He’s on his way over.”
McGreer was on the phone with Byrd when Grayton rang the bell. Stephanie let him in. The news vans were gone.
“Nice porch,” he said.
She brought Grayton into the living room. Addis was in the bathrobe and sitting in a rocking chair. He was looking at the photographs of sadeyed, brown-skinned children hanging on the wall, shots Stephanie had taken while traveling in Central America.
“Doing okay, Nick?” Grayton asked. His hair always looks perfect,
Addis thought. Straight back. Nothing out of place. Grayton did not take off his jacket. His tie was not loosened.
“Yeah.”
“Mind if we talk?”
“Sure.”
Grayton looked at Stephanie. He was dismissing her. She headed toward the kitchen, from where a series of loud “fucks” was flowing.
“In here?” Grayton asked.
“Where else?”
“It’s cooling down. On the porch?”
He imagined what would be Lancette’s response: one car, driving slowly … .
“I’m fine here.”
Grayton sat on the leather couch. “Looks like Guatemala,” he said, nodding toward the photographs. “Been there. Didn’t have the chance to take snapshots.”
Addis crossed his arms. He resisted the urge to comment on Grayton’s remark. Grayton put his hands on his knees.
“Sorry about Julia, Nick. Very sorry. What were you two doing?”
That was quick.
“Doing?”
“Yes. You went with her to the Kennedy-Warren. You visited the apartment and storage area of a Dr. Charlie Walters. I assume you were there at her initiative. Why?”
You mean, “What do I know?”
“She said she needed something for work.”
“What?”
“She didn’t say. She said she would know it when she saw it.”
“And you were merely her … escort?”
“She said it might make it easier if I came along. It was a favor.”
“And?”
“She showed the guy at the front desk some paper—I think it was a cable—and said she needed to get into her friend’s apartment, to find something for him. She thought if I were there, then …”
“She would be believed?”
“They’d be more inclined to help, I suppose.”
“And you went along with this unorthodox request because … ?”
“What do you think?” Addis replied.
Grayton lifted a small silver dish that was on the coffee table. He turned it around in one hand.
“Did she take anything out of the apartment?”
“Some sweaters.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. Said she was going to send them to her friend.”
“And from downstairs?”
This is what you want to know. If I know. Can’t lie too much. That would show you I’m in on it. And, anyway, someone’s got the memo already.
“Two notebooks, I think. It was dark.”
Shit, I told the detective they were hers.
“And what was in these notebooks.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. Let’s hope there won’t be full and complete coordination between the police and the FBI.
“I don’t know.”
“She didn’t say?”
“No, she didn’t.”
“You didn’t ask? Weren’t curious?”
“Well, I thought it would be better if I didn’t.”
“Plausible deniability.”
“I suppose.”
“And you were a bit struck by her?”
Addis did not answer.
“She didn’t explain her interest in Dr. Walters?” Grayton asked.
“Sorry, no. Don’t you know?”
Turn it on him.
“We’re not sure.”
Addis gripped the arms of the rocking chair.
“And that’s supposed to be good enough?”
Raise your voice … .
“How do I know we weren’t shot at and chased off the road and she … because of what she was doing at the Kennedy-Warren?”
That’s it … .
“Maybe she’s dead because of something she was doing for her job? Don’t you think her family should know? Was someone after those books? Or the fucking sweaters? Why don’t you tell me what the fuck’s happening? Or should I tell the police that they ought to be looking for …”
Muff the name … .
“This Dr. Charles Whoever? Should I?”
“It’s interesting that you haven’t already,” Grayton said.
“I thought I’d talk to Wenner first.”
“Why?”
“Just in case … .”
“There was some trouble? So have you called him?”
“Not yet.” And before Grayton could ask why not, Addis answered the question: “Stephanie said you were on the way over.”
“Well, frankly, I don’t know what she was up to. I’m going to talk to
Director Wenner, and we’ll piece it together. Maybe those notebooks will turn up.”
Sure.
“I’ll keep you posted,” Grayton continued. “I think your instincts were sound—about checking with Wenner. I’m sure he’ll thank you … . By the way, when did you and she first—”
Stephanie McGreer looked into the room. “M. T.’s on the phone,” she said to Addis. “You can take it in the den.”
She stared at Grayton and led Addis away. More “fucks” were coming out of the kitchen. Addis sat at the desk and picked up the phone. Stephanie left the room. He didn’t say anything at first.
“Nick, hello. Is that you? … Nick?”
“Hello.”
“How are—”
“Fine.”
“And she’s …”
O’Connor had to know.
It was on the fucking news.
“Where are you?” Addis asked.
“Back at Blair House.”
“Who’s there?”
“Margaret. She told me to tell you that if you need any help—”
“Thank her for me. And who else?”
“The usual. Jack. Whalen’s here. You know.”
“And Dan?”
“Yes.” A stretch of silence passed.
“Jack’s really upset,” O’Connor said. “He wanted to talk to you. But Margaret put him to bed.”
“Where’s Lem?”
“I don’t know. Haven’t seen him in a while. It’s been a busy night … .”
“He didn’t go to the studio?”
“No.”
“And the show went okay?”
“Considering.”
“Sorry about that.”
“You sure you’re alright?” O’Connor asked. “Anything I can do? Want me to come over?”
“What’s planned for tomorrow?”
He picked up a piece of yellow construction paper that was on the desk. Stripes of red and blue paint ran across the page. Sparkles were in the paint. “I love Daddy,” was written on the bottom.
“Mainly, the Children’s Aid Fund lunch. It’s at the Mayflower.”
Shit … . Where he had stayed?
“And she’s okay with that?” Addis asked.
“They asked if she wanted the venue changed. She said no. And then, on to Chicago in the evening … . Nick, what happened tonight?”
“I’m not sure. Let’s talk about it later, okay?”
“Is there … anything Margaret needs to know?”
“She ask you to ask that?”
“No.”
Of course not.
“Dan asked you, right?” Addis said.
“Nick, with Clarence and everything else, we just thought—”
“And with Harris Griffith, a dead accountant—”
She said nothing.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Addis said. “Somewhere. Washington is a small town.”
“Then, I guess … Well, good night, Nick.”
“Yeah.”
He hung up the phone and returned to the living room. Stephanie was on the couch. McGreer was at the window, peering out at the street. Grayton was gone. “He said to tell you good-bye,” Stephanie said. “That he’d talk to you in the morning.”
“I’m sure there’ll be a lot of that,” Addis said.
“Come on,” she said. “I’ll show you to your room.”
When they were in the guest room, Addis faced McGreer’s wife. “Why is he sticking with Mumfries?” he asked.
“And not helping Margaret … .”
After being associated with the Hanovers, as a fund-raiser, adviser, or friend, ever since their law school days.
Addis did not say anything.
“He really likes it,” Stephanie explained. “Really does. More than he thought … .” She looked into the room. “The bed is made. There are towels. If you need anything, just …”
He doesn’t think Margaret can do it, and he won’t take a risk for her. It’s Stephanie who feels the shame. Damn, never ask a wife why her husband is a shit.
“I’ll be fine,” he said.
Addis lay in bed. It was less than a day since he had slept inches from her and had breathed the air that had brushed against her skin. How could he describe the smell? Sweet? Warming? He could not find the accurate word.
What had she died for? Nothing would give her death meaning. During the past weeks, he had floated down the path that led to the canal …
Hands and arms moving smoothly with the current. A billowing blouse.
… while Julia had consciously, conscientiously pursued a course that ended in the water and muck. He needed to push aside the numbness, the shock. Nothing he could do would compensate. But there would be choices to make, Addis thought. Tomorrow. And they would have meaning.
So, then, who knew? Knowledge was responsibility, he told himself. Grayton had been aware of what she was doing. And Wenner? Addis always had thought well of Wenner. Would he wittingly smother the truth about a presidential assassination? What about Kelly? Would Grayton tell him, warn him of a flap of historic proportion? If Kelly knew, would he tell Mumfries? Had the current President been informed that the assassin of Bob Hanover could be tied to the CIA, a government agency over which Mumfries once had oversight authority?
And what was there to do? Could he go to Palmer? He was left with nothing. No water-logged memo. Nothing. Just a story she told him and …
The light cut through the water. A head bobbed.
Addis tried to recall the Dante passage she had quoted to him.
He closed his eyes: her hair floating.
He opened them: the ceiling.
He felt cold. Water ran from his eyes.
The more you see the good, the more you see the bad? It was something like that.