Cassidy came out of the building onto K Street and stopped to light a cigarette. A big man in a leather jacket was at the curb admiring the interior of the Rolls-Royce. Cassidy was at a dead end. Brian’s trail was twenty-four hours cold. He had nowhere to go unless Sam Watkins had found something from the DC police. He found a phone booth on the corner, put a coin in the slot, and dialed. A man picked up on the fourth ring. ‘Sanderson, DCPD. Your dime, start talking.’
‘Is Sam Watkins there?’
‘No, he ain’t.’
‘Do you know where I can reach him?’
‘No, I don’t. He caught a squeal and went out of here like his ass was on fire. Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Are you Cassidy?’
‘Yes.’
‘He said if you called, it looks like your brother’s over at Sibley Memorial.’
When Cassidy came out of the booth, the man in the leather jacket was still inspecting the Rolls. Cassidy hailed a cab and told the driver to take him to Sibley Memorial. He looked out the window as they drove through the city and tried to keep his mind blank about what had put his brother in the hospital. He would know soon enough.
Brian was asleep in the hospital’s open ward on the second floor. There was a bruise under his left eye, and his stubbled face was drawn, pale, and slack. He looked older than his years, diminished and weakened. Brian had always been the calm center in the family, unruffled, unbreakable. Cassidy had never seen him like this. The ward doctor’s name was Rowe. He read Cassidy’s dismay and put a comforting hand on his arm and said, ‘There’s nothing organically wrong that we can find. A few scrapes and bruises. We gave him a sedative, because he was terribly confused and anxious when they brought him in. They’re doing the blood work now. It might tell us something more.’
‘Who brought him in?’
‘A police car. They found him wandering over near Rock Creek Park. One of the cops recognized him from TV, that program he does once a week, what is it? Behind the Headlines. Detective Cassidy, does your brother tend to drink to excess?’ Rowe fiddled with the stethoscope around his neck while he talked.
‘No. He’s a social drinker. I haven’t seen him really drunk for years. Why?’
‘He was staggering, incoherent, and there was a strong smell of liquor about him.’
‘Did he say where he’d been?’
‘He said nothing we could understand. As I said, he was incoherent. Babbling. Occasionally throwing his arms around, not violently, but out of control and yelling. Once he jumped up while a nurse was drawing blood, and ran for the door. The orderlies had to restrain him.’
‘Maybe there’s something in his clothes that would tell us where’d he’d been, a matchbook from a bar, a receipt.’
‘He wasn’t wearing any clothes.’
‘What?’
‘He was naked. I’m sorry, I thought someone would have told you.’
The police report was clipped to a carbon copy of the hospital intake report. Two cops in a patrol car had found Brian wandering naked at the western edge of Rock Creek Park. He had been unable to identify himself or to explain what had happened to him. He smelled of alcohol. He had been admitted to the hospital at 12:24 am. The hospital intake report outlined the procedures that had been followed and noted that blood had been drawn and sent to the lab. Dr Rowe said it might be a couple of hours before Brian awoke, but that Cassidy was not to worry. Then he went off to make rounds.
Cassidy got a handful of change from the gift shop and called Marcy from a booth in the front lobby. He caught her as she was about to leave to pick up the girls from school. He told her what had happened and then listened to silence until he thought the phone was dead. ‘Marcy?’
‘I’m trying to take it in. Is he all right? Should I come? I can get Leah to take the girls, and I could be there by this evening. God, drunk? He doesn’t get drunk. And naked? Michael, what the hell happened? This isn’t Brian.’ She was trying to sound calm, but a spike of anxiety rose in her voice.
‘Marcy, he’s asleep. I’ll be here when he wakes up, and he can tell me what happened. The doctor says there is nothing really wrong with him, but he wants to keep him overnight. When he’s ready to go, he and I will catch a train home. There’s no need for you to come down. I’ll call you when he wakes up and let you know.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘It’s up to you, but I’m here, and there’s nothing to do.’
‘All right. Call me, though. Please. Call me when he’s awake.’
‘The moment he’s up.’
Cassidy called Kay at home and told her what had happened. She said, ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’ Cassidy went back upstairs. He pulled a chair close to Brian’s bed and sat where he could reach his brother’s hand where it lay on the cotton blanket. Brian’s chest rose and fell slowly with his breaths. Some color had come back into his face, but he still looked pale and drawn. What the hell had happened? Marcy was right; this was not how Brian behaved. Brian was the one who pulled Cassidy and their sister Leah back from the drop. What drove him off the rails?
Cassidy dozed.
He was awakened by a hand on his shoulder, and lurched back into consciousness.
Kay Lockridge stood by his chair. ‘I canceled my appointments.’
He rubbed his face. ‘I fell asleep.’
‘Yes. How is he?’
Brian had turned over on his side, the first movement Cassidy had seen. Maybe it was a sign that he was throwing off the sedative.
‘I don’t know. The doctor said he should wake up soon, but that he might be disoriented when he does.’ He found another chair and pulled it next to the bed.
Kay sat down and looked at Brian without expression for a moment and then sighed. ‘Have you seen the paper today?’
‘No.’
She had it folded in her lap and now she handed it to him. It was turned to the front page of the Metro section. There was a photograph above the fold. It showed Brian caught in the sudden glare of a camera flash. He was naked, crouched near bushes, staring terrified at the camera with black eyes like a wild animal. The story below the photograph reported that the prominent ABC Television reporter, Brian Cassidy, was found wandering near Rock Creek Park by a police patrol. The officers reported the subject was naked, dazed, and incoherent, and he smelled of alcohol. He was taken to a local hospital where he was sedated and kept for observation.
‘Jesus. What the hell was he doing way out there? How the hell did he get there like that? Naked.’ He stared at the photograph.
‘I don’t get the paper delivered to the house,’ Kay said. ‘It goes to the office. I don’t read the paper at breakfast. It’s too early in the day to let that crap intrude. Somebody left it on the front step. It was folded open to the Metro section. Someone was taking the trouble to make sure I saw it. I’ve made enemies over the years. In this town if you don’t have enemies, you’ve never taken a stand on anything. Someone wanted to make sure my day started off badly. It won’t hurt me. It’ll be a little bit embarrassing, because people will delight in talking to me about it, but it’s terrible for Brian. A man in his business depends on his reputation. Who’s going to believe reports from a drunk?’
Cassidy put the paper down. ‘Brian doesn’t get drunk.’
‘Oh, Michael, I know you love him and respect him, but everyone can stumble at some point.’
‘Not like this.’
Kay held up her hand to forestall any argument. ‘Do you have a cigarette?’
He gave her one and lit it, and then picked up the paper again. Something about the photo of Brian. He went through the paper, stopping at the photographs in the first section and the Metro section and checking them against Brian’s. ‘Kay, there’s no credit on the photo of Brian.’
‘What? I don’t understand.’
‘Every other news photograph has the photographer’s name on it. The credit. Brian’s doesn’t.’
‘Is that important?’
‘I don’t know, but why is it different? That might be important. Do you have any friends on the Post? I want to talk to the reporter who wrote the story.’
‘I can make that happen.’
The reporter’s name was Dan O’Malley. He agreed to meet Cassidy at a tavern in Foggy Bottom, but he did not sound happy about it. The tavern was a low brick building on a bank above the river. The barroom had big windows that looked out at the water. The bartender looked up from the Mickey Spillane paperback he was reading and pointed Cassidy toward his only customer, who leaned against the far end of the bar.
O’Malley was a big Irishman of middle age. His tweed jacket and charcoal flannel trousers were nearly as rumpled as his shirt. A well-used fedora lay on the bar like an exhausted animal next to a nearly empty mug of beer and a pack of Chesterfields. He straightened as Cassidy approached, and held out his hand.
‘Cassidy, I’m Dan O’Malley.’ He was a few inches over six feet tall and more than a few pounds over two hundred, and his hand swallowed Cassidy’s. ‘What do they call you, Michael or Mike?’
‘I’ll answer to either.’
‘Good on you. How about a beer?’
‘Why not?’
‘Tim,’ O’Malley called to bartender, ‘how about a couple of suds down here?’ The bartender put down his book and went to rummage in a cooler. ‘Michael Cassidy, New York cop, brother of Brian Cassidy of ABC and the recent nocturnal ramble.’ He was a guy who had covered much of man’s foolishness for the edification of people drinking their breakfast coffee, and his amusement shined through. ‘Nephew of Kay Lockridge. That woman’s got more juice in this town than Minute Maid. I get a call, Mr Phil Graham wonders if I have time to speak to him up in the publisher’s office. That’s a bit like the Pope wondering if the parish priest can spare him a minute over in the Vatican. So off I go to the sanctum sanctorum, and Mr Graham, with whom I’ve only exchanged a couple of words at a Christmas party a few years back, asks if it would be too much trouble for me to meet Michael Cassidy, New York cop. And here I am. He also suggested that maybe we’d hold off on a follow-up on the story on Mr Cassidy’s wayward brother. That kind of chaps my ass, but it’s his paper.’
The bartender slid Cassidy a mug and then punched a church key through the tops of two pale yellow cans of Old Georgetown beer and passed them over as the foam started from the holes. O’Malley poured his mug full, took a sip, wiped foam from his lip with his tweed sleeve, and sighed. ‘Ahhh, that’s good. Lots of things are going to shit, but that is good. What did you want to see me about?’
‘The story on Brian – what happened, did the cops tip you?’
For a moment O’Malley weighed how to answer. ‘I did speak to the cops.’
Cassidy’s ear was tuned to the minor evasions of people being questioned. ‘You talked to them after you knew there was a story.’
O’Malley took a long pull of beer and watched Cassidy with his bright and realistic eyes. ‘They confirmed that they had brought your brother to the hospital. Drunk and disoriented. Naked too, which makes it a better story, what with the photo and all. He’s a well-known man, and people love to see someone tumble from a height.’
‘The photographer just happened to be driving by Rock Creek Park at midnight when my brother stumbled out of the bushes. And he recognized him in the dark and fortunately had his camera by his side.’
‘Coincidences happen all the time. Some of them are news.’
‘I’d like to speak to him.’
‘The photographer? No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I can’t identify a source to a cop.’
‘What’s he the source of?’
‘The photograph, and he was eye witness to the arrest.’
‘I’m not going to tell anyone.’
‘The photographer would know. It would get around quick that I couldn’t be trusted. Once that happens, I might as well get out of the news business and sell insurance, maybe drive a bus, because no one would talk to me in confidence anymore.’
‘I get it. Reputation counts. How about this photographer? My guess is he’s a freelancer.’ From O’Malley’s expression, he was right. ‘Is he reliable?’
A hesitation. ‘It’s not quite the same as with a reporter. He’s taking pictures. He’s not trying to get behind the scenes. He’s getting the front of the scenes, if you see what I mean. He doesn’t need someone’s trust. He just needs them to turn around. He makes his rep by how good his photos are.’
‘He gets his credit on the photos so people know he shot them.’
‘Right.’
‘So why didn’t he put a credit on this one?’
O’Malley stiffened. ‘What?’
‘He didn’t put his name on the photograph. Why not?’
‘Sure, he did.’
Cassidy took the photo he had torn from the paper out of his pocket and slid it across to O’Malley, who peered at it closely and said, ‘Maybe the composing room forgot to put it on.’
‘Sure. And he forgot to check if the photo made the paper, and he didn’t care enough about the credit to call you and raise hell.’
O’Malley pushed the piece of paper aside. ‘Okay. So what does that mean? It doesn’t change the story.’
‘Did this guy say he called the cops to come get Brian?’
‘No. The cops were there before he got back in his car.’
‘Do you know why?’
‘Why?’ Curiosity showing.
‘Because they got an anonymous tip that there was a crazy drunk tearing it up at the park,’ Cassidy said. ‘The tipster told them exactly where Brian was.’
‘And?’
‘Someone set him up. Someone took him out there and dumped him. And someone called your photographer to document it.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe someone didn’t like the story Brian was chasing.’
‘What was the story?’
‘I don’t think I can tell you that. You guide me. If I knew of a story you were working on, would you want me to tell another reporter?’
‘No.’
‘I think the photographer was part of the setup. That’s why he didn’t take the credit. He didn’t want anyone coming after him, and he figured he could trust you not to ID him to someone like me.’
‘Could be. But there could have been other reasons he didn’t take it.’
‘Like what?’
O’Malley did not answer.
‘I need to talk to him.’ Cassidy drank beer while O’Malley thought about it.
‘I can’t do it. Even if you’re right, it doesn’t change what I can do. He’s a source. If he didn’t want his name on this, then I have to respect that.’
‘Call him and ask him why he left his name off the photo.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because you’re a reporter. You’re curious. It’s part of the story, you just didn’t know that when you wrote it.’
‘You think I’m that easy?’
‘Hell, yes. Reporters want to know what they missed.’
O’Malley put the mug down unfinished, and stood up. ‘You’re an asshole,’ he said with a grin, and walked to the phone booth at the back of the room pulling change from his pocket. He closed the door and the light came on. He spread his change on the shelf below the phone, selected a dime, and called a number. Cassidy watched and drank his beer. The first call only lasted a few seconds. The next went longer. The third went on for a while, and the longer it went the more animated O’Malley became behind the glass. He slapped the receiver back into its cradle, crashed open the door, scooped up what remained of the change, and came back to the bar. He picked up his mug and finished it fast. ‘He’s not talking.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s scared.’
‘Who’s he scared of?’
‘He’s not talking about that.’
‘You know him. You know the town. What’s your best guess?’
O’Malley thought about it. ‘Where are we?’
‘DC.’
‘Right. You know what DC’s the center of?’
‘Government.’
‘Half right. Power. You know who power attracts?’ He did not wait for an answer. ‘Some good people, sure. But it also attracts a lot of nasty people. This guy we’re talking about, he knows a lot of those nasty people.’
‘Which ones?’
‘I don’t know for sure. Maybe all of them.’
‘That’s not much. Can’t you give me anything more?’
‘Nope.’
‘Okay. Thanks. And thanks for the beer.’
‘Whoa, whoa. You took me away from my daily search for truth. You’re buying. And if anything comes of this, I’d like to hear about it.’
‘I’ll give you a call.’ Cassidy shook hands with O’Malley and put five bucks on the bar. As he walked out, O’Malley was calling for another beer.
What had he learned? Kay’s guess that someone was trying to screw with Brian’s reputation fit with what O’Malley hinted at, that Brian had stumbled onto something people with power wanted to conceal. Brian was chasing a story on how money influenced voting in Congress. Kay said that was an old story, but that didn’t mean today’s players wanted it in the papers. It didn’t seem like enough. There must be something he wasn’t seeing.
Cassidy headed up the block for the corner in hopes of finding a cab. He was thinking about what O’Malley had told him, and barely noticed the boxy white GMC delivery van parked at the curb. The hood was up. A man leaned on the fender and reached in to fiddle with something on the engine.
Something about the man. A leather jacket.
Outside the Gallien Medical building on K Street?
He started to turn. The man in the leather jacket slammed into him from behind. Another man charged him from the mouth of the alley opposite. The big man wrapped him up, pinning his arms, and then leaned back, lifting Cassidy’s feet off the ground so he had no traction. The smaller one bent to make a grab for his legs. Cassidy kicked him in the neck hard enough to drive him back. He jerked his head back into the bigger man’s face and drew a grunt of surprise and pain, but the man did not loosen his grip. Cassidy lunged backward and rammed him into the side of a van. The metal side boomed like a gong. The man grunted at the impact. His grip loosened, Cassidy broke free, stumbled, and went down on one knee. The big man tried to kick him in the stomach. Cassidy leaned away from the kick. He got a hand under the man’s heel, and used the kick’s momentum to drive his leg high. The man’s other leg flew out from under him, and he went down on his back. His head cracked against the sidewalk. The back doors of the van flew open, and another man jumped out. The one Cassidy had kicked was on his feet now, and as Cassidy tried to get up, the two men swarmed him and dragged him into the back of the van where a third man waited.
‘Get it into him. Get it into him!’ one of them yelled.
The man in the van fumbled a hypodermic needle out of a hard leather case as the two other men tried to wrestle Cassidy to the floor.
‘Hold him. Hold him, goddamn it.’ He jabbed the hypodermic toward Cassidy’s exposed neck. Cassidy stamped a foot against the wall of the van and drove himself and the two men holding him against the opposite wall. He heard the breath rush out of one of them. It smelled of garlic and peppermint.
‘Hold the fucker. Goddamn it, keep him still.’
The needle scared him. What the hell was in the hypodermic? Nothing good. An elbow came out of nowhere and hit him on the temple, and for a moment his world went gray. His legs buckled, and the man in front of him took the opportunity to pin them. He tried for another head butt on the man behind, but he ducked away and punched Cassidy in the kidneys. Cassidy bladed his fingers and stabbed back over his shoulder, searching for eyes, but the man saw it and turned his head, and Cassidy’s nails ripped his cheek.
The man behind tried for a chokehold, but Cassidy tucked his chin down tight, and the man’s arm barred across his face, mashing his lips into his teeth.
‘Hold his legs still. I’m going there. Hold them.’ The needle man came in at a crouch, the hypodermic held like a dagger, with his thumb on the plunger. Staying back as far as he could, he reached out with his free hand and touched Cassidy’s thigh, feeling for the spot he wanted. ‘Hold him. Here we go.’
Cassidy opened his mouth wide, and the arm barred across it went in, giving him a taste of cloth, the slickness of nylon sleeve. Cassidy bit down as hard as he could and felt the radius bone break under his teeth. The man screamed and jerked his arm out and went to his knees behind Cassidy. The hypodermic holder drove the needle toward Cassidy’s thigh. Cassidy got his left hand out. The point of the needle entered his palm and went out the back. The man thumbed the plunger, and a spray of clear liquid blew from the end. Cassidy jerked the needle out and backhanded the man breaking his nose. The man fell backward. Cassidy grabbed the man on his legs by the throat with his wounded hand and hit him twice in the face. The man rolled off his legs, and Cassidy dragged his gun from under his arm and hit him with the barrel, and the man sagged back against the van wall.
He kicked the back doors open and slid out onto the street. The big guy who had hit his head was on all fours trying to get up. He reached a tentative hand for Cassidy’s ankle, and Cassidy bent and swatted him with the gun, and he collapsed on his side.
Two men and a woman walking past took a wide path around them, looking at them wide-eyed. One of the men said, ‘Hey, what’s going on here,’ in an uncertain voice.
‘Nothing,’ Cassidy said. ‘Just one of those family disagreements.’
They kept going, looking back over their shoulders every once in a while. He could hear the woman’s voice raised in protest and knew they would call the cops from the first pay phone they found. He didn’t have time for the cops. He took a moment to search the downed man’s pockets. He found twelve dollars in bills and some change, a key ring with three keys, a ballpoint pen, and two mints wrapped in foil. No wallet. No ID. He suspected that the men in the van would be just as anonymous. The two men and the woman went into the bar. Looking for a phone. Time to go.
A couple of blocks later the world began to turn weird.
The red of the traffic light that held Cassidy at the curb oozed from its lens and ran down the pole. The pole undulated and then went rigid again. Cassidy felt tightness in his chest and a strange alertness. His senses fired hard: the smell of diesel from a passing bus was thick and oily, the rub of tires on the pavement sandpapered his ears, a pigeon flying in slow motion overhead revealed every feather and a bright dark eye, the click of heels on the pavement as the people around him surged across the street was the rattle of a snare drum while he stood rooted, unable to move his feet. He looked down at his left hand and saw the angry red spot where the needle stabbed. He turned his hand over. The exit was a bead of dried blood. The veins on the back of his hand were blue, thick with blood, and when he flexed his hand, they writhed like snakes under the skin and little bursts of color flew from his fingertips like drops of light.
What the hell? The needle driven through his palm, the spray of liquid on his pants as the thumb drove the plunger. Some of that shit was in his blood. What was it? Was it killing him? Were they still coming after him? Were they here already?
He whirled around. People on the sidewalk looked at him curiously. Some of them shied away.
A police siren rose in the distance. Get away from here. Move. Move.
The light changed again, and he crossed the street feeling as if he was walking through chest-deep water. Two blocks later he came to a small park dense with trees. He followed a curving path into the middle of the park and found a bench in a turnout that was nearly hidden by the bushes around it. He sat down on the bench and tried to slow his breathing.
It’s going to be okay. This will pass. There’s not much in you. It just needs time. Breathe – in – out – in – out. He looked at his watch. Was the second hand moving at all? He shook his wrist and looked again. Had it moved? Breathe. For a moment he stood outside himself and watched himself sitting on the bench, head down, hands on his knees, and then he was back inside, watching the ants that went busily about their business in the dirt at his feet. He could see into their world. The cracks in the pavement were canyons; the grains they carried were as big as boulders.
A uniformed cop went by walking fast. He did not look through the narrow gap in the bushes to where Cassidy sat, but if he knew the place, he might be back to check it. Time to move again.
Cassidy wandered without direction to the Mall and into the protective herd of tourists who thronged there, and then up past the Smithsonian, and toward the White House. The cops would be thick on the ground there, so he turned away. He walked side streets and stopped at a small diner with no other customers. The counterman brought him a cup of coffee and went back to his conversation with the cook through the service window. In an hour his head had cleared of everything but a lingering sense of dread.
Who tried to take him? What did they want? What was in the hypodermic? The man in the leather jacket had been outside Gallien’s office. Had they picked him up there, or had they followed him from the Congressional Office Building? Or from Aunt Kay’s? They had to be the same crew that snatched Brian. But why had they come after him? Brian was working a story about money in DC. It had nothing to do with anything Cassidy was working on.
He hailed a cab to take him back to the hospital. He thought about Brian’s missing hours from when he left Congressman Martin’s office until he was picked up at Rock Creek Park. Where had he been? Who had he seen and talked to? The key to what happened was in that blank space of time. When Brian woke up, they would reconstruct his day, and then Cassidy would take it from there.