Chapter Seven
Four Arabs noisily filled a table next to them, yakking and jabbering in their language. All four ordered Jack Daniel's.
"Who killed them, Gavin?"
He chewed for a minute, then swallowed hard. "If I knew, I wouldn't tell. But I swear I do not know. It's baffling. The killers vanished without a trace. It was meticulously planned and perfectly executed. Not a clue."
"Why the combination?"
He stuffed another in his mouth. "Quite simple. It's so simple, it's easy to overlook. They were such natural targets. Rosenberg had no security system in his townhouse. Any decent cat burglar could come and go. And poor Jensen was hanging around those places at midnight. They were exposed. At the exact moment each died, the other seven Supremes had FBI agents in their homes. That's why they were selected. They were stupid."
"Then who selected them?"
"Someone with a lot of money. The killers were professionals, and they were probably out of the country within hours. We figure there were three, maybe more. The mess at Rosenberg's could have been done by just one. We figure there were at least two working on Jensen. One or more looking out while the guy with the rope did his thing. Even though it was a dirty little place, it was open to the public, and quite risky. But they were good, very good."
"I've read a lone assassin theory."
"Forget it. It's impossible for one man to kill both of them. Impossible."
"How much would these killers charge?"
"Millions. And it took a bunch of money to plan it all."
"And you have no idea?"
"Look, Thomas, I'm not involved in the investigation, so you'll have to ask those guys. I'm sure they know a helluva lot more than I do. I'm just a lowly government lawyer."
"Yeah, who just happens to be on a first-name basis with the Chief Justice."
"He calls occasionally. This is boring. Let's get back to women. I hate lawyer talk."
"Have you talked to him lately?"
"Picking, Thomas, always picking. Yes, we chatted briefly this morning. He's got all twenty-seven law clerks scouring the federal dockets high and low looking for clues. It's fruitless, and I told him so. Every case that reaches the Supreme Court has at least two parties, and each party involved would certainly benefit if one or two or three justices would disappear and be replaced by one or two or three more sympathetic to its cause. There are thousands of appeals that could eventually end up here, and you can't just pick one and say 'This is it! This is the one that got 'em killed.' It's silly."
"What did he say?"
"Of course he agreed with my brilliant analysis. I think he called after he read the Post story to see if he could squeeze something out of me. Can you believe the nerve?"
The waiter hovered over them with a hurried look.
Verheek glanced at the menu, closed it, and handed it to him. "Grilled swordfish, blue cheese, no vegetable."
"I'll eat the mushrooms," Callahan said. The waiter disappeared.
Callahan reached into his coat pocket and removed a thick envelope. He laid it on the table next to the empty Moosehead. "Take a look at this when you get a chance."
"What is it?"
"It's sort of a brief."
"I hate briefs, Thomas. In fact, I hate the law, and the lawyers, and with the exception of you, I hate law professors."
"Darby wrote it."
"I'll read it tonight. What's it about?"
"I think I told you. She is very bright and intelligent, and a very aggressive student. She writes better than most. Her passion, other than me of course, is constitutional law."
"Poor thing."
"She took off four days last week, totally ignored me and the rest of the world, and came up with her own theory, which she has now discarded. But read it anyway. It's fascinating."
"Who's the suspect?"
The Arabs erupted in screaming laughter, slapping each other and spilling whiskey. They watched them for a minute until they died down.
"Don't you hate a bunch of drunks?" Verheek said.
"It's sickening."
Verheek stuffed the envelope into his coat on the back of his chair. "What's her theory?"
"It's a bit unusual. But read it. I mean, it can't hurt, can it? You guys need the help."
"I'll read it only because she wrote it. How is she in bed?"
"How's your wife in bed?"
"Rich. In the shower, in the kitchen, at the grocery. She's rich in everything she does."
"It can't last."
"She'll file by the end of the year. Maybe I'll get the townhouse and some change."
"No prenuptial agreement?"
"Yes, there is, but I'm a lawyer, remember. It's got more loopholes than a tax reform act. A buddy of mine prepared it. Don't you love the law?"
"Let's talk about something else."
"Women?"
"I've got an idea. You want to meet the girl, right?"
"We're talking about Darby?"
"Yes. Darby."
"I'd love to meet her."
"We're going to St. Thomas during Thanksgiving. Why don't you meet us there?"
"Do I have to bring my wife?"
"No. She's not invited."
"Will she run around in a little string job on the beach? Sort of put on a show for us?"
"Probably."
"Wow. I can't believe this."
"You can get a condo next to us, and we'll have a ball."
"Beautiful, beautiful. Just beautiful."
The phone rang four times, the answering machine clicked on, the recorded voice echoed through the apartment, the beep, then no message. It rang again four times, same routine, and no message. A minute later it rang again, and Gray Grantham grabbed it from bed. He sat on a pillow, trying to focus.
"Who is it?" he asked in pain. There was no light coming through the window.
The voice on the other end was low and timid. "Is this Gray Grantham with the Washington Post?"
"It is. Who's calling?"
Slowly, "I can't give you my name."
The fog lifted and he focused on the clock. It was five-forty. "Okay, forget the name. Why are you calling?"
"I saw your story yesterday about the White House and the nominees."
"That's good." You and a million others. "Why are you calling me at this obscene hour?"
"I'm sorry. I'm on my way to work and stopped at a pay phone. I can't call from home or the office."
The voice was clear, articulate, and appeared to be intelligent. "What kind of office?"
"I'm an attorney."
Great. Washington was home for half a million lawyers. "Private or government?"
A slight hesitation. "Uh, I'd rather not say."
"Okay. Look, I'd rather be sleeping. Why, exactly, did you call?"
"I may know something about Rosenberg and Jensen."
Grantham sat on the edge of the bed. "Such as - " A much longer pause. "Are you recording this?"
"No. Should I?"
"I don't know. I'm really very scared and confused, Mr. Grantham. I prefer not to record this. Maybe the next call, okay?"
"Whatever you want. I'm listening."
"Can this call be traced?"
"Possibly, I guess. But you're at a pay phone, right? What difference does it make?"
"I don't know. I'm just scared."
"It's okay. I swear I'm not recording and I swear I won't trace it. Now, what's on your mind?"