"No. I'm just listening."
"He was killed a week ago tonight. I thought he was working very late, which was not unusual. They shot him and took his wallet, so the cops couldn't identify him. I saw on the late news where a young lawyer had been murdered downtown, and I knew it was Curtis. Don't ask me how they knew he was a lawyer without knowing his name. It's strange, all the little weird things that go with a murder."
"Why was he working late?"
"He worked eighty hours a week, sometimes more. White and Blazevich is a sweatshop. They try to kill the associates for seven years, and if they can't kill them they make them partners. Curtis hated the place. He was tired of being a lawyer."
"How long was he there?"
"Five years. He was making ninety thousand a year, so he put up with the hassle."
"Did you know he called me?"
"No. My father told me you said that, and I've thought about it all night. What did he say?"
"He never identified himself. He used the code name of Garcia. Don't ask how I learned his identity - it'll take hours. He said he possibly knew something about the assassinations of Justices Rosenberg and Jensen, and he wanted to tell me what he knew."
"Randy Garcia was his best friend in elementary school."
"I got the impression he had seen something at the office, and perhaps someone at the office knew he had seen it. He was very nervous, and always called from pay phones. He thought he was being followed. We had planned to meet early Saturday before last, but he called that morning and said no. He was scared, and said he had to protect his family. Did you know any of this?"
"No. I knew he was under a great deal of stress, but he'd been that way for five years. He never brought the office home with him. He hated the place, really."
"Why'd he hate the place?"
"He worked for a bunch of cutthroats, a bunch of thugs who'd watch you bleed for a buck. They spend tons of money on this marvelous facade of respectability, but they are scum. Curtis was a top student and had his pick of jobs. They were such a great bunch of guys when they recruited him, and complete monsters to work with. Very unethical."
"Why did he stay with the firm?"
"The money kept getting better. He almost left a year ago, but the job offer fell through. He was very unhappy, but he tried to keep it to himself. I think he felt guilty for making such a big mistake. We had a little routine around here. When he came home, I would ask him how his day went. Sometimes this was at ten at night, so I knew it was a bad day. But he always said the day had been profitable - that was the word, profitable. And then we talked about our baby. He didn't want to talk about the office, and I didn't want to hear it."
"Well, so much for Garcia. He's dead, and he told his wife nothing. Who cleaned out his desk?"
"Someone at the office. They brought his stuff Friday, all neatly packaged and taped in three cardboard boxes. You're welcome to go through it."
"No, thanks. I'm sure it's been sanitized. How much life insurance did he have?"
She paused for a second. "You're a smart man, Mr. Grantham. Two weeks ago, he bought a million-dollar term policy with double indemnity for accidental death."
"That's two million dollars."
"Yes, sir. I guess you're right. I guess he was suspicious."
"I don't think he was killed by muggers, Mrs. Morgan."
"I can't believe this." She choked a little, but fought it off.
"Have the cops asked you a lot of questions?"
"No. It's just another D.C. mugging that went one step further. No big deal. Happens every day."
The insurance bit was interesting, but useless. Gray was getting tired of Mrs. Morgan and her unhurried monotone. He was sorry for her, but if she knew nothing, it was time to say good-bye.
"What do you think he knew?" she asked.
This could take hours. "I don't know," Gray answered, glancing at his watch. "He said he knew something about the killings, but that's as far as he would go. I was convinced we would meet somewhere and he would spill his guts and show me something. I was wrong."
"How would he know anything about those dead judges?"
"I don't know. He just called me out of the blue."
"If he had something to show you, what would it be?" she asked.
He was the reporter. He was supposed to ask the questions. "I have no idea. He never hinted."
"Where would he hide such a thing?" The question was sincere, but irritating. Then it hit him. She was going somewhere with this.
"I don't know. Where did he keep his valuable papers?"
"We have a lockbox at the bank for deeds and wills and stuff. I've always known about the lockbox. He handled all the legal business, Mr. Grantham. I looked at the lockbox last Thursday with my father, and there was nothing unusual in it."
"You didn't expect anything unusual, did you?"
"No. Then Saturday morning, early, it was still dark, I was going through his papers in his desk in the bedroom. We have this antique rolltop desk that he used for his personal correspondence and papers, and I found something a bit unusual."
Gray was on his feet, holding the phone, and staring wildly at the floor. She had called at four in the morning. She had chitchatted for twenty minutes. And she waited until he was ready to hang up to drop the bomb.
"What is it?" he asked as coolly as possible.
"It's a key."
He had a lump in his throat. "A key to what?"
"Another lockbox."
"Which bank?"
"First Columbia. We've never banked there."
"I see. And you knew nothing about this other lockbox?"
"Oh no. Not until Saturday morning. I was puzzled by it, still am, but I found all of our legal papers in the old lockbox, so I had no reason to check this one. I figured I'd run by when I felt like it."
"Would you like me to check it for you?"
"I thought you would say that. What if you find what you're looking for?"
"I don't know what I'm looking for. But what if I find something he left behind, and this something proves to be very, let's say, newsworthy?"
"Use it."
"No conditions?"
"One. If it disparages my husband in any way, you can't use it."
"It's a deal. I swear."
"When do you want the key?"
"Do you have it in your hand?"
"Yes."
"If you'll stand on the front porch, I'll be there in about three seconds."
The private jet from Miami had brought only five men, so Edwin Sneller had only seven to plan with. Seven men, no time, and precious little equipment. He had not slept Monday night. His hotel suite was a mini-command center as they stared at maps through the night, and tried to plan the next twenty-four hours. A few things were certain. Grantham had an apartment, but he was not there. He had a car he was not using. He worked at the Post, and it was on Fifteenth Street. White and Blazevich was in a building on Tenth near New York, but she would not return there. Morgan's widow lived in Alexandria. Beyond that, they were searching for two people out of three million.
These were not the type of men you could rustle out of the bunkhouse and send in to fight. They had to be found and hired, and he'd been promised as many as possible by the end of the day.
Sneller was no novice at the killing game, and this was hopeless. This was desperation. The sky was falling. He would do his best under the circumstances, but Edwin Sneller had one foot out the back door.