“Don’t worry about it. Maureen. It’ll all come out okay. And don’t worry about your job. I’ll cover you financially.”
“I’m not worried about my job. I’m worried about you.”
“I’ll be fine. Just hang tight and I’ll stay in touch.” He replaced the receiver and stared out the window. The sun cast bright rays of light through the glass and warmed the room. He was definitely beginning to feel the heat, but it wasn’t the kind of heat that came from the sun. He slammed his fist against the desk. He’d be damned, he decided, before he’d stop his search for the truth about his father’s death.
Throughout history, Jack realized, politicians had tried to influence the press. The Kennedy administration had been very accomplished at manipulating the media, successfully keeping JFK’s affairs far from the public eye. But this was different, he reflected. This situation brought to mind the Nixon White House and the intense pressure The Washington Post suffered during Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein’s pursuit of Watergate. The difference here, Jack thought as he laughed bitterly, was that The Post had stood behind Woodward and Bernstein.
Was he so far off base that the magazine was determined to sabotage him? No, Jack decided, the pressure was coming from higher sources than the magazine. His employers, or former employers, were just succumbing to pressure. The magazine had no idea of what he was really onto. In fact, even he wasn’t sure about the true scope of this story. But somebody out there knew the stakes, and that somebody, or group of somebodies, was doing a hell of a job of trying to stop his investigation. The opposition alone was proof enough that he was onto a major scoop. Given the radical reaction he’d already evoked. Jack knew he must have been cutting too close to the truth.
Maybe he was just being paranoid, but the words of an old mentor reverberated in his mind-“Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean that they’re not out to get you.” It was his old friend’s way of saying, watch your back.
Well, Jack thought, I’m watching my back, and it looks to me like someone has successfully stuck a knife in it. Knife or no knife, he didn’t care. He’d never backed off before, and he wasn’t going to start now.
FIFTY-EIGHT
First thing in the morning. Jack drove over to the Cole County Courthouse. With Mark Dailey’s White House position just recently confirmed, Jack knew that Dailey was probably in Washington, but he hoped to talk to someone about Mort Fields’s death and the missing files.
Jack sat for over an hour on an uncomfortable. straight-backed chair in the lobby. When he had shifted his weight for the fifth time and finished thoroughly perusing the local newspaper, he rose and walked over to the receptionist’s desk. “Could you please check to see when I might be able to speak to someone?”
The receptionist held up her index finger, signaling him to wait as she listened to her telephone headset. Then she dashed off a note in her message book before looking up at Jack.
“Well, sweetie, if you want to make an appointment you won’t have to wait. But if you want to see Mr. Dailey, you’re just going to have to be patient. He’s only in town for a few hours today before flying out tonight, and with the amount of work he has to tie up before moving permanently to Washington, you’ll just have to stand in line.”
Jack looked at her in surprise. “Mark Dailey is here?”
Her brow furrowed. “Of course. That is who you’re waiting for, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I just wasn’t sure that he’d be here.” Jack sat back down with renewed enthusiasm. He’d wait all day to see Dailey. Jack couldn’t help but smile. His luck seemed to be turning around.
Finally, a secretary appeared in the reception area and ushered him into a standard government office. “Mr. Dailey will be right with you,” she said as she left Jack standing alone in the room. He walked around, examining the decor. Contemporary prints hung on the walls, alternating with diplomas and certificates of achievement. One of the commendations was from the Supreme Court. Jack remembered his father telling him about Mark Dailey’s success with the case.
“How can I help you?”
Jack turned away from reading a plaque with a flash of recognition He knew that voice.
“Nice artwork,” Jack stalled, pointing to a painting on the wall.
“My wife picked it out for me,” Mark Dailey gestured to the seat across from him as he sat behind his desk.
Jack noticed the empty oak shelves, once full of books now crated in boxes that cluttered the floor. A bottle of Glenlivet scotch sat surrounded by highball glasses atop the credenza behind Mark Dailey. Scotch. Oh, my God, the bridge. He was the man from the bridge. The pieces fit.
“Getting ready to move to Washington, I see.” Jack sat down.
“Yes, and as I’m sure you can appreciate. I’m very short on time. So, how can I help you, Mr. Rudly?” Dailey blinked rapidly and clasped his hands in front of him
Bingo, the way he rolled his r in Rudly was a dead give away. Dailey had been the man he’d met at the Golden Gate and, no doubt, the man on the tape. “I appreciate your agreeing to see me, although, I have to say I’m a bit surprised.”
“My secretary told me that you wanted to discuss Mort Fields’s death.”
Jack hesitated for a moment, determining the best course of action. Stay cool. Relax. “That’s right. I also want to know more about my father’s death.”
Dailey blinked rapidly again and hesitated, then said quietly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. You called me in San Francisco and met me at the Golden Gate Bridge. I know it and you know it. So, let’s stop playing games. You wanted me involved. Now, I’m involved. I want answers.” Jack slammed his hand down on Dailey’s desk. “Who killed my father?” His body trembled with pent-up rage.
Dailey jumped to his feet. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“Not until I get answers. If you’re in danger I can help, but you have to tell me what’s going on?” Jack stared into Dailey’s eyes. He’d hit a chord, he could see it in Dailey’s expression. The atmosphere crackled with the undercurrent of unspoken words.
“I’m very busy.” Mark did not back down from Jack’s stare.
“Let me help you.” Damn it. Dailey had the answers. Jack knew he was right.
Mark pressed the button on his intercom.
“Don’t.” Jack said, feeling Dailey waver. “You came to me for a reason.”
“Please call security. Mr. Rudly needs some assistance with his departure.”
FIFTY-NINE
Mark reached for the bottle of scotch and poured himself a drink.
“Looks to me like you’ve got a bit of a problem.”
Mark startled at the sound of Edmund Lane’s voice. “How’d you get in here?”
“I’m Carolyn’s father-in-law, remember? People know me around here. I come and go as I please.” Edmund sat down, uninvited. “you know, I warned Mort Fields about playing two ends against the middle. But it seems he died before he learned that lesson.”
Mark sat back and eyed the man. In the many years he’d known Edmund, his appearance had not changed. He couldn’t remember Edmund ever looking young, yet he still did not look typically old. His thick, white-gray hair and cold blue eyes gave him a distinguished air, but it was his arrogance that made the energy around him sizzle.
“Is that a threat, Edmund?” How much of his conversation with Jack had Edmund overheard?
Edmund laughed, then said. “Take it as you like. The Council doesn’t forgive traitors.”
“I would never betray the Council,” Mark said. “I’m in this all the way, and you know it.”