"See, Cathy, I told you, stick with me."
"I wondered how you got used to flying," she noted, tasting the broccoli. "Fresh."
"The flight crew's pretty good, too." He gestured to the wineglasses. Not a ripple,
"The pay isn't all that great," Arnie Van Damm said from the other side of the compartment, "but the perks ain't too bad."
"The blackened redfish isn't bad at all."
"Our chef stole the recipe from the Jockey Club. Best Cajun redfish in town," van Damm explained. "I think he had to trade his potato soup for it. Fair deal," Arnie judged.
"He gets the crust just right, doesn't he?"
One of Washington's few really excellent restaurants, the Jockey Club was located in the basement of the Ritz Carlton Hotel on Massachusetts Avenue. A quiet, dimly lit establishment, it had for many years been a place for "power" meals of one sort or another.
All the food here is good, Libby Holtzman thought, especially when someone else paid for it. The previous hour had handled all manner of small talk, the usual exchange of information and gossip that was even more important in Washington than most American cities. That was over now. The wine was served, the salad plates gone, and the main course on the table.
"So, Roy, what's the big item?"
"Ed Kealty." Newton looked up to watch her eyes.
"Don't tell me, his wife is finally going to leave the rat?"
"He's probably going to be the one leaving, as a matter of fact."
"Who's the unlucky bimbo?" Mrs. Holtzman asked with a wry smile.
"Not what you think, Libby. Ed's going away." You always wanted to make them wait for it.
"Roy, it's eight-thirty, okay?" Libby observed, making her position clear.
"The FBI has a case running on Kealty. Rape. More than one, in fact. One of the victims killed herself."
"Lisa Beringer?" The reason for her suicide had never been adequately explained.
"She left a letter behind. The FBI has it now. They also have several other women who are willing to testify."
"Wow," Libby Holtzman allowed herself to say. She set her fork down. "How solid is this?"
"The man running the case is Dan Murray, Shaw's personal attack dog."
"I know Dan. I also know he won't talk about this." You rarely got an FBI agent to discuss evidentiary matters in a criminal case, certainly not before it was presented. That sort of leak almost always came from an attorney or court clerk. "He doesn't just do things by the book—he wrote the book." It was literally true. Murray had helped draft many of the Bureau's official procedures.
"He might, this one time."
"Why, Roy?"
"Because Durling is holding things up. He thinks he needs Kealty for his clout on the Hill. You notice that Eddie-boy has been in the White House a lot lately? Durling spilled it all to him so that he can firm up his defense. At least," Newton said to cover himself, "that's what people are telling me. It does seem a little out of character, doesn't it?"
"Obstruction of justice?"
"That's the legal term, Libby. Technically speaking, well, I'm not quite sure it meets the legal test." Now the hook was well in the water, and the bait worm was wiggling very nicely. "What if he was just holding it off to keep it from competing with the trade bill?" The fish was giving it a look, but wondering about the shiny, barbed thing behind the worm…
"This one goes back further than that, Libby. They've been sitting on it for quite a while, that's what I hear. It does make a great excuse, though, doesn't it?" It was a very enticing worm, though. "If you think politics takes precedence over a sexual-assault case. How solid is the case?"
"If it goes in front of a jury, Ed Kealty is going to spend time in a federal penitentiary."
"That solid?" My, what a juicy fat worm it was.
"Like you said, Murray's a good cop."
"Who's the U.S. Attorney on the case?"
"Anne Cooper. She's been full-time on this for weeks." One hell of a good worm, in fact. That barbed, shiny thing wasn't all that dangerous, was it?
Newton took an envelope from his pocket and set it on the tablecloth. "Names, numbers, details, but you didn't get them from me, okay?" The worm appeared to dance in the water, and it was no longer apparent that the hook was the thing really moving.
"What if I can't verify anything?"
"Then there's no story, and my sources are wrong, and I hope you enjoyed dinner." Of course, the worm might just go away.
"Why, Roy? Why you, why the story?" Circling, circling. But how did this worm ever get here?
"I've never liked the guy. You know that. We butted heads on two big irrigation bills, and he killed a defense project in my state. But you really want to know why? I have daughters, Libby. One's a senior at U-Penn. Another one's just starting University of Chicago Law School. They both want to follow in their dad's footsteps, and I don't want my little girls staffing on the Hill with bastards like Ed Kealty around." Who really cared how the worm got in the water, anyway?
With a knowing nod, Libby Holtzman took the envelope. It went into her purse without being opened. Amazing how they never noticed the hook until it was too late. Sometimes not even then. The waiter was disappointed when both diners passed on the dessert cart, settling for just a quick espresso before paying the bill.
"Hello?"
"Barbara Linders?" a female voice asked.
"Yes. Who's this?"
"Libby Holtzman from the Post. I live a few blocks away from you. I'd like to know if I might come over and talk about a few things."
"What things?"
"Ed Kealty, and why they've decided not to prosecute this case."
"They what?"
"That's what we're hearing," the voice told her.
"Wait a minute. They warned me about this," Linders said suspiciously, already giving part of the game away.
"They always warn you about something, usually the wrong thing. Remember, I was the one who did the story last year about Congressman Grant and that nasty little thing he had going on in his district office? And I was also the one who nailed that bastard undersecretary in Interior. I keep a close eye on cases like this, Barbara," the voice said, sister-to-sister. It was true.
Libby Holtzman had nearly bagged a Pulitzer for her reporting on political sex-abuse cases.
"How do I know it's really you?"
"You've seen me on TV, right? Ask me over and you'll see. I can be there in five minutes."
"I'm going to call Mr. Murray."
"That's fine. Go ahead and call him, but promise me one thing?"
"What's that?"
"If he tells you the same thing about why they're not doing anything, then we can talk." The voice paused. "In fact, how about I come over right now anyway? If Dan tells you the right thing, we can just have a cup of coffee and do some background stuff for later. Fair enough?"
"Okay…I guess that's okay. I have to call Mr. Murray now." Barbara Linders hung up and dialed another number from memory.
"Hi, this is Dan—"
"Mr. Murray!" Barbara said urgently, her faith in the world so badly shaken already.
"—and this is Liz," another voice said, obviously now on tape. "We can't come to the phone right now…" both voices said together—
"Where are you when I need you?" Ms. Linders demanded of the recording machine, hanging up in a despairing fury before the humorous recording delivered her to the beep. Was it possible? Could it be true?
This is Washington, her experience told her. Anything could be true.
Barbara Linders looked around the room. She'd been in Washington for eleven years. What did she have to show for it? A one-bedroom apartment with prints on the wall. Nice furniture that she used alone. Memories that threatened her sanity. She was so alone, so damned alone with them, and she had to let them go, get them out, strike back at the man who had wrecked her life so thoroughly. And now that would be denied her, too? Was it possible?