I said, "You've piqued my curiosity. I've been racking my brain, wondering, did I miss something from the shooting scene, is there something I overlooked, is there something I heard or saw wrong?"
I looked at her expectantly, and she said, "Actually, it's not that at all." She paused, staring down at the drink that the waiter had just brought her, a glass of merlot, perhaps a whimsical one.
"I don't really know any journalists, professionally," she said. "I don't know if I'm supposed to do this, or if this is wrong, or what."
You have a crush, I said to myself. You've developed a crush on me, and you don't know how to tell me. Just let it out. You'll feel better. Just let it all go.
She said: "I wanted to ask you about that story you had in yesterday's paper that you ended up killing for the later editions."
Oh, well. She looked at me. I stayed quiet. She continued,
"Obviously, I've read your story inside and out, and there are a couple of things I don't quite understand, as in, A, how you got that information, and B, why it is that you decided it wasn't any good. I thought you might be able to share."
This was an easy one for me, and something of an unexpected gift at a time when I needed it most. "I love to share," I said. "It's one of the first things my mother and father taught me to do. But when I share, I usually expect, and get, something in return."
She took a sip of her wine, then absently smoothed out her skirt, looked me in the eye, and said, "Okay. Why don't we start with that story. I'm interested in what else you know about Wyoming."
"Big, beautiful state," I said. "And I love the Tetons. There's a nice hotel, the Jenny Lake Lodge, overlooking the mountains, with a terrific fixed price dinner every night."
She didn't even pretend to find humor. "The militia," she said.
It was a curious question, but I was doing my best to hide any look of surprise. "No way," I said. "Let's start with you, and what you might have for me."
"Why?" she asked. "I'm the one who called you."
"I don't trust you." There, I said it.
"You don't trust me?" she asked, taken aback.
"I don't trust anyone, not my sisters, not my editors, no one."
Quickly, I tried to break the mild tension that had formed. "Check that. I do trust my dog, but even that took me a couple of years."
She raised her eyebrows and leaned back in her chair. "What do you want to know from me?"
"We could start with the question of why you people couldn't prevent a presidential assassination attempt that you knew about in advance."
She remained silent, looking at me, waiting.
"Then we could take up the all-important question of the real identity of this would-be assassin, because you and I both know it's not this guy you call Tony Clawson."
Now her forehead was scrunched up in a look of confusion-whether feigned or not, I couldn't tell.
"The shooter's name is Tony Clawson. Case closed," she said snappily.
I shot back, "Read tomorrow's Record, then decide if you want to close that case so fast. Because you'll either learn something about your own investigation, or everyone else will learn something that you're trying to hide."
That, I quickly realized, was a pretty stern accusation, and I scanned for a chance to backtrack. Too late. Stevens's cheeks suddenly flared red, and her angular features for the briefest of moments appeared severe.
"I'm not hiding anything," she said, her voice almost seething. "I'm not covering anything up. I'm not even closing cases. I'm investigating an assassination attempt on the president of the United States-trying to find out about a crime that could have changed the direction of the free world."
Dramatic, yes, but probably right. "I'm sorry," I said. "I am not implying that you are. What I'm saying is, I have some serious questions. You don't seem inclined to provide answers. That's your prerogative. But still, you expect me to help your cause."
"My cause is to solve a major crime. I thought you might want to help," she said.
I said nothing in return. I wasn't really in the mood to deliver a lecture on the role of the press and so forth, which, in this case, seemed to involve making sure the FBI was doing its job and not pulling one over on the public.
She, in turn, hesitated, again smoothing out her skirt in what I assumed was a nervous habit picked up in some all-girl's school, or as we'd say now, all-women's, even if they were only sixteen or seventeen years old. All around us, the pace of the room had picked up ever so slightly, as a well-dressed clientele flowed in to chat about the upcoming election-Washington's version of a Super Bowl for the wing-tip shoes and wire-rimmed glasses set.
"I'll be straight with you," Stevens said, leaning closer so that the people around us couldn't hear. "I wasn't aware that the Wyoming angle was being treated quite this seriously within the bureau. I had never heard of Mr. Walbin before your ditched story."
Finally, something of significance-an FBI agent admitting to a reporter that she has not been fully apprised of the important details of her own investigation-a presidential assassination attempt, no less. I struggled to conceal my shock. Then, of course, I began wondering if I was being snookered, by Drinker or by Stevens.
"Are you aware of any sort of tip that the bureau had received prior to the assassination attempt?" I asked.
"No."
There was silence. We were leaning close, causing me to wonder what people around us might be thinking-that perhaps we were a couple having a serious conversation about our relationship, or discussing having children, or changing jobs, or matters of divorce. She seemed more vulnerable than I had seen her before, and, I sensed, more vulnerable than she liked.
She asked, "Why did you pull that story?"
"The honest truth is, I wasn't sure if it was true."
"How sure are you on the Wyoming information?"
I replied, "It's out there. It's in circulation. I keep hearing about it, and because I keep hearing about it, I have to run with something on it, because if I don't, someone else will, and I really hate the meaninglessness of second place in the news business."
She considered that for a moment, then said, "I'll be straight again.
I'm hoping we might form some sort of relationship based on our mutual needs. I've never done this with a reporter before. But I've never been in an investigation where crucial facts were withheld from me."
"Have you approached Drinker or your direct superiors?" I asked.
"No. Not until I know more. I'm not playing from a position of ignorance anymore."
I liked that, this lack of blind loyalty, these street smarts. I said,
"You should read tomorrow's Record carefully and tell me what you think."
"What do you have?"
I shook my head. "Can't," I said.
"I have some theories on this case," she said. She stared at me, her mouth slightly open as if not sure whether to elaborate.
"As in?"
"I'm going to pursue them on my own," she said. "At some point, we may be able to help each other."
I said, "Do those theories involve Tommy Graham and Mick Wilkerson?"
"No," she said, without even a flicker of hesitation.
Stevens took a sip of her wine, locked her gaze on me, and said, "Looks like I've given you more than you've given me."
I caught the waiter's eye as he walked by, thinking it might be time to get a check, get out while I was ahead, as Stevens was kind enough to point out. When he came to the table, Stevens quickly said, "Another glass of the merlot, please." I caught myself and added, "And another Heineken for me."
"So you've been a reporter your entire adult life?" she asked, displaying her knowledge of me and offering to change the tone of the conversation. I didn't say anything, so she added, "I'm tired, and you look like hell. Why don't we just have a drink?"