Lanny had said he’d talked to an intelligence source in DC. That what “we” had was scary big. That it was up there with the Snowden stuff, the revelations about massive NSA spying on US citizens. A story big enough to win him the Pulitzer Prize. Something explosive enough, damaging enough to our national security, that some American newspaper editors might be afraid to publish it; he might have to publish outside the country.
Could Lanny have gotten into some kind of legal trouble? Maybe being in possession of those damned classified documents was breaking the law.
The one person Tanner knew who stayed in close contact with Lanny on a regular basis was Carl Unsworth, the martial arts instructor and beer-night regular. He found Unsworth in his phone’s contacts and hit Dial.
As it rang, a dark thought popped into his head. He recalled all those tall tales Lanny had told about reporters who’d died in suspicious accidents or staged suicides. Could something have happened to him?
The phone rang a couple more times, and he came to his senses. Maybe it was contagious, Lanny’s conspiracy-mindedness. Hang around him too much and you’d end up wearing a tinfoil hat.
It rang long enough that Tanner expected it to go to voice mail, but then he suddenly heard Carl’s voice.
“Tanner?”
“Yeah, Carl, I was supposed to meet Lanny, but he never showed. I was—”
“Tanner,” Carl interrupted him. “I’m — I’m standing in front of Lanny’s house right now. It— He— Jesus, Tanner, they just rolled him out on a gurney.”
“Did something happen to him—?”
“Oh man,” Carl said, his voice high and choked, “Lanny’s dead.”
Tanner went cold and numb. He fumbled for words. “What— Carl, I don’t understand—”
“Tanner, he—” And then Carl’s voice got muffled. It sounded like he was crying. “The guy killed himself.”
25
Will got home a little after nine at night. He kissed Jen and immediately took Travis — squalling and bucking — from her. He didn’t need to be asked. He didn’t change out of his dress clothes first. Jen looked strung out, at the end of her tether.
“He’s been like this all night,” she said, collapsing into a kitchen chair.
“Have a glass of wine.”
“I can’t, Will — I’m breastfeeding!”
“Dr. Blum says one glass of wine is totally fine.”
“Dr. Blum? Dr. Blum says just put the baby in the bassinet and lock the door and plug your ears.” Dr. Alain Blum, their pediatrician, was French. He had told them the secret to getting your baby to sleep was to feed him, put him in his crib, pour a glass of wine, and come in to get him in the morning. If he’s going to cry, let him cry until he’s tired of it. They were horrified. But recently Will had begun to think they should give the French method a try.
Jen opened the fridge, moved aside a carton of Lactaid milk, and pulled out a bottle of Yellow Tail. “Oh, what the hell,” she said.
“Okay, now, big guy,” Will said in his best soothing voice, while bouncing him up and down rhythmically and patting his back. It didn’t calm him down at all; he just kept yowling. “Poor kid. Why are you so unhappy, little Travis? What can we do to make you happy?”
Jen poured the chardonnay into a wineglass, glugging it out until it was almost to the rim. Will quickly came over, holding the baby with his right hand, and with his left he took the wineglass from her and dumped out half into the sink. He handed it back to her, smiling, blinking. “But let’s not go overboard,” he said cheerfully.
Jen took the glass with visible annoyance, rolling her eyes. “Why do I always feel like I’m being handled?” she said. She took a long sip. “Was the fund-raiser okay?”
He nodded and didn’t elaborate. She no longer asked for details about his many fund-raisers; it was mind-numbing. He glanced at his watch. It was too late to call the Problem Solver, probably. Or was it? Maybe it wasn’t too late after all. He imagined that a guy in his line of work didn’t go to bed especially early.
“Okay if I zone out, maybe watch some TV?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
After ten minutes of bouncing and patting, Travis finally dozed off, a warm lump on Will’s left shoulder. Will could feel Travis’s damp face against his neck. As he carried him into the darkened bedroom, he wondered how much longer his son would be portable. There’d probably be a time when the boy would be too heavy to pick up. And wouldn’t want to be picked up, wouldn’t want to be hugged. Will’s father hadn’t believed in parental displays of affection. He shook hands as if Will were his stockbroker, not his son.
Will set Travis down gently in the bassinet, and the little hand grenade didn’t detonate. He padded out of the bedroom and saw that Jen was watching some reality show, probably the one about a competition between food trucks.
“You’ve got the magic touch,” she said.
He smiled. “I’m going to do a little work.”
“Sure,” she called out distractedly.
Will’s “home office” was a small guest room that they both used — Jen for paying bills and such, Will as a place to park his laptop and do e-mail. It smelled faintly of lavender, from the potpourri Jen had left in a dish on the empty dresser. The last time they’d had guests in the guest room was when Jen’s sister came to visit, more than a year ago.
He took the crumpled napkin from his pants pocket, smoothing it out carefully, as if it were a scrap of the Dead Sea Scrolls. The senator had jotted down the numbers in a hand small and dense, with pressure heavy enough to rip the napkin in a few places. It had a 339 area code, which he didn’t recognize. He decided to call from his iPhone, not the landline.
He looked at his phone for a few seconds, depressed the Home button to bring up the phone’s home screen — or was it “wallpaper”? — a photo of Travis not crying (because asleep). He thought about the step he was about to take. It was serious, yes, but this was a serious situation. Somehow they had to retrieve Susan’s MacBook from this guy, who for some reason refused to give it back, refused to even acknowledge he had it. He’d probably stashed it somewhere, maybe at his workplace. Or maybe given it to someone for safekeeping. It all depended on what this Michael Tanner wanted, what he was up to. And whether the guy had discovered the classified documents. Because if he had... the boss’s troubles were just beginning.
He was about to make a call that he knew would demarcate the beginning of one phase of his life and the end of another. He’d already hired a guy to do something illegal, but now he was about to take it to the next step. To point a gun and make a threat, maybe. Or maybe even hit him, beat him around a little.
Whatever happened, Will was about to hire a guy to get a job done, and the less he thought about what happened behind the scenes, the less he knew, the better.
He just wanted the damned computer back.
He took a deep breath, let it out, and then called the Problem Solver’s number.
After one ring, the phone was answered: “Yeah?”
Will introduced himself, and before he could say anything else, the guy said, “Where’d you get this number?”
“Your cousin from Charlestown.” That was how Senator Owen Sullivan wanted to be identified. Will had no idea whether the Problem Solver actually was the senator’s cousin. It seemed unlikely.
“Get off this line. Call me from a burner.”
There was a click.
A burner.
He stepped into the living room, which should have been called the TV room. “I’ll be back soon — I need to pick something up.”
Jen turned. “What do you need, this time of night?”