"JoAnne Ratliff," Darby said.
"That's me," an older woman of maybe forty responded.
"Hi. My name is Sara Jacobs, and I'm working on a story for the Washington Post. Can I ask you a few quick questions?"
She slowly laid her pen on the table, and frowned at the other woman. Whatever they were doing was terribly important, and this interruption was a real pain in the ass. They were significant law students.
Darby wanted to smirk and say something smart. She was number two in her class, dammit!, so don't act so high and mighty.
"What's the story about?" Ratliff asked.
"Could we speak in private?"
They frowned at each other again.
"I'm very busy," Ratliff said.
So am I, thought Darby. You're checking citations for some meaningless article, and I'm trying to nail the man who killed two Supreme Court Justices.
"I'm sorry," Darby said. "I promise I'll just take a minute."
They stepped into the hall. "I'm very sorry to disturb you, but I'm in sort of a rush."
"And you're a reporter with the Post?" It was more of a challenge than a question, and she was forced to lie some more. She told herself she could lie and cheat and steal for two days, then it was off to the Caribbean and Grantham could have it.
"Yes. Did you work for White and Blazevich last summer?"
"I did. Why?"
Quickly, the photo. Ratliff took it and analyzed it.
"Do you recognize him?"
She shook her head slowly. "I don't think so. Who is he?"
This bitch'll make a fine lawyer. So many questions. If she knew who he was, she wouldn't be standing in this tiny hallway acting like a reporter and putting up with this haughty legal eagle.
"He's a lawyer with White and Blazevich," Darby said as sincerely as possible. "I thought you might recognize him."
"Nope." She handed the photo back.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Enough of this. "Well, thanks. Again, sorry to bother."
"No problem," Ratliff said as she disappeared through the door.
She jumped into the new Hertz Pontiac as it stopped at the corner, and they were off in traffic. She had seen enough of the Georgetown Law School.
"I struck out," Gray said. "Linney wasn't home."
"I talked to Akers and Ratliff, and both said no. That's five of seven who don't recognize Garcia."
"I'm hungry. You want some lunch?"
"That's fine."
"Is it possible to have five clerks work three months in a law firm and not one of them recognize a young associate?"
"Yeah, it's not only possible, it's very probable. This is a long shot, remember. Four hundred lawyers means a thousand people when you add secretaries, paralegals, law clerks, office clerks, copy room clerks, mail room clerks, all kinds of clerks and support people. The lawyers tend to keep to themselves in their own little sections."
"Physically, are the sections on separate territory?"
"Yes. It's possible for a lawyer in banking on the third floor to go weeks without seeing an acquaintance in litigation on the tenth floor. These are very busy people, remember."
"Do you think we've got the wrong firm?"
"Maybe the wrong firm, maybe the wrong law school."
"The first guy, Maylor, gave me two names of George Washington students who clerked there last summer. Let's get them after lunch." He slowed and parked illegally behind a row of small buildings.
"Where are we?" she asked.
"A block off Mount Vernon Square, downtown. The Post is six blocks that way. My bank is four blocks that way. And this little deli is just around the corner."
They walked to the deli, which was filling fast with lunch traffic. She waited at a table by the window as he stood in line and ordered club sandwiches. Half the day had flown by, and though she didn't enjoy this line of work, it was nice to stay busy and forget about the shadows. She wouldn't be a reporter, and at the moment a career in law looked doubtful. Not long ago, she'd thought of being a judge after a few years in practice. Forget it. It was much too dangerous.
Gray brought a tray of food and iced tea, and they began eating.
"Is this a typical day for you?" she asked.
"This is what I do for a living. I snoop all day, write the stories late in the afternoon, then dig until late at night."
"How many stories a week?"
"Sometimes three or four, sometimes none. I pick and choose, and there's little supervision. This is a bit different. I haven't run one in ten days."
"What if you can't link Mattiece? What'll you write about the story?"
"Depends on how far I get. We could've run that story about Verheek and Callahan, but why bother? It was a big story, but they had nothing to go with it. It scratched the surface and stopped."
"And you're going for the big bang."
"Hopefully. If we can verify your little brief, then we'll run one helluva story."
"You can see the headlines, can't you?"
"I can. The adrenaline is pumping. This will be the biggest story since - "
"Watergate?"
"No. Watergate was a series of stories that started small and kept getting bigger. Those guys chased leads for months and kept pecking away until the pieces came together. A lot of people knew different parts of the story. This, my dear, is very different. This is a much bigger story, and the truth is known only by a very small group. Watergate was a stupid burglary and a bungled cover-up. These are masterfully planned crimes by very rich and smart people."
"And the cover-up?"
"That comes next. After we link Mattiece to the killings, we run the big story. The cat's out of the bag, and a half a dozen investigations will crank up overnight. This place will be shell-shocked, especially at the news that the President and Mattiece are old friends. As the dust is settling, we go after the Administration and try to determine who knew what and when."
"But first, Garcia."
"Ah, yes. I know he's out there. He's a lawyer in this city, and he knows something very important."
"What if we stumble across him, and he won't talk?"
"We have ways."
"Such as?"
"Torture, kidnapping, extortion, threats of all types."
A burly man with a contorted face was suddenly beside the table. "Hurry up!" he yelled. "You're talkin' too much!"
"Thanks, Pete," Gray said without looking up. Pete was lost in the crowd, but could be heard yelling at another table. Darby dropped her sandwich.
"He owns the place," Gray explained. "It's part of the ambience."
"How charming. Does it cost extra?"
"Oh no. The food's cheap, so he depends on volume. He refuses to serve coffee because he doesn't want socializing. He expects us to eat like refugees and get out."
"I'm finished."
Gray looked at his watch. "It's twelve-fifteen. We need to be at Judith Wilson's apartment at one. Do you want to wire the money now?"
"How long will it take?"
"We can start the wire now, and pick the money up later."
"Let's go."
"How much do you want to wire?"
"Fifteen thousand."
Judith Wilson lived on the second floor of a decaying old house filled with two-room student apartments. She was not there at one, and they drove around for an hour. Gray became a tour guide. He drove slowly by the Montrose Theatre, still boarded and burned out. He showed her the daily circus at Dupont Circle.