Fragmentary evidence at the scene indicated that Partello may have unwittingly interrupted a drug transaction, but police sources declined to comment pending an investigation.
6
McDARVID SET THE BRIEFCASE ON THE DESK, opened it, and began pulling out the folders he hadn’t even looked at the night before. Had it just been the night before? Allyson had been sympathetic but preoccupied. He couldn’t blame her, not after hearing about the little girl whose mother had brought her in claiming that the child had fallen—a medical impossibility for the placement of the deep bruises. Child abuse was even uglier than drug murders.
McDarvid flicked on the computer, then closed the briefcase.
Buzzz …
“Mr. McDarvid, you’re scheduled to meet with Detective Ngruma at ten-thirty.”
“Detective—?” He didn’t recognize the voice. “Who’s this?”
“This is Alice.”
McDarvid didn’t know an Alice, but then, the law firm turned over receptionists like short-order cooks turned hamburgers. He looked at the clock—nine-fifteen. “Thank you. In my office?”
“That’s what he requested.”
“Fine.”
McDarvid wondered whether he should finish up the JAFFE backgrounder. Then he smiled. Larry had asked for it, and McDarvid needed the billable hours. Ames was a jerk, but an honest jerk, and the firm would pay. Besides, JAFFE might be Heidlinger’s potential client. He and Larry worked on some larger projects together. That might explain the metals angle.
He tucked the briefcase under the desk and tapped out a number.
“RCRA Policy Office.”
“Is Angela Siskin there? This is Jack McDarvid.”
“I’ll check. Would you hold?”
Not having much choice, he agreed.
“Jack! Sorry to keep you. What’s up?” Angela Siskin had a quick, almost chirpy voice and a set of mannerisms that left the impression of a scatterbrained blonde. As McDarvid could attest to his regret, she was definitely not dizzy.
“Not much.” Not unless you consider an accidental murder and the fact that I might not have a job. “I was doing some background work for my boss. What can you tell me about beryllium, cadmium, gallium, and chromium? I mean, from a regulatory point of view.”
“I don’t know that much about gallium. The other three are part of the metals initiative that the Secretary is considering. Both cadmium and beryllium are real problems, especially airborne particles. NIOSH thinks there might be some carcinogenicity with cadmium.”
“NIOSH? Is OSHA doing anything on the workplace standards?”
“I really don’t know. The metals strategy isn’t even in draft, and, of course, those aren’t the only metals we’ll be considering…”
Wondering why DEP was revisiting standards for metals already tightly regulated, McDarvid took notes as Angela talked.
“… some really bad actors here. At high levels especially, cadmium is a definite cause of kidney disease. Beryllium causes something like asbestosis, except worse. You remember the big debate about hexavalent chromium—didn’t you do a briefing paper for OMB on that?”
“Yeah,” admitted McDarvid. He hadn’t been particularly proud of that one. The risk assessments indicated chromium wasn’t exactly the workers’ best friend. On the other hand, it was needed for too many steel alloys, and the only places you could get it were South Africa and Russia. But the Administrator of the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency had wanted—that was before it became a Cabinet department … He shook his head. He needed new information, not past memories.
“Nothing’s changed there. We’re going to have a conference with OSHA next month. Develop a joint strategy. Handle both the environmental and the worker protection aspects of the metals questions all at once.”
“Whose idea was the conference?”
“I don’t know, really. It came out of the Secretary’s staff meetings a couple of months ago. Might have been Carson Newell. You remember…”
“I remember. Is he still up on the twelfth floor?”
“He’s still there.”
“I think that’s what I needed to know.”
“Anytime, Jack. Stop by if you get a moment.”
“I will.” And he would. In fact, he had been a little lax in touching bases at DEP, falling into the lawyers’ habits of shuttling between the paperwork, the client, and the bigger-name government policymakers, forgetting those who did the real work … and who knew what was going on. It was time to do more of what Larry had liked to call streetwalking.
He checked his watch, then looked outside. Nine-thirty and threatening to rain. His fingers tapped out another number.
“The Secretary’s office.”
“Jack McDarvid for Carson Newell.”
After five rings, McDarvid was about to hang up.
“Mr. Newell’s office.”
“I take it that Carson’s not in? This is Jack McDarvid.”
“No, Mr. McDougall, he’s at a meeting. Can I take a number?”
“Yes … and it’s McDarvid. M-C-D-A-R-V-I-D.” He left his number. Outside, on Nineteenth Street, the rain was beginning to turn the dark gray asphalt black, and the umbrellas were popping out like spring flowers—except it was fall now.
He ducked out into the corridor to find Sallie, to see if she had managed to run down docket lists on the metals. A metals initiative, for Christ’s sake! That might be a big case.
He frowned as he thought about it. A big case, but how many deaths from excessive exposures? That was the trouble with working on the industry cases. Some of them were fighting regulatory overkill, and others just wanted a license to kill, and you never could tell which it was until you got into it. Even then it was your judgment versus theirs.
Sallie’s cubicle—comprised of portable dividers carpeted in lawyer’s gray—was empty.
“She’s at OSHA, Mr. McDarvid.”
“Thanks, Betsy.” Betsy Enchor was Norm Casteel’s secretary. Casteel was the senior partner who wasn’t on the letterhead. He didn’t know much law, despite the degree from Yale, but he seemed to know everyone, and no one complained that he didn’t do much besides bring in business. What he brought in was good business. That, and his pleasant mannerisms, excused a lot of drinking.
McDarvid headed for the kitchen and his morning cup of tea—another trait that separated him from the lawyers and their endless cups of coffee. The kitchen was empty, but he stopped and looked at the bulletin board, noting that the office flag football team was scheduled to play Beveridge and Diamond in a battle of the environmental titans on Thursday afternoon.
Cup in hand, he headed back to his office, where the computer and the report on the status of PCBs and Amalgamated Electric awaited him.
He closed the door. Sitting down before the screen, he called up the file as he took a sip from the too-hot tea. Amalgamated was another of the in-between cases. When they’d discharged the PCBs years earlier, no one had realized the dangers, and the oil had been used in transformers across the country. Now NRDC, Ecology Now! and every other environmental organization wanted them removed—except that dredging would probably cause more damage than leaving the PCBs buried in the sediment and linked to solid clay.
The door edged open.
“Mr. McDarvid? I’m Detective Ngruma, Metropolitan Police.” The black detective with the neat pencil mustache and short dark hair wore a brown suit and carried a thin notebook.
McDarvid motioned to the single chair. “Have a seat.”
“If you could fill in a few details…”
The consultant nodded, resettling himself in the chair.
“How long did you know…”
“About what time…”
“Were you aware if Mr. Partello ever used drugs…”
“Did he always drive himself to Capitol Hill…”
McDarvid answered the questions as well as he could. The police were hardly likely to find Larry’s killer, not with drug-inspired ki
llings averaging more than one a day in Washington. The only reason the detective was in the office at all was that the murder of a white lawyer, particularly a former Assistant Attorney General, required some inquiry.
Both he and Ngruma understood the ritual and conducted it as quickly and painlessly as possible.
“Thank you, Mr. McDarvid. If you recall anything else, please let me know.” Ngruma extended a card.
After the detective had left, McDarvid looked out the window, not really seeing much of anything. What was going to happen next? The other lawyers had let Larry run his operations as he pleased, but George Ames had always opposed the use of consultants as law firm employees. Ames wasn’t even fond of paralegals.
Should he have left Environment? He really hadn’t had much choice. The new Administrator had wanted his own people in political slots, and Policy Analysis was definitely a political slot.
Thrap …
He swiveled the chair. “Come on in.”
Jonnie stepped inside and closed the door. “You’ve talked to Ngruma?”
“Yes. Answered all his questions.”
“Did you ask him any?”
“No. I read the story in the Post. Poor Larry just parked his car in the wrong spot.” McDarvid gestured to the chair. “You know, poor Larry hated that Seville. He always wanted a big car, like a Lincoln Town Car or a Fleetwood. He could have bought either. Ames and Heidlinger didn’t even like the Seville. Environmental lawyers don’t drive big, long expensive cars, especially environmental lawyers who need to use their Hill connections. Now he’s dead in a freak shooting, and he never even got to drive the car he wanted. Stupid. Not even a reason behind it.”
“There was some reason.” Jonnie’s voice was mild. “It could have been a drug dealer mistaking Larry for someone else. Then, maybe, Larry was into something else. In this town, no one really knows anyone.”
“I suppose so. It still seems odd.”
Jonnie shrugged. “It’s an odd town. Last month’s Washingtonian had another article on the continuing coke abuse by professionals.”
McDarvid sat up. “You think some drug dealer shot Larry on purpose? No way, José. You remember that story that Henry told on poor Larry, when they were in law school together, about the guy that offered Larry some white powder, and Larry said, ‘What’s that?’
“The guy says, ‘It’ll make you feel good,’ and Larry says, ‘If I want to feel good, I’ll get laid.’ That’s Larry. He’s always been that way, and that’s why he and Jeannie split. One wasn’t enough.” McDarvid looked out the window again.
“That’s exactly right.” Jonnie’s voice was low, as usual. “I asked the detective about the shooting. He didn’t say much. So I called the reporter who wrote the story. They found a pair of plastic bags under the hedge next to Larry’s body. Cocaine, probably. But his wallet wasn’t touched, cash and credit cards still there. He died from a single shot straight through the heart. Like you said, Jack, it does seem odd. How likely is it that only one person is going to be shot in a drug dealers’ shoot-out? Or that they’re going to be hit just once?”
McDarvid shrugged. “They’re killing more people every day now. Too many of them are bystanders.”
“Who said it was drug dealers?”
McDarvid stood up. “Who else? All Larry lives for … lived for … was politics and environmental law. And sex, probably,” McDarvid added as an afterthought.
Jonnie shook his head. “He was going to see the Chairman. The time was blocked off on his calendar, but he never told anyone why. Even Juanita doesn’t know. I’ll bet the Chairman’s office doesn’t, either.”
“Of course not. They sat in Sam’s office and drank too damned much Italian wine. You don’t write that on a calendar.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I want to check on a few other things.” Jonnie stood up.
McDarvid stood by the computer. Jonnie didn’t usually see conspiracies—he was too damned cynical.
“Yeah … sure…” Except … except Larry had seemed nervous about the JAFFE possibility. And it wasn’t in his normal expertise. Metals …
McDarvid glanced at the computer, the screen reminding him of the unfinished Amalgamated update. The metals angle probably didn’t amount to anything, but it wouldn’t hurt to look a little deeper. Besides, if he and Jonnie could still land the JAFFE account …
“One step at a time, McDarvid.” He pulled out the chair and eased back before the computer.
Buzzz …
McDarvid looked at the telephone.
“McDarvid.”
“A Mr. Llewellyn for you, Mr. McDarvid.”
“I’ll take it.” McDarvid frowned. Llewellyn? The name was familiar. “Jack McDarvid.”
“Jack, this is Ned Llewellyn. I’m over at Treasury. Office of Policy. We met at the federal environmental policy conference when you were at Environment.”
“What can I do for you, Ned?” McDarvid knew what was coming. Poor bastard, he’d been there before. Too many times.
“Well … Chris Bierbeck had actually suggested your name. The Secretary’s been here for almost the two years he promised the President, and it struck me that it was time to think about leaving myself. I wanted to explore the options. Chris suggested that since I’m not a lawyer, you might be able to provide some insight.”
“Be happy to, but free advice is worth about that.” McDarvid covered the phone and coughed, then continued. “The big question is what your objectives are…”
As he talked, McDarvid wanted to shake his head. Llewellyn was one of the bright ones, who understood that you were dead if you waited for the hard evidence. His call also confirmed that the Secretary would be leaving, probably soon after the first of the year. Assistant Secretaries of the Treasury, exploring options or not, do not call mere consultants, even respected ones, until they have explored more profitable opportunities.
“… unless you’re a lawyer or at the Deputy Secretary level, you’ll probably end up taking a pay cut—unless you can land the top spot at a trade association.”
“That’s what Chris had said.”
McDarvid glanced at the computer screen. Washington was hard on the technicians and outsiders. They never understood how thoroughly the city operated on vague hints, half-glimpsed patterns, and intuition. Only a handful of people had real power, whatever that was. The rest operated in the shadows, and sometimes power was just one of the shadows. The outsiders kept thinking that their jobs were secure as long as they performed, never fully understanding that they could be gone in a minute, never understanding that a carefully cultivated paranoia was essential to survival.
“If you want to send over a résumé, I’ll be happy to look at it and see what I can do—not that I can promise anything…”
“Thanks. That’s all I’m asking, Jack … Appreciate it.”
After hanging up the telephone, McDarvid stared blankly at the computer screen for several seconds, reflecting that, unlike Llewellyn, he no longer had to rely totally on the whims and moods of others. If Heidlinger didn’t want to keep him, independent consulting would cover most of the bills—at least as long as he showed some results.
He turned back to the computer.
7
“WHO’S GOT THE FACILITY PLAN?”
“Lay it out over here, where we can overlay the map with the topography. We’ll need to know how much lead time before they can bring up the troops.”
“Oh, Peter, they won’t use troops. They might have a few reserves, but that’s it. They’re expecting signs and peaceful protests.”
“That’s what we’ll give them.” The bearded and black-haired man smiled crookedly.
“I thought—”
“We’ll talk about that later. Where’s the plan?” Peter raised his voice. “Where’s the fucking plan?”
“Here…”
Peter’s finger jabbed at the map. “The protesters will be picketing from here to here.”
“Doesn’t that crowd the highw
ay?”
“Of course it does, you fuckhead. That’s the point. How are you going to make the evening news if you don’t cause a traffic jam? What business does a nuclear processing facility have that close to a metropolitan area, anyway?”
“Won’t the—”
“The media loves this kind of stuff. Another six and eleven o’clock news special on the poor citizens protesting the building of nuclear weapons in their backyard. And the dust will ensure that everyone gets the point.”
“It’s not the same stuff.”
“Who cares? You think the media will know the difference when the Geiger counters go off the scale? Radioactive is radioactive.” His voice rose another half-octave. “You mean that they’re using other radioactive materials there that no one knows about?” His voice dropped to its normal baritone. “Believe me, baby. That’s the last thing they’re going to want to discuss. After all, we’re just peacefully opposing the use and building of nuclear weapons.”
“This isn’t real peaceful.” The auburn-haired woman frowned. “Even scattering a little dust along the fence line could eventually hurt someone.”
“You’re thinking like a real greenie, Veronica. They never do anything.”
8
THE ENVIRONMENTAL ATTORNEY, his bushy red beard scarcely trimmed and showing white streaks that made him seem older than his age, stood by the reception table. He glanced at the two men at the end of the buffet, then back to the entrance of the committee hearing room. His name tag bore the words “Ray Thomas, Counsel, Ecology Now!”
“What’s your problem, Ray?” asked the woman behind the linen-covered table on which were arrayed the name tags for the VIP guests, most of whom had yet to appear. The lights on the large wall clock showed why—a roll call vote in the House.
“Why’s Cal talking to Richards?”
“Congressman Richards? He invited him, that’s why.”
“He invited Bang-Bang Richards? What on earth for?”
“I suggest you ask him yourself.” She turned to the woman who had appeared at the table. “Congresswoman Sperlen. Would you like a name tag?”
The Green Progression Page 3