“Hmmmm … that boy is definitely unbalanced. Can’t have people doing things like that, you know. It’s bad for us. It’s one thing to lie in front of bulldozers or stop whalers who flaunt the international conventions. It’s another to actually damage the environment.”
Veronica waited.
“If you want, I think I can take care of this quietly, but I need some more information. If I do, your friend may end up in jail.”
“In jail? He deserves that … I suppose.”
Griffen nodded again. “Now … when is he…”
50
McDARVID FINGERED THE CARD. Finally, he tapped out the number.
“Investigations.”
“Detective Ngruma, please. This is Jack McDarvid.”
“He’s not in.”
McDarvid left his name and number, then stood up and walked out of the office. He slipped into his overcoat in the elevator, buttoning it and pulling on his black gloves as he stepped out onto Nineteenth Street and headed toward K Street.
Several blocks later, he paused outside the Laura Ashley store, then pushed his way inside, out of the wind.
“Is there anything in particular you were looking for?”
McDarvid nodded. “Dresses.”
“Ah … anything in particular?”
“Size twelve long, with drop waist, preferably in green.”
“Here are the twelves.”
McDarvid nodded again and studied the dresses, looking for the type that looked so good on Allyson.
“Hmmmm…” He pulled one out, then replaced it.
None of the others came close.
The next stop was Gantos.
The dress wasn’t the green he envisioned, nor was it quite so simple, but the cut would still suit Allyson, and the pattern was soft enough that her complexion would draw from the colors, rather than be overshadowed.
He grinned as he paid for it and had it boxed, and the damp wind didn’t even seem chill on the way back to the office.
Three messages were waiting. One was Detective Ngruma; the others were from Ned Llewellyn and Angela Siskin.
He tried Ngruma first.
“Yes, this is Jack McDarvid. I was just wondering if you … if there had been any developments in finding anything about Larry Partello’s murderer?”
“Frankly, when you called, Mr. McDarvid, I was hoping you might have some information.”
“Oh … I just hadn’t heard anything…”
“There’s not much to add. The M.E. identified the bullet as a nine-millimeter shell, but that could have come from anything from my own weapon to a MAC-10.”
McDarvid promised to keep Ngruma informed if anything new turned up.
Then he tried Angela. She was out.
Ned Llewellyn was not.
“Thanks for calling back, Jack. It’s not official yet, but the Secretary will be submitting his resignation after the State of the Union.”
“Any ideas on who’s being considered? What about Lew Engelbright?” McDarvid tried not to wince as he mentioned Engelbright’s name.
“Lew? The President only made him Deputy to pay off Garth Reimers. It looks like a whole new team—probably Haylock Ellis.”
“That means a new Counselor to the President.” And that meant, McDarvid reflected, that the Chief of Staff and the head of the NSC had succeeded in getting Ellis—with his opposition to reductions in the Air Force arm of the strategic triad—away from the President’s ear. Jonnie would find that interesting. “I take it things are slow in turning up?”
“Slow … that’s a kind way of putting it, Jack.”
“I told you about the Chlorine Institute and the Forest Products possibilities. Haven’t heard anything else. Maybe after the first of the year.” McDarvid tried to keep his voice cheerfully sympathetic. He’d been there before, and if the metals initiative didn’t go right, he might be there again—unless he and Jonnie could find a way to become independent.
“Thanks. Mind if I keep in touch?”
“No. No problem.”
51
RAY THOMAS PAUSED AT THE OPEN DOOR and peered inside. “Good night, Cal.”
Griffen looked up from the stack of reading. “Good night, Ray.”
“No receptions or meetings tonight?”
The other shook his head. “After I finish catching up on a few things, I’m headed home. Once in a while, I like to get some sleep.”
“Pleasant dreams, then.”
In time, a second figure appeared at the door. “Cal, I’m leaving. Is it all right if I lock up? You aren’t expecting anyone, are you?”
Griffen smiled pleasantly. “No, Martha. Not tonight. I won’t be too much longer, but go ahead and lock up. I did remember my keys.”
“Don’t stay too late,” cautioned the dark-haired woman.
“I won’t.”
“That’s what you always say.”
“I’ll try to do better this time.”
With a headshake and a smile, she turned and made her way across the outer office to the front door.
The ecologist continued reading for a time after the front door had clicked shut. With a sigh, he pulled out several index cards covered in his own precise writing and studied them. Then he lifted the telephone.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not available at the moment. Please leave a message at the sound of the tone.” The low, almost harsh, voice echoed in the receiver.
“Elizabeth, this is Cal. Our friend is getting out of hand. You can call me at home tonight or tomorrow night after eight. Thank you.”
He set down the receiver and stood up, looking down at the reading he had yet to finish. Finally, he scooped it into a folder and set the folder on the corner of the desk while he put on his suit coat and his overcoat.
Then, folder in one hand, keys in the other, he walked toward the door.
52
“YOUR SERVE, TIGER.” McDarvid tossed the Ping-Pong ball to David.
David caught it, dropped it on the table, and thwacked it across the net.
McDarvid, paddle in his right hand, awkwardly returned the serve to the far corner, but his son stabbed backhand, and the white ball arced up over the net and continued rising past the end of the table.
McDarvid caught the ball in his left hand and flicked it back to David.
Thwack.
McDarvid’s return missed the corner of the table, and David bent down and reclaimed the ball.
Thwack.
McDarvid eased the ball just over the net.
David lunged and missed.
“That’s it, Tiger.”
“Oooofff. That wasn’t fair, Dad.”
“Fair?”
“All right. It was sneaky, though.”
“You’re right, but sneaky counts.” McDarvid glanced at the stairs as he heard Allyson’s steps coming down from the second floor.
“Jack?”
“I’ve got to go. See you two later.”
“I never got a chance to play,” Kirsten complained.
“Tomorrow,” McDarvid promised as he turned and headed up the basement stairs.
Allyson wore matching sweatpants and jacket, both a slightly faded forest green. She was talking to a thin teenager. “Should be back before eleven. Number is on the pad next to the telephone.”
McDarvid pulled on his ski jacket and picked up the bag with the racquets, balls, and the eye protectors.
“Any questions?”
“No, Dr. Newsome.”
Allyson slipped into her parka. McDarvid held the door for her, and they walked to the car.
“I heard you playing Ping-Pong with David. I take it you won.”
“It was twenty-one to fifteen, and I played right-handed.”
“And when he starts to beat you, you’ll play left-handed and keep winning?”
“He’ll eventually beat me, and he’ll know that he did it fair and square.”
Allyson said nothing as McDarvid eased the car onto Forty-sixth.
“Who’ll be there?” he asked.
“Probably most of the pediatrics group. Everyone liked the idea of a racquetball party instead of one of those Christmas parties where everyone stands around and eats and drinks.”
“Best party idea I’ve heard of in a while.”
“Jack?”
“Yes?”
“I know you’re carrying around a lot right now, but ever since Larry’s death, it’s like all you do is talk consulting. I know I complained about not talking, but I’ve heard more about metals…”
“Sorry. I take it you’re suggesting that I play racquetball and leave the consulting behind.”
“Well, you’ve got about ten minutes before we get there.” Allyson laughed softly.
“There’s too much to say in ten minutes. Or too little.” McDarvid paused. “Do you think we’ll have any more snow this winter? Or are you up for an indecent proposal after the party?”
“Jack!” But there was a smile behind the protest.
He reached over and squeezed her thigh. For a moment, her cheek rested against his.
53
THE BLACK GTO PURRED AROUND THE CURVE AT SEVENTY. The traffic on the Inner Loop was relatively light—even though it was a bright, cloudless Saturday afternoon nearing Christmas. Jonnie signaled to pass the old purple hearse in front of him.
Would Veronica like to go to the January concert? Jonnie eyed the line of multicolored teddy bears performing the kick-step on the hearse’s bumper sticker. “If she wants to go and I don’t get tickets as soon as they go on sale, I’ll have to visit my friendly neighborhood scalper.”
While it was relatively easy to buy tickets to sold-out events around the world and the Washington scalpers accepted Visa, their prices demonstrated a certain high-spirited free market attitude. Jonnie shook his head at the memory of turning over an envelope containing five hundred-dollar bills to a young woman in an otherwise deserted Laurel office building the Saturday before a Redskins play-off game. Even Larry, who never objected to spending as much of the company’s money as necessary to keep a client happy, gurgled slightly at the seven-hundred-dollar price tag when Jonnie handed over the two lower-deck forty-yard-line tickets Sunday morning, less than twenty-four hours after he had received a call at home from a desperate Partello.
Jonnie nodded at the bearded, ponytailed hearse driver as he passed him and entered the construction zone. Slowing slightly as the highway divided, he grinned as he passed the most honest construction-advisory sign he had ever seen. “Prepare for Sudden Aggravation,” the notice warned. But there was no aggravation for the last twenty minutes of the drive.
Jonnie swung into the apartment complex’s lot and parked next to an old Harley. He opened his oversized door, careful not to hit the bike.
The old Harley appeared to be a late 1940s Knucklehead. Like his own GTO, the Knucklehead, despite showing some scratches, a couple of dents, and even a few rust spots breaking through the dark red paint, was in basically good condition. With only minor restoration work, the bike would be considered a pricey classic.
He nodded and stepped away from the bike, thinking that something like the old Harley would be better for Veronica than her eco-conscious tinmobile. A Harley would get better mileage and be a hell of a lot more fun. A greasy-looking man in a leather jacket leaned against a leafless tree. He casually appraised Jonnie, then spat on the browning grass, saying nothing.
Was the greasy fellow the motorcycle’s owner or did he belong to the battered Ford pickup with the country-music stickers? Jonnie decided on the country-music stickers. The Knucklehead had to belong to a yuppie lawyer. Few real bikers were lucky enough to own that kind of Harley.
Veronica opened the door quickly. “Come on in. I’m on the phone. Shut the door behind you.”
Jonnie closed the door carefully. Instead of sitting down or going into the kitchen where Veronica stood with the telephone, he walked over toward the couch to take a closer look at Groucho to see if he could tell what brand of cigar the great man had preferred.
No luck. The cigar was merely a black torpedo, and Jonnie wandered toward the computer stand in the corner.
Veronica’s voice carried from the small kitchen, and he stopped.
“Yes, I know, but I’m miles from where that happened. The newspapers make a big deal … Yes, I know. I will be careful … No, you don’t have to worry about him. He was just someone who belongs to the same environmental group … Would you prefer someone safer—like a regulatory consultant?… I’m serious. That’s who was at the door … He does have a beard, but it’s well trimmed, and he doesn’t drive—no, he works for a law firm. Now, that ought to be established enough … Yes, I will call more often.”
Jonnie didn’t hide the grin as Veronica stepped out of the kitchen. “Mother or sister?”
“Mother. She read the wire story about that law student who was assaulted off Dupont Circle. As if anyone in their right mind would wander down an alley at three A.M. Anyway, I couldn’t just stop there, but I’m glad you got here on time. If you’d been late, I’d still be on the phone.”
“Big phone bills?”
“Not that big. She usually calls me … unless she wants to make me feel guilty.”
Jonnie laughed. “The old parental guilt trip. You’d think that it wouldn’t work after so long—but it does.”
“You’re right. It does.” Veronica shook her head, and her auburn hair tossed. “I’m almost ready. Hold on a moment while I check the Crockpot.”
“Crockpot? I haven’t seen one of those in years.”
“I guess I’m just an old-fashioned girl.” Veronica smiled. “We’re going to have a stew after we get back from the movies. It’ll be nice to have something hot later.”
Jonnie watched as Veronica adjusted a dial on the contrivance that looked like a cross between a squat brown cookie jar and a pressure cooker.
“I’m ready.” Veronica pulled out a quilted blue parka.
As they left the apartment, a gust of wind almost ripped the scratched and corroded aluminum storm door out of Jonnie’s hand.
“It’s really getting cold.” Already holding Jonnie’s arm, Veronica pressed even closer as they walked down the sidewalk to the car. “I just hope the stew turns out.”
“You’ve never fed me a bad meal yet.”
“It would be nice if you reciprocated once in a while, instead of just taking me to restaurants.”
“Well … my cooking skills … you know…”
“Sure I know, but just think. It would give you a wonderful excuse to get me over to your apartment,” Veronica purred in Jonnie’s ear.
“On the other hand, I can be a really talented chef. Does microwave cooking count?”
“We’ll count anything you like as long as you make it yourself. No prepared dinners from the gourmet grocery.”
“How about if we make it together? I’ve always wanted cooking lessons.”
“That’s funny. I never noticed you needed lessons before.”
“Can’t hurt. Oh, want to see a really nifty old motorcycle?” Jonnie pointed at the dark red machine next to his car.
“Oh … That looks like … What…?” Veronica turned, letting go of Jonnie’s arm.
“Just checking up on you, babe.”
Jonnie swiveled to see that the man who had been leaning against the tree stood less than ten feet away.
“I thought it might be a good idea to see what you were doing and who you were doing it with. I also wanted to remind you that dust-day is two weeks from next Saturday.”
“Friend of yours?” Jonnie asked Veronica. He eyed the biker, who, up close, appeared rather larger and greasier than he had first realized. The man’s long stringy black hair and ragged beard contrasted curiously with his watery blue eyes, pale fine-pored skin, and small, almost delicate features. The overall impression was that of a bookworm gone bad.
“Not even close,” snapped Veronica. She addressed Peter. “What do you want?”
“Like I said, babe, I wanted to see what you were up to. So is this the prick you’re screwing? Christ! I never thought you had much taste, but this?” Peter jabbed a finger toward Jonnie. “Couldn’t you have at least picked a real man? So you like my bike? You some kinda fuckin’ wannabe? I hate wannabes.”
“Look, I don’t know who you are or what your problem is, but why don’t we just call it a day,” Jonnie said, stepping between Peter and Veronica.
“You’re my problem, wannabe. I don’t like you. I don’t like you screwing that woman. And I’m not getting the hell out of here.” The biker moved even closer, his hands balled into fists held closely by his side.
“Fine,” Jonnie said evenly. “You want to stay. Stay all night.” He turned to Veronica. “Let’s go.”
“You’re one dead prick.” But Peter remained standing on the grass.
Jonnie opened the door, letting his eyes flick toward the greasy biker.
Veronica slipped into the front seat, but her eyes locked on Peter for an instant.
“You just remember … babe…”
Jonnie locked Veronica’s door and stepped around the GTO. He opened the other door and slipped into the driver’s seat, the keys going into the ignition even before he was seated.
“Heyyy!” The biker stumbled forward, then stopped with a bewildered look as the GTO momentarily lurched toward him.
“Have a nice evening,” Jonnie called cheerfully as the GTO rumbled out of the parking lot.
Once onto the road, with no sign of a motorcycle in the rearview mirror, Jonnie glanced at a silent Veronica. “Now, would you like to tell me who this guy was and what’s going on? And what is dust-day?” He slowed at the stop sign, again checking the mirror and seeing only a silver Chevy pickup.
“It’s a long story.” Veronica sighed.
Jonnie waited, but she said nothing more. They were on Route 29 south before Jonnie spoke again.
The Green Progression Page 18