“Yet I’ve practically got to goose everyone on the Science, Space, and Technology Committee to even look into the issue, and then they subpoena me to talk about my filing false ethics claims, and the subpoena doesn’t even mention the issues. My old friend the assistant counsel essentially refuses to talk to me, even when he hands over the subpoena. The hearing’s going to be a real picnic! Even the right-wingers are running from me. And no one at DEP even wants to admit where the screwball idea came from—except from the guy who disappeared.” McDarvid paused. “Oh, and none of this counts the oh-so-legitimate computer foundation funded by the leaky TEMPEST equipment boys that gives scholarships to send bright middle-class kids to Ivy League schools. Did I mention that all of the parents just happen to work in setting risk assessments and critical assumptions that necessitate excessive environmental protection? Or that each one of those assessments makes high-tech equipment and weapons production more expensive or less possible in the U.S.?”
“I don’t believe that you did, Jack. It is a rather … interesting…”
“Yeah, I know, Eric. Good old Jack has finally gone around the bend. He’s lost it, but good.”
“Jack, you’re taking this too personally.”
“It’s taking me too personally. You still insist that the death and disappearance and all the strange things didn’t happen?”
“I believe you. They happened. But some of it could easily be coincidence. As for the rest of it—we don’t work like that. Neither do the other sides. It’s far too messy that way.”
“You haven’t answered my question. What the hell is going on?”
“You know I can’t tell you.”
“Fine … just fine.” McDarvid snorted.
“Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“We don’t work that way.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“You’re welcome, and be careful. Try not to muck things up like most amateurs.”
“I notice you’re not telling me I’m wrong.”
“You wouldn’t listen even if I said so, would you?”
“Probably not,” McDarvid conceded. “But my guts tell me something’s very wrong.”
“Isn’t it always?”
“Yeah,” McDarvid admitted with a short laugh.
“Talk to you later.”
McDarvid slowly set down the telephone. Try not to muck it up like most amateurs? How could he not muck it up? He shook his head slowly, wondering if he’d have nightmares again that night.
He had something. But what? With each regulation, more heavy industry and mining went offshore. A great conspiracy? Who was really benefiting?
He snorted again. He believed even less in the right-wing conspiracy theories. Hell, in Washington nobody could work together for more than a few months without backstabbing.
Coincidence? The problem was that he saw too many coincidences.
He picked up the telephone.
85
McDARVID WAS REACHING FOR THE PHONE to see if Steve Greene was back in his office when the intercom buzzed.
“A Mr. Thomas for you.”
“Thomas?”
“He said he was with Ecology Now!”
“Put him through.” Veronica worked at Ecology Now! and he’d met Cal Griffen once, but Thomas? McDarvid touched the blinking line. “Hello.”
“This is Ray Thomas from Ecology Now!” Silence followed the announcement.
“What can I do for you, Ray?”
“Well, I’m a friend of Jerry Killorin’s. I was wondering if you might have any idea where he was. He mentioned that you’d been working on an issue that affected him.”
McDarvid frowned, then decided to play it safe. “The last time I talked to Jerry was almost two weeks ago. We discussed the metals initiative briefly … Actually, we didn’t discuss it at all. I brought it up, and he told me that the whole issue was ex parte and to submit anything else in writing.”
“But do you know where he is?”
“I’d assume he was at Environment. In his office.”
“Well, he’s not. Do you know where he is?” Thomas’ voice was rasping, almost grating.
“You seem to be hinting that Jerry’s not where he should be.”
“Hinting? Cut the crap, McDarvid. You know as well as I do that Jerry’s disappeared, and I want to know where he is.”
“I don’t have the faintest idea where he is. Why would I know?” McDarvid paused, wondering if he should ask Thomas about the metals issue, deciding just as quickly not to mention it.
“Because he said that your work was going to cause him problems, and I’d like to know why.”
“Look, Ray. I sent Ecology Now! a copy of the metals briefing papers we submitted. You know our position. Why would that have anything to do with Jerry’s disappearing? He could have run off with a bimbo, been injured in an accident, suffered alcoholic amnesia—those things happen.”
“Not this conveniently, they don’t.”
“Mr. Thomas,” McDarvid said quietly, “you have called up, ostensibly to ask a question. Yet you seem to think that, because a man I scarcely know is not in his office, I am somehow to blame. I think you’ll agree, if you think about it, that such an assumption is hardly warranted. I have told you what my connection is with Jerry, and you insist that there has to be more. Everything that I have done is in the official records, and I suggest that you review those before calling anyone else up and verbally assaulting them. Good day.” He hung up the phone.
Great! Not only was he convinced that something had gone wrong with Jerry, but so was some idiot from Ecology Now! And Thomas was laying the blame at McDarvid’s feet.
He reached for the telephone, but the intercom buzzed again.
“Mr. Thomas for you, Mr. McDarvid.”
“Tell him I left for a meeting.”
“Yes, sir.”
McDarvid decided to walk around the corner to see Steve Greene, rather than call—or stay near his telephone.
Steve was in the kitchen, rather than his office.
“Got a minute?”
“Sure, Jack. This about the hearing?”
“Yeah.” McDarvid followed Steve back to the attorney’s office, marginally larger than McDarvid’s, but with light oak furniture at least two cuts better than the consultant’s.
Greene settled back into his chair. “You really don’t need an attorney. You know the hearing process better than anyone in the firm.”
“Heidlinger and Ames don’t want me running around like a loose cannon.” McDarvid smiled wryly. “Right now, I’m inclined to agree.”
“I’ve read the subpoena. Who’d you piss off?”
“Renni Fowler—the subcommittee counsel. I … pushed a little hard.”
Steve nodded. “That package you sent—George was furious.” He shrugged. “What do you want me to do?”
“Just sit behind me and keep me from doing anything obviously stupid. Anything else obviously stupid.”
“Do you have any more surprises?”
“Not that I know of.” McDarvid reflected. “But the whole thing’s so shadowy. I can almost sense the congressional angle. It’s nagging at me, but I just can’t focus on it.”
“Why would Congress be tied up in something like this? Is this the business you mentioned about how environmental regs seem designed to choke off industry and high-tech development?”
“That’s the problem. I know it, but there’s no proof. Just results, and that’s what bothers me. Statistically, the odds are against that high a string of coincidences, but whenever I try to explain it, people just look at me as if I’m crazy.” McDarvid paused. “Maybe I am. Maybe I’ve lived in the political world too long. Anyway, before anything else happens, I need to get through the hearing, see if I can use it to get some publicity and pressure on the metals initiative. Then we’ll take stock.”
“You actually wanted this hearing?”
“I wanted a hearing. I didn’t plan on being the prime wi
tness.”
86
“THAT WILL BE TWENTY-EIGHT FIFTY.”
McDarvid reached for his checkbook. Nearly thirty dollars just to clean two suits. “How much would that have been if they had been two-piece suits?”
“Eighteen fifty,” replied the bored young black woman behind the counter.
“Three-piece-suit owners have to be the last unprotected minority in the country,” McDarvid grumbled to himself as he bent over the Formica counter.
“Nine twenty-five.”
At the sound of the second clerk’s voice, McDarvid glanced up as a gray polywool suit encased in plastic appeared on the rack beside him. A muscular arm removed the suit from the battered metal stand. McDarvid straightened, the check unfinished, the felt-tip pen still in his fingers. “Who are you?”
The muscular young man in jeans and a black turtleneck looked at McDarvid blankly.
McDarvid stepped between the other man and the doorway. “Who the hell are you, and why have you been following me?”
The Secret Service look-alike continued staring at McDarvid before turning his eyes toward the clerks. The two clerks exchanged glances.
“You were at the funeral,” McDarvid prompted.
Despite his greater height and clear muscularity, the younger man backed away slightly from McDarvid.
“I asked you who you are.” McDarvid’s voice was low.
“Lucien Ferris. Now, who the hell are you?”
“Why were you at Larry Partello’s funeral?” McDarvid asked.
“Mister … I asked who you are. I answered your question.”
“Oh … sorry. Jack McDarvid. I work—I mean, I worked for Larry.” McDarvid realized he had cornered the other man between the counter and the wall and stepped back.
Ferris shrugged. “I was at Larry’s funeral because Larry Partello was my godfather.”
“What were you doing at Woodies?” McDarvid’s body remained tensed, ready, although he began to wonder how abrupt his questions must sound.
“When?”
“When you were looking at me, and my kids. After Larry’s funeral.”
“Buying underwear.”
“Huh?”
“Buying underwear. Woodies had a sale on socks and underwear. I do buy new socks and underwear. I recognized you from the funeral and wondered who you were.”
“And why were you over at my partner’s apartment, looking for him? Wearing that suit?” McDarvid jabbed the pen at the gray suit.
Ferris’ eyebrows raised.
“Potomac Place,” McDarvid explained.
The younger man shook his head slowly. “It’s none of your business, but … I was probably there to see my sister, and, if it was around Thanksgiving, I took her to our cousin’s wedding. I only wear the suit for things like weddings and funerals. Now, what’s this all about?”
“I worked for Larry,” McDarvid repeated. “I kept seeing you and thought … I don’t know. I’m sorry.” He felt exhausted. “Why were you scanning everyone at the funeral?”
“I was looking for Mona. I wanted to thank her.”
“Mona?”
“Mona Cyane. She was Larry’s … girlfriend. I know Larry saw a lot of women, but Mona was different. Mona cared for him. In his last couple of years, I think Mona was the only person who really cared about Larry, not about his money or his business. I just wanted to thank her.”
“Was she there?”
“Third row. Mona cared about Larry, but she sure didn’t give a damn about anyone else, or what they thought. She’s one fine lady.”
“Probably better than Larry deserved,” McDarvid mumbled, vaguely remembering a dark nymphlike woman in a subdued dress.
Ferris ignored the comment. “I’d like to thank you.”
“Why? You enjoy kooks stopping you at the cleaner’s?”
“I’m a tennis pro. I teach a couple of places, the Rock Creek Tennis Club, the new racquet club up on Connecticut … Larry always wanted me to be a lawyer or a doctor or something respectable. He offered to pay for everything. I never took him up. I was afraid of ending up the way he was, consumed by work, unable to hold on to his family, not able to lead a normal life. I always felt guilty about it. I’ve kept wondering if I made the right decision. Until now. Good-bye, Mr. McDarvid, and … have a happy life.”
The tall man swung the cheap gray suit over his shoulder and marched out into the chill afternoon.
McDarvid looked dumbly down at the felt-tip pen in his fingers.
87
McDARVID LOOKED SIDEWAYS AT STEVE GREENE as they stepped inside the horseshoe entrance to the Rayburn Building. He wasn’t looking forward to testifying, especially not with Renni as the subcommittee counsel.
He put the briefcase on the conveyer belt and stepped through the detector himself, recovering the case on the other side and waiting for Steve. He nodded politely to the Capitol police officer. “Have a good day.”
“You, too, sir.”
The two men turned right and headed for the elevators, Greene half a step behind McDarvid. One flight of stairs he would have taken, but he wasn’t in the mood for more. Not today.
Even as McDarvid stepped off the elevator, he could hear the mumble of voices from the hallway outside the committee room. He took a deep breath and rounded the corner.
“Holy shit,” mumbled Greene.
“Yeah. I wonder what Renni told them.”
Two closed-circuit camera control units were set up outside the hearing room—that he could tell from fifty feet away.
A tall red-bearded man walked toward the two of them. “Mr. McDarvid?” He was looking at Steve.
“I’m Jack McDarvid.”
The man turned to McDarvid, standing as if to block his progress toward the hearing room. “Ray Thomas. I talked to you the other day.”
“I’m due to testify in just a few minutes,” McDarvid observed.
“What did you do to him?”
“To whom?” McDarvid asked.
“Jerry. Jerry Killorin.” The bigger man raised a clenched fist. “Jerry said you got him in trouble, and then he disappeared.”
McDarvid wrinkled his nose. The sharp, sour smell of whiskey—or something—wafted from the man’s breath. “Whatever it was, Jerry did it to himself. I told you exactly what I did.” He stepped around Thomas and started to walk toward the hearing room doors.
“Wait a minute!” Thomas’ hand touched McDarvid’s shoulder. “I’m talking to you!”
McDarvid stopped, lifted the other’s hand off his shoulder. “You’re trying my patience. I did a study which compared the income reported on ethics forms to the life-styles of federal officials. The results were interesting.”
“What do you mean?”
“If Jerry got into trouble, it was his own doing. You might check with the Inspector General. Now, excuse me.” McDarvid pulled away.
“There’s Jack McDarvid,” another voice murmured from the area by the television crews not five feet away.
“Jack, you need to—”
McDarvid forced a smile. It was going to be every bit as bad as he’d intended for poor Jerry Killorin.
“I’m not through talking with you!” Thomas’ hand pawed at McDarvid’s shoulder.
McDarvid was yanked around and tried to duck the clumsy swing from the bigger man, but his briefcase and Steve’s closeness slowed his reactions as Thomas’ fist grazed his forehead.
“Smartass … bastard…”
McDarvid dropped the briefcase, blocking Thomas’ follow-up swing with his freed arm.
Thomas lunged and swung again.
McDarvid stepped inside the swing and brought his elbow across Thomas’ throat, then slammed his knee into the man’s groin.
“Call the police.”
The red-haired and -bearded man lay curled on the white marble tiles, gagging and rasping.
“Are you all right?” asked Greene.
“Yeah, I think.”
“Jesus … Christ.”<
br />
“What happened?”
McDarvid took a deep breath as he turned to the Capitol police officer. “I don’t know, Officer.” He took another breath. “I was subpoenaed to testify. This man started to talk to me. Then, when I told him that he could get the information he wanted from the committee or the Inspector General, he kept grabbing at me. Then he started punching, or whatever. I tried to get away, but he grabbed my coat and wouldn’t let go.”
The bright lights of the television cameras washed over McDarvid, Steve Greene, the dark-haired young officer, and the whimpering redheaded man.
McDarvid could feel his legs shaking. He swallowed. “I’m a little … a little shaken up.”
“But what happened to him?”
“He kept swinging.” McDarvid gingerly felt his temple; a smear of blood streaked his fingers.
The cameras followed his actions.
“I … just tried to push him away.”
“Some push” a soft voice carried from the back of the crowd.
McDarvid recognized the voice—Marianne’s—and chilled, wondering whether Renni had put the man up to the attack. He took another deep breath. “I still have to appear.” He turned to the officer, digging out a card and handing it to the man. “You have plenty of witnesses. I’ll be in the committee room.”
“But sir…”
The cameras followed him as he reclaimed his briefcase, still lying in the corridor, and walked up to the doorway of the hearing room, where another officer confronted him.
“It’s full, sir.”
McDarvid sighed. “I’m the witness. At least, I’m one of them. Jack McDarvid,” he explained. “Do you want me to produce my subpoena?” He paused. “Mr. Greene is my attorney.”
“No, sir. Sorry, sir.”
McDarvid waited. “Do we get in? Or do I explain to the Chairman that his prize witness was denied at the door?”
The gray-haired veteran looked at McDarvid and Greene, then at the cameras pointed at McDarvid, and edged the door open. “None of you,” he added, pointing at the man with the notebook.
Once inside the committee room, McDarvid took a deep breath.
The Green Progression Page 29