Cold Case

by Stephen White

  As we neared Silver Creek I asked Lauren, whose nose was buried in the Sunday newspaper, if she could guess what Mary Wright wanted.

  She spent the next minute or so folding the newspaper down the spine, then over the fold, then once more in half. She rested the project on her lap, turned my way, and said, "Who knows? Statute of limitations, grand jury rules, trial protocols, special prosecutors. Could be just about anything."

  "No guesses?"

  "No. No guesses."

  We arrived home by about 1:30. Adrienne and jonas were out somewhere and they'd left Emily in her dog run. I assumed that there had been a protracted argument between mother and son about why Emily couldn't go with them wherever they were going.

  I emptied our things out of the car, played with the dog for a few minutes, opened some windows to ventilate the house, and started a load of laundry before I called Diane and told her I was back in town and back on my beeper. She said my patients had been good while I'd been gone. No emergencies. We talked about things friends talk about for a little while before I thanked her for covering, hung up, and checked messages on the home machine.

  Our contractor for the renovation project that we'd done the previous year, Dresden Lamb, had returned my call about a leaking down spout and some disintegrating grout in the new shower. He promised that he'd take care of both problems the following week. My friend Sam Purdy had called inviting me to loiter-his word-with him at North Boulder Park during his son Simon's last soccer game of the season.

  There were two hang-ups.

  The last message was from a woman named Dorothy Levin. Her succinct message wasn't directed toward either Lauren or me. She said, "Hi. My name is Dorothy Levin. I'm with the Washington Post" She left a number with a 202 area code-which I knew from my recent Lo-card experience was indeed Washington, DC.-and concluded with, "Please return my call at your earliest convenience."

  Lauren heard the message, too. She asked, "Is that for you or for me?"

  "I think it must be for you."

  "Bull. It's for you."

  "I bet it's Locard business. Washington Post? It has to be."

  "How would a reporter with the Washington Post know about us being involved with Locard?"

  "How did they know about Monica Lewinsky?"

  "I don't want to have that discussion again," Lauren admonished me, "Ken Starr has managed to do for prosecutors what O. J. did for Heisman Trophy winners.

  Should we return Ms. Levins call?"

  "No, I don't think so. Kimber's instructions were to 'no-comment' the press and to let him know about any contacts we receive. We should just let him or A. J. know she called and not worry about it." Lauren said, "Until we return her call, we don't actually know whether or not we've been contacted about Locard business, do we?"

  Her argument was persuasive, as usual.

  "Okay," I said, "then you go ahead and call her back."

  She was already walking away from the general vicinity of the phone.

  "No. I think you should. This may just be another Jonbenet cold call. I'm tired of them and I don't even want to think about taking another one. You promised you'd field them for me while I was pregnant."

  "You haven't had one of those for months."

  She leaned over and knocked on the pine table in front of her.

  "Thank God for small favors."

  I had promised I'd shield her fromjonbenet calls.

  "Okay, on the unlikely premise that this might be yet another reporter writing a true-crime book about Jonbenet, I will return Dorothy Levin's call. But… it's only because you're pregnant and beautiful."

  "Actually," she said, lowering her T-shirt off one shoulder, "I'm beautiful and I'm pregnant."

  "Whatever you say. I'm not about to argue. Pretty soon you'll be bigger than me so I have to be careful." Two seconds later I successfully dodged a pillow that was whizzing past my head.

  The number in D.C. was that of Dorothy Levin's home phone. She answered breathlessly after two rings. She said, "Hell-o." The emphasis was harsh and clearly on the "hell."

  "Dorothy Levin, please."

  "You got her."

  "This is Alan Gregory returning your call from Colorado."

  "Yeah? Good, good. Great. What a surprise. Hold on a second." I heard background noises as though she was fumbling around for something.

  "Listen, is it Mister or Doctor?"

  What?

  "You still there? Is it Mister Gregory or Doctor Gregory?"

  I had enough of my wits about me to ask, "Am I being interviewed about something?" She sighed.

  "I didn't say on my message? I'm a reporter with the Washington Post and-"

  "No, no. You didn't say that you were a reporter. Only that you were with the Post"

  "Really? That's not like me. I'm an honest person and I'm pretty sure I-"

  "I'm happy to play back the message for you. Would you like me to play your message back for you?"

  Another sigh.

  "That won't be necessary." The sarcasm was spread thick, like peanut butter on Wonder bread.

  "Listen… okay, okay. This isn't going like I had planned. I'm not smiling at the moment-you know what I'm saying? I'm just not a happy person when things don't go well at the beginning.

  Whadya say we start over?" She didn't wait for me to concur with her request.

  "Here goes. This is my new intro:

  Hello, Mr. Gregory? I'm Dorothy Levin. I'm a reporter with the Washington Post.

  How are you today?"

  She was so out-there that I played right along with her.

  "I'm fine, Ms. Levin.

  How are you?"

  "Great, great. Hey, what I need-" She caught herself falling back out of character.

  "Sorry. Sorry. I'm doing well, thank you. I'm so sorry to interrupt your weekend, but I'm doing this story about fundraising practices in the early congressional campaigns of Representative Raymond Welle. Your name was brought to my attention as someone who-"

  "How? How did you get my name?"

  She slapped something. Hard. The sound cracked like a steak dropped on the counter.

  "Oh, damn. And we were doing so much better the second time around.

  That question really ruins things though. The momentum? It's a fragile thing in interviews. You know I can't tell you how I got your name. There are rules.

  Journalism rules. You ever hear of Watergate? Confidential sources, stuff like that? Deep Throat ring a bell? Let me see-do you want to just back up and pretend you didn't really ask that question? Or do we need to start all over again?"

  I laughed. She laughed. I heard her strike a match and light a cigarette. She sucked hard on it before she spoke again.

  "You still there? You didn't hang up on me, did you? Can't stand it when that happens."

  "I don't know anything about Welle's campaign financing."

  It sounded like she was trying to spit a speck of tobacco out of her mouth. Was she really smoking non filters I tried to imagine a Camel hanging from her lips, smoke circling toward the heavens carrying the souls of dead smokers to their reunions with God.

  She said, "Go on."

  I laughed again.

  "I'm not going on, Ms. Levin. I don't have anyplace to go on to. I don't know anything about Raymond Welle and his campaign financing." She didn't respond immediately. But I thought I could hear the squeaky sounds of someone writing quickly with a felt-tip pen.

  She was jotting down everything I said.

  I decided that it was prudent to either shut up or hang up. But I couldn't decide which. So I waited.

  She did, too. Patiently. For about twenty or thirty seconds. Then she said, "Okay? Yeah?"

  If this was her best attempt at conducting an interview, I decided that hanging up would make the most sense. Not even trying to hide my incredulity, I said, "

  "Okay? Yeah?" That's your next question? Seriously?"

  She broke into a mixture of coughing and laughter that caused me to
pull the phone away from my ear. At the conclusion of her paroxysm she said, "That was kind of lame. I'll do better. I promise. Oh, please give me another try. And whatever you do, don't tell my editor. Deal?"

  She was still laughing.

  "What is it that you want, Ms. Levin? As entertaining as this conversation might be, I think we may both be wasting our time."

  She had composed herself by the time she spoke again.

  "I am doing a story… about fund-raising practices during Representative Welle's 1990, 1992, and 1994 congressional campaigns. I got your name. I'm calling for information."

  "About…?"

  "About what you know."

  "But I don't know anything." She sighed before she took a deep drag on her cigarette and hummed a few bars of

  "Will the Circle Be Unbroken?" She stopped the melody abruptly and asked, "Tell me this, then, Mister or Doctor Gregory. If you're so ignorant about Representative Raymond Welle, then why are you planning on meeting with him before his fund-raiser in Denver on Friday?"

  How on earth did this reporter or the Washington Post know about that? I stammered, "Excuse me?"

  Her voice turned slightly arrogant as she said, "Now please. You're going to have to help out a minute. With a small, small clarification. Was that an "Excuse me, I didn't hear you'? Or was that an

  "Excuse me, I can't believe you know that I'm meeting with him'?"

  "No comment."

  I thought I heard her muffle a profanity before she said, "Ah jeez.

  hate this. Suddenly something doesn't feel kosher to me. We go from

  "I don't know anything' to

  "No comment' in less time than it takes me to clean my contacts. What's happening with the world?"

  I had a temptation to explain to her why I couldn't talk to her about Welle.

  But I resisted.

  "I don't have anything to say, Ms. Levin."

  "That's a mite different from

  "I don't know anything about Raymond Welle, Ms. Levin."

  "She mocked me with a whiny rendition of my words.

  I shrugged and opened my eyes wide, confident that she couldn't hear me shrug or open my eyes wide. I said, "I'm afraid that's where I'm going to have to leave it."

  She made a noise that I didn't really want to know the source of.

  "You may leave me no choice but to write a piece reporting what I do know.

  Without any opportunity for your comment."

  I laughed again, more nervously this time.

  "What you know is too boring for the Washington Post."

  Her lips popped as she exhaled. I imagined a cloud of pungent smoke around her head.

  "So be it. We'll talk again. I'm sure."

  She hung up.

  I used directory assistance to get the number of the main switchboard at the Washington Post. I asked for Dorothy Levin and was immediately connected to her voice mail message, which she'd recorded herself. I'd have recognized that voice anywhere. I hung up before the tone.

  She was for real.

  "Who knows about your appointment with Raymond Welle besides us?" Lauren asked.

  "Welle's office. And apparently the Washington Post."

  "And A. J. Don't forget A. J. And whomever she might have told."

  "You're thinking someone in Locard would intentionally mislead a Post reporter about the nature of my meeting with Welle?"

  "No, that doesn't make any sense. Then it has to be someone in Welle's office who's been helping Levin with her investigation of his fund-raising practices.

  She has to have a source inside Welle's congressional office or campaign office.

  This person must have misinterpreted the reason for the meeting you have scheduled with Welle because its happening around one of his fund-raising events."

  "That explanation makes the most sense. The next question is, do I need to tell A. J. and Kimber Lister about the press contact?"

  Lauren considered it for a moment.

  "No. I don't think so. This doesn't involve Locard. She didn't say anything about Locard, right? Or about the two girls or Steamboat?"

  "Right"

  "There, then."

  I should have had an easier time clearing my conversation with Dorothy Levin from my head than I did. But the fact that a reporter from a big eastern newspaper wanted to talk with me made me nervous. It just did.

  When I'm nervous, I do. I get decisive. I get focused.

  My first decision was to go ahead and go to Canada. I chose Wednesday to fly to Vancouver. I called United Airlines and booked a round-trip on the flights that had been suggested by Mr. Hamamoto. When I heard the price for the ticket I prayed that A. J. would approve the expense. I left her a message asking for approval.

  Next I left a message for Hamamoto confirming our meeting in the Air Canada lounge on Wednesday afternoon.

  Five more phone calls later, I'd succeeded in rescheduling the five patients whose day would be inconvenienced by my impulsive decision to fly to Canada to meet with Taro Hamamoto. After the shuffling was over, Tuesday and Thursday were going to closely resemble psychotherapy marathons in my office and I was going to be working on Saturday, too.

  Emily needed more attention so I took her over to Adrienne's house to play with jonas While dog and child were playing a game that made no sense to me, I asked Adrienne how she and Erin were doing. Erin was Adrienne's last known romantic interest.

  Adrienne was cranky. She said, "Why?" I lied and said I was just curious.

  "Yeah. Right. You and the National Enquirer"

  "Well, I haven't seen her around much lately and I've been, I don't know… wondering."

  "God, you're such a pathetic liar." She laughed.

  "The truth is I think I've been dumped."

  "Ren, I'm so sorry."

  She waved off my sympathy.

  "Nah, it's okay. We were winding down to the basics, anyway."

  "The basics being?"

  "The… uh… gender thing."

  "Oh, yeah. The gender thing. Are you having some second thoughts about… you know?"

  "No. I had second thoughts about that so long ago I can't remember what they were."

  I waited for her to move on someplace. We both watched Jonas try to mount Emily as though she were a horse. Emily was pretty cool about it. Jonas stayed on for the better part of ten feet. I thought it might be a new record.

  "Are you still gay?"

  She smacked me on the shoulder. It hurt.

  "That's not a question a polite person asks."

  "Then how does a polite person find out the answer?"

  "A polite person minds his own business." "So who's the Lexus?" I asked.

  She glared at me.

  "What Lexus?"

  "You've been getting visits from a Lexus. Whose carriage is it?"

  She made a guttural noise I associated with disgust.

  "A woman lives alone out in the goddamn wilderness with her kid and still she can't get any privacy? I'm beginning to understand those nuts with guns in Idaho."

  "We live in adjoining fishbowls, Ren. We can see into yours. You can see into ours."

  "Not fair. Mine's much more interesting. You ever watch your life from a distance? It ain't no Truman Show." She hadn't told me who owned the Lexus.

  It should have been enough activity to calm me down about Dorothy Levin. But it wasn't. I was still anxious about the phone call by the time Lauren and I climbed into bed to watch the late news. I told her about my conversation with Adrienne.

  "Is she okay?"

  "Adrienne's resilient." "The bet's still on," she concluded.

  "I'll go talk to her. She'll tell me things she won't tell you. I still say its a boy Lexus, not a girl Lexus."

  * * *

  Lauren connected with Mary Wright early Monday morning. Mary had a list of questions about Colorado law and procedure that she needed answered. Lauren suggested E-mail, Mary said she preferred paper, and they settled on a correspondence via fax. The
first sheet of paper from the Justice Department was sliding from our home machine as I was rinsing out my coffee cup and heading to town to see my first patient on Monday morning.

  Lauren thought she could have something drafted for Mary by the end of the week at the latest.

  The flight to British Columbia was painless. At least two dozen of the 737's seats were empty, and miraculously, one of them was next to my exit-row aisle.

  Having the room in front of me to be able to actually cross my legs on an airplane felt decadent. I read a biography for the first couple of hours before allowing my attention to drift outside as the pilot began the descent. As the plane banked to make our approach into Vancouver my eyes followed the linear wake of an early-season cruise ship that was heading north from Canada Place toward the Strait of Georgia and the Inside Passage. In the opposite direction a freighter headed south out to the Pacific through the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

  I fantasized about being on one ship and then the other. After a long winter and spring in Colorado's aridity, the lushness and richness of the northwestern landscape was seductive. The day was clear enough to make out topographic details of the distant face of Vancouver Island. Closer in, the smaller islands and inlets of the San Juans gave my eyes and my imagination a thousand inviting places to hide. There are plenty of cities in North America where it would be just fine to hold a business meeting at the airport. Vancouver isn't one of them. I immediately wished I had made arrangements to stay longer.

  Canadian immigration and customs were efficient, and within fifteen minutes of deplaning I had checked back in with United Airlines and was going through U.S. customs and immigration prior to moving on to the departure area for flights to the U.S. On the U.S. immigration form I was asked about my length of stay in Canada. I was tempted to write "fifteen minutes." Officially, I had left the United States, arrived in Canada, and returned to the United States without ever leaving the Vancouver airport.

  The immigration official who checked my papers, the customs official who didn't check my carry-on, and the ticketing agent who gave me my boarding pass were all of Asian descent. In the ten years or so since my last visit the city of Vancouver had truly become a gateway to the Pacific Rim.