Cold Case

by Stephen White

  "Why on earth would you want to do that? The fact that I met with Welle isn't news."

  She shifted the heavy bag from one shoulder to the other.

  "Of course it's not news-yet. So I'll bury the fact somewhere in the story to smoke you out.

  Eventually, you'll tell me."

  I could hardly believe what I was hearing.

  "Am I'm being threatened?"

  She scoffed.

  "You kidding me? You're being encouraged. This…" she waved her hand back and forth between us-"is encouragement. I say please, you say no. So I say pretty please. You still say no. So I try pretty-pretty please. That's what this is. This is the pretty-pretty-please phase of encouragement. Can we go somewhere? This laptop I have weighs a ton. I'm trying to get them to buy me one of those little tiny ones. You seen those? Couple of pounds. That's what I need.

  Color screen, word processing and a modem. I don't need the rest of this shit.

  What on earth am I going to do with a DVD or a 3-D video card?"

  I wasn't press-sawy. I didn't have any way of judging whether or not she was telling me the truth. Would she really print my name in the next day's Washingon Post? If she did Locard would not be happy with me.

  To buy time to think, I said, "Yes, we can go somewhere. My car's around the corner. There's a place a few blocks from here."

  "I have to be back by the time this thing lets out." She pointed at the tennis house door.

  "I'm not going to kidnap you, Ms. Levin."

  "Can I smoke in your car?"

  "Not a chance." "Shit. My friends warned me about coming to this state. And you can call me Dorothy."

  * * *

  I've always had an affinity for smart women with an attitude. By the time we got to the restaurant I already liked Dorothy Levin.

  "I bet I can't smoke here either, can I?" she asked as she was pulling off her jacket and settling onto a chair in Cucina Leone in nearby Bonnie Brac.

  "I doubt it."

  A waiter approached and she ordered coffee and two chocolate chip cookies. I ordered coffee.

  She said, "I never get enough calories when I'm on the road. Do you have that problem?"

  "Will my answer be in your story?"

  She laughed.

  I said, "Let me ask you something. A journalism question. What's it called when I tell you something but you agree in advance not to use it."

  She lowered her chin and batted her eyes.

  "I think its called a cock tease, isn't it?"

  It was my turn to laugh.

  She said, "What? You mean not attribute it? Not quote you? That's called background."

  "No. I mean not use it at all. You'll know it, but you won't print it."

  "Ohhh. Deep background. We're getting sophisticated, are we? Sorry, I don't play that game."

  The coffee arrived. Dorothy started into her cookies immediately. She ate them by breaking off small pieces and transferring them to the tip of her tongue as though they were communion offerings.

  I announced, "Then I'm afraid this meeting is just going to be coffee." I sat back on my chair and lifted my coffee cup.

  "Go ahead and write your story and start to smoke me out. I'll just have to live with the consequences." I inserted as much bravado into the words as I could muster.

  She sighed and rubbed the back of her neck with the hand that wasn't breaking apart cookies.

  "Don't be disappointed, Dorothy. I wasn't lying before. I really don't know anything that will be helpful to you."

  "These are good." She pointed to the cookies.

  "Want a bite?" She broke off a corner and handed it to me.

  "A peace offering. I lied to you before. About not playing the deep-background game. I'll listen to what you say.

  If I start having problems, I'll warn you. How's that?"

  "You won't print anything?"

  "Unless I come upon the same information independently. Then it's fair game.

  But I still won't quote you."

  "Are you trustworthy? You lied to me once."

  "Hello. You've lied to me more than once. And whom are you going to ask if I'm trustworthy? My cats? My ex-husband? My editor? My shrink? Probably get a lot of different answers." "You're in therapy?" I asked.

  "Don't get me started. So why did you meet with him?"

  "This is deep background, right?"

  She rolled her tantalizing eyes and nodded.

  "Okay. I'm a clinical psychologist, right?"

  "Yeah"

  "So is he. Welle."

  "Yeah. This is news?"

  "I met with him because I needed to discuss one of his old psychotherapy cases with him."

  "That's it? You're seeing one of his old patients and you wanted to compare notes?"

  "Not exactly."

  "Oh, here we go again. I smell the acrid odor of obfuscation. No more cookies for you." She slid the cookie plate far out of my reach and guarded it in the crook of her elbow.

  "It's not one of my cases. It's a quasi-legal thing, actually. I've been asked to review some old therapy records."

  "Ah! Malpractice? Is someone suing Welle? Cool. Not as good as a campaign violation, but cool enough."

  "No, not like that. Nothing like that. I'm not sure I can tell you more without breaching confidentiality, but suffice it to say that I've been asked to review one of his old cases with him and he was gracious enough to do it." "But a lawyer asked you to do it?"

  I thought for a moment. The request had actually come from A. J. Simes.

  "No, another psychologist."

  "Why didn't the other psychologist do it himself or herself?"

  "The other psychologist isn't local. It wouldn't be… convenient."

  She chewed on my answer for a moment.

  "And that's what you did this morning?"

  "Yes."

  "In person? He met with you to review a case? I'm sorry, that doesn't make any sense to me. Couldn't that be done over the phone?"

  "Could be, isn't always."

  "Welle doesn't give away hours to just anybody. What he's doing now at the tennis house-raising money-that's how he spends his free time."

  I made a face to indicate I was offended and shrugged my shoulders.

  "I asked for a meeting. I was granted a meeting."

  "No." She shook her head.

  "No. Uh-uh. It's not that simple." She checked her watch.

  "Time to go back to my stakeout. Have a couple more people to talk to at the old fundraiser."

  "What do they do in there for all this time?"

  "Never been to one? It's basically a meeting of rich white guys over forty-five.

  Some of them bring wives or dates but over eighty percent of the donors are rich men with an agenda. It goes something like this:

  Welle gives his stump speech about economic freedom and moral decay and the necessity for America to heal itself-blah, blah, blah-then there's a reception line where people who forked over enough dough get a formal picture with the candidate and the American flag. Patriotic music plays in the background. Backs get slapped. Lunch meetings get set"

  "That's it?"

  "Yessiree. That's our election process. What's so appalling isn't just that it's corrupt. It's also unimaginative. In my mind, there's no excuse for that.

  None."

  Her cell phone went off as soon as she got into the car. Neither of us could do anything to keep me from eavesdropping.

  "Ohhh, Jesus. Whadya mean, where am I? I don't think I have to tell you that anymore, remember. Wasn't that the point of my asking you to leave?… No, you can't go checking the file cabinet for those papers. Your keys don't work in the apartment anymore, anyway. You'll have to wait until I get back… Not long, no. It's business. Business… Whadya mean am I sure? Of course I'm by myself… I'm not doing anything to you… Douglas, I'm sorry, it's just going to have to wait… I don't care; it'll have to wait until I'm back… You should have remembered about it when you packed the rest of yo
ur things…… Not my problem… No. I'll leave a message when I get home. Later."

  She folded up her phone. I said, "Sorry."

  "Not your fault. That was the aforementioned ex. Actually that's wishful thinking on my part. We're separated, not divorced. He's not happy with me.

  Apparently I'm not as sweet with everybody as I have been with you."

  "Hard to believe," I said.

  "We've been separated three months and I feel much better about it when I'm out of the District. For a while I was pretty sure he was following me. I'd go to a bar, he'd show up there. I'd be out with a friend, we'd see him." She shivered.

  "Is he a possessive guy?"

  "You bet. Jealous. Waste of emotional energy as far as I'm concerned. As if I have any interest in other men. Any."

  "Is he violent?"

  "Douglas? We're both kind of hotheads. You know? Him no more than me, though.

  Maybe less. Stuff gets said. Occasionally things were thrown around. You know."

  She smiled but didn't look my way.

  "He never actually hit me. And you-you're starting to sound like a goddamn shrink."

  "Sorry, it's a reflex. Possessive exes worry me. It's an occupational hazard, I'm afraid."

  "Is the air conditioner on high?"

  "Yes."

  She tugged at her collar and raised her chin.

  "I have to admit that he worries me sometimes, too."

  "Have you thought about changing your cell phone number so he can't track you down so easily?"

  "My life? I need to change a lot of things." She looked out the window.

  "And you know what? I think I've just decided what's going to be first." She undid her seat belt, raised her butt in the air, reached under her skirt, and started tugging down her panty hose. A moment later, the act completed, her bare toes wiggling on the dashboard, she said, "Dearest God, that feels good.

  Don't you wish it was all that easy?"

  The Bonnie Brac neighborhood is a maze of little curving streets. I got lost on the way back to Phipps from the restaurant. Dorothy Levin had no patience for my directional impairment.

  "I can't be late, Doctor."

  "I'm trying, Dorothy. This isn't my neighborhood."

  On my third attempt at finding my way to the mansion, I chanced on the shingled round roof of the tennis house from the rear. I said, "Voila" Dorothy said, "Merde. Finalement." She had finished stuffing her panty hose into the big shoulder bag along with God knows what else. I pulled around to the edge of the driveway that led to a small parking area in front of the building. She climbed out of the car, leaned over, and asked, "You're being straight with me, right?" I should have just said, "Yes." Instead, occasionally forthright to a fault, I said, "I answered all your questions honestly."

  She reacted as though I was intentionally screwing around with her. Which, in a way, I was.

  "Oh no you don't. What does that mean? How is that different from being straight with me?"

  The door to the tennis house flew open. Grateful for the diversion, I said, "I think your prey is about to enter the meadow. A herd of rich white guys over forty-five is approaching downwind."

  She didn't even look in that direction.

  "They won't bring Welle out that door.

  Certainly not first. Not when there's all that money still inside waiting to be caressed. Don't change the subject on me. What are you not telling me about Welle?"

  "That's not Welle, right there?" I asked, looking over her shoulder. The man I was pointing at was Welle's size and coloring but his back was turned to us.

  The man was speaking to someone still standing in the doorway. I looked around for Phil Barrett, assuming he was never far from Raymond Welle's side. I didn't see a single pork chop in sight.

  She turned away from me for a split second, then back. A cigarette had materialized in her hand.

  "Where? That guy? It's just some dude in a dark gray suit. They all wear dark gray suits. I don't know… no, that can't be him.

  The candidate never comes out of these things first. He still has the damn luncheon to go to."

  "Looks like him."

  She banged an open hand on the edge of the door and slammed it.

  "I have to go.

  We'll talk. You and me. We'll talk, count on it."

  She was no more than ten feet into the driveway when I saw the first puff of smoke floating up around her head.

  Of course, I thought the smoke was from her cigarette.

  But the loud crack of a gunshot that immediately followed the puff of smoke caused me to rethink its source. I was sure it came from behind me. I screamed, "Dorothy, get down!"

  She spun 180 degrees, bewildered, her hair flying. I yelled, "Someone has a gun.

  Get down!" She stared at me as though I were a lunatic. Her eyes shined even brighter than before.

  Only a total of five or six people had made their way out of the door of the tennis house by the time the shot rang out. They reacted to the blast by pushing and shoving at each other, scrambling to get back inside the building.

  Two of them fell beside the concrete landing as they tried to force their way back in.

  I couldn't tell whether the man who I thought was Welle was still outside.

  Closer to me, Dorothy finally dropped to a crouch, the damn cigarette glued to her lips.

  Another shot cracked the quiet, the slug hitting directly over the top of the door to the tennis house. I saw splintered brick flying. People started screaming, covering their heads.

  A man in a distinctive green suit standing near the door yelled, "There!" and pointed right at me.

  Behind me, I heard a car engine accelerate gently. I lowered myself farther onto my seat and turned to see a white Ford van pull away from the curb. The vehicle was unadorned and was heading in the opposite direction from mine. The driver was wearing a baseball cap of some kind, left elbow on the sill of the door, a raised hand spread casually in front of his or her face.

  Before I had the presence of mind to look at the license plate, the car was around the corner and gone.

  I waited for another shot. Nothing.

  I spun back toward the tennis house. Three large men in gray suits with weapons in their hands were sprinting at my car.

  I heard ravens cawing.

  I wondered. Had I just seen the shooter?

  Any plans I might have had for the rest of the day were put on hold by the arrival of a diverse group of law enforcement authorities who made it clear that my short-term freedom was dependent on my cooperation with their investigation.

  More cops of more stripes than I'd ever seen in one place in my life. I met Denver police detectives, FBI agents, CBI agents, and some Secret Service people who had apparently stopped by just to offer their assistance.

  News helicopters started hovering overhead. Microwave trucks from the local TV stations lined the distant perimeter of the neighborhood.

  I kept asking everyone who approached me whether anyone had been hit by the bullets. I didn't get a straight answer. Two ambulances arrived, one with sirens and lights, the other traveling more incognito.

  I watched two men and a woman wearing FBI baseball caps examine the sewer drain that was closest to my car. I was asked if I would volunteer to allow my vehicle to be searched. I signed a piece of paper that said I would, and a platoon of forensic investigators descended on the car. I was asked if I would volunteer to allow my hands to be tested for trace metals to determine whether or not I'd recently fired a gun. I signed a piece of paper that said I would, and I was swabbed and sprayed for evidence of gunshot residue.

  After about an hour, I was escorted from the gardens adjacent to the tennis house to a location in the mansion for more formal questioning. The formal dining room would have been an appropriate setting but it was still set for lunch. No one was dining. I was led to the back of the house to a sunny room overlooking the rear yard. In other circumstances the setting would have been serene.

&nb
sp; I kept telling myself that I was a witness. That was all. But from the queries being tossed my way over the course of about forty-five minutes, my best guess was that the cops were hypothesizing that I might actually have fired the gun before handing it off like a relay runner to the driver of the white Ford van. As the questions became more insistent I started moving with some rapidity toward a decision to demand to call an attorney. The attorney I planned to call would be my wife, an assistant district attorney. Lauren would know what to do, and would know whom to call next.

  That's when they told me I was free to go.

  Dorothy Levin was waiting for me on the long circular driveway of the mansion.

  I asked if she was okay. She assured me that she was but didn't reciprocate by inquiring about my well-being-instead she pumped me for details about my interview with the cops and feds. Before I would tell her anything, I demanded that our conversation be on background.

  She took a step back from me and glared at me as though I'd just spit on her.

  "What? Background? You're just a witness to what happened. Same as me. Jesus, give me a break. A quote or two isn't going to kill you"

  "I don't want my name in the paper." With an incredibly irritating whine, she said, "Poor baby, you don't want to get involved."

  "Apparently I am. involved. So are you. I just don't especially want the world to know it."

  "Somebody else will find out your name."

  The man who had escorted me from the gardens earlier spotted Dorothy flipping open her notebook, a mechanical pencil between her teeth. He walked over briskly and said, "No press in here, ma'am. You're both going to have to exit the grounds."

  She wasn't the least bit intimidated. She said, "Today, I'm a witness. Thanks so much for your help."

  He pressed.

  "Are you a reporter?"

  "I said I'm a witness. What's your name? You have ID? Who are you with? Are you legal or rental? Let me get my camera, get a snapshot of you. My camera's in here someplace." She lowered her head to her big bag and started a search-and-rescue mission trying to locate the camera inside. I watched her push the jumble of panty hose out of the way.