“Burglar. Back there. Not sure if he’s armed.”
“Well, if he is he won’t be for long. Stay right here. Don’t you move.”
Handcuffs in her left hand and mega-light in her right, Wallace charged down the hallway like she was hitting the beach at Inchon. The intruder had apparently recovered enough to give her an argument when she started to cuff him. Bad idea—no such thing as an ex-Marine. I didn’t see what happened, because instead of staying where I was I snuck back into my office. Near as I could reconstruct things from the raw hamburger where the intruder’s face used to be, the blood streaming from his broken nose, and the limp he walked with when the real cops led him off, though, Wallace vigorously defended herself, got his hands cuffed behind his back, then defended herself some more. Except this time kind of a preemptive defense—sort of like the second Gulf War.
I did not pass my time idly while Wallace lent herself to these constructive pursuits. By the time she’d finished with him and D.C. Metropolitan Police officers had shown up, I had accomplished three things: closed out of the Schroeder file on my computer; logged off and turned the computer off; and gotten my scared-and-helpless female look on for the benefit of the constabulary.
Damage Control Strategy,
Day 4
(the first Sunday after the murder)
Chapter Twenty
I made it to five p.m. Sunday Mass at St. Matthews in northwest D.C.—the very last one for that weekend. I guess I could have skipped it. The young black police officer who interviewed me told me that the thug acting like he’d just been Tasered was due to night-vision goggles rather than divine intervention. Seems that if you’re running around in the dark with those things and a sudden bright light flashes right in front of you, it’s like having a strobe light go off in your face, except worse. Even so, to be on the safe side, I snuck into St. Matt’s to tell Monica I appreciated what she’d done, just in case she’d done something.
The reason I almost didn’t make it was that Sunday turned into a real busy day. Let me re-phrase that. Sunday was a bitch. I finally got home with Rafe around two a.m. Woke up after less than six hours of sleep to coffee and toasted bagels, courtesy of my sainted spouse. I’d just scalded my throat with the first gulp when Seamus rang our doorbell. That’s what I said. He didn’t call, he actually drove over and rang our doorbell at a quarter after eight on Sunday morning.
When your boss does that, you can’t really beg off, can you? Rafe found a cup and a seat at the kitchen table for him. Seamus sat down, looking like he was wearing clothes he’d slept in. He hadn’t shaved, and any hair-combing he’d managed was on the perfunctory side. I thought his first question might be something along the lines of, “Are you okay?” Wrong.
“Has the asset been compromised?”
“I take it I am not the ‘asset’ you’re referring to. ’Cause that would be an ungentlemanly question if I were.”
He started to say something vulgar. Then he realized where he was sitting and glanced at Rafe standing about five feet from him. Instead of saying anything at all, he just looked exasperated. Cue Josie with a slightly less smart-ass answer.
“The thug came after me before he could do anything with the Jerzy file. The sprinkler went off in your office, but not mine. The police didn’t take either of the computers, mine or yours, or copy anything. When they asked me what I thought the burglar was after, I told them I didn’t know. So they don’t yet have any particular reason to want to see…the asset.”
“‘Yet’ is right.” Seamus looked a tad dyspeptic. “They’ll have plenty of reasons once they put two and two together—which might be fifteen minutes from now.”
“Or might be never.” I offered him half a bagel, and he shook his head. “Point is, at least as of right now, no one outside MVC has laid eyes on that file.”
“So we’ll say when DeHoic calls. But she’ll assume the burglar came after the file, and she’ll think it’s a funny coincidence that you just happened to be there when he did.”
I shrugged. Once I found out that the FBI had jumped into the case, I had to get a look at the file. Period. The burglar probably found out about the federal involvement even before I did, and late Saturday was the first chance he had to go in. I explained to Seamus about the FBI leak and told him the cover story Rafe and I had worked out to justify my own file review. He went from dyspeptic to sour—a slight improvement.
“Do you really think it’s smart for us tell DeHoic about the FBI’s involvement?” he asked.
“Well, if she already knows, she’ll think we’re hiding something if we don’t tell her. And if she doesn’t already know, telling her will raise the price.”
“You’re right. We tell her.”
“‘We’ as in you, or ‘we’ as in me?”
“You,” he said decisively. “I have to get into the office and see what I can salvage. I’ll bet it’s a royal mess.”
“That would be yes.” I gave him a cheerful nod on his way out the door.
Chapter Twenty-one
DeHoic had the decency to wait until after nine o’clock before she called. Nine-oh-three, to be exact—well after the story first showed up on the Washington Post website. I usually answer my phone “Josie Kendall,” with a cheerful little chirp in my tone, but I barely got the first syllable out before DeHoic repeated Seamus’ question.
“Has the asset been compromised?”
“Nope.”
“What did he get?”
“Nothing.”
Three seconds of silence. I imagined DeHoic wondering whether she should believe a word I said. Based on her next question, she came up with a solid maybe.
“So the Jerzy file is still pristine? No copies, print-outs, or views since we spoke last week?”
“No copies or print-outs. I went through it last night.”
“You WHAT?”
“Looked through the file.”
“That wasn’t the deal, goddammit! Why did you do THAT?”
“Because I found out Saturday night that the FBI is sniffing around that file, without having the gumption yet to come right out and actually ask for it.”
“FBI.” Her voice had suddenly grown calm and quiet, as if she’d just dropped a fast-acting ’lude.
“Right. So I had to make sure there wasn’t anything in it that would obstruct a criminal investigation by disappearing. Only one woman in Washington can get away with destroying electronic evidence, and her name ain’t Josie Kendall.”
“Okay, you looked at it. Did you find a deal-stopper?”
“No. Every scrap of information I saw was either from a public record or from some file the FBI already has access to on its own. Can’t see a reason in the world why we couldn’t turn the file over to you for the useful purposes you have in mind.”
Relieved sigh from DeHoic—the barest minimum thing you could do with your breath and call it a sigh. She had another question all set for me.
“What record did you make of what you saw?”
“None.”
“Not a single note, then?”
“Not a scrap.” My nose was growing, but I didn’t mind as long as it was just metaphorical.
Long pause. Funny, I felt that I could almost hear her thinking, like an echo-chamber voice from inside her head on a TV show. Change our meeting to Monday? No! That would look like panic and jack the price up. Not sure, of course, but I’d bet that’s awful close to her actual thoughts.
“All right,” she finally said. “We’ll proceed with the audit and the meeting as scheduled. Expect my techies first thing Wednesday morning.”
“Got it.”
Chapter Twenty-two
We had a nice respite after that, time to get through the Post and the Times while flipping among the Sunday morning chat-shows before Tony the Lawyer called not long after 11:30. Before handing me the pho
ne Rafe said, “Sure, Tony, let me see if she’s available,” so that I’d know who was calling.
“Tony,” I began, “if you ask me whether the asset has been compromised, you’re fired.”
“From a strictly legal standpoint, it might be better for you if it had been.”
“Well, from a strictly jacking-up-my-year-end-bonus standpoint it wouldn’t be, so I’ll take my chances. Anyway, moot point.”
“Do you think you’ll have an answer for me tomorrow on whether I can dangle anything in front of the Feds?”
“I have an answer for you right now. ‘Yes.’” I described the picture, and explained that nothing in the file reflected badly on me. “But you can’t dangle it until Thursday morning.”
“Shit.”
“For what I’m paying you, Tony, you really ought to put the rough language in Latin. Or French, at least.”
“Merde.” Tony paused while I chuckled appreciatively. “What’s happening between now and Thursday morning?”
“We’re trying to talk someone into stepping into Jerzy’s shoes on the project. Go/no-go by close of business Wednesday.”
“And this person won’t have any objection to the FBI getting a look at that picture?”
“As long as she doesn’t know she won’t.”
“Okay. Please keep me posted. And can you send me a copy of that picture?”
“Sure. Thursday morning.”
Chapter Twenty-three
That took us into the lunch hour. I was ignoring all the calls from reporters, of course. Six, by my count. I was a little hurt that there weren’t more. Guess I wasn’t as important as I thought I was. Anyway, Rafe and I were scratching out a statement that we’d mass-release around ten p.m. No sense in jousting with the ink-slingers before we did the release.
Then, just after I’d swallowed the last mouthful of Boar’s Head ham and Wisconsin cheese with lettuce on whole wheat bread—that’s about half of Rafe’s culinary specialties, the other half being world-class coffee—the caller ID flashing when the phone rang showed Uncle D’s number. I had half a mind to just let it go to voicemail, but an Uncle-D call is like a trip to the principal’s office: best to just get it over with.
“Hi, Uncle D. How are things going?”
“Well, I haven’t heard from you, for one thing. About what we discussed.”
“I’m real sorry about that, but I’ve been kinda busy.”
“So I’ve just read. Sounds to me, Josephine Kendall, like you are in way over your head. Bushwhacking a gangster is one thing, but burglarizing a man’s private office—that is serious business. And I’m betting you are no closer to knowing why that low-life pulled you into whatever his game was than you were the last time we talked.”
“I actually have made some progress on that front, but I have to be discreet about it.”
“Discreet?” His voice rose. “DISCREET? Josie, it has been a long time since I turned you over my knee, but so help me—”
“In point of fact, Uncle D, you never turned me over your knee. Mama wouldn’t let you. And since I’m now twenty-seven years old and we’re blood kin, that idea is sneaking up on creepy.”
“Figure of speech, darlin’.” He used the laugh he does when he’s in full retreat. “Point is, if you won’t fill me in and help me to help you the easy way, I’m gonna have to start making some inquiries on my own.”
“Please don’t do that.” Now I was in full retreat. “You are the very best uncle a girl could hope for, but things changed a lot during your little sabbatical. Folks in Washington aren’t as mentally tough as they were in your day. They get their feelings hurt a lot more easily. You have a way of coming on that can really rub some people the wrong way nowadays.”
“Now where did you hear that, may I ask? Emily Blount, wasn’t it? Two little headlines, and both of them in Yankee newspapers. Hell, Josie, she didn’t lose that election because of me. She lost ’cause she’s all tease and no tit. Simple as that.”
I sighed. Red-alert warnings were lighting up the inside of my head like the Tokyo Ginza during a geisha special. Had to do something, and buying some time was the only thing I could think of.
“Okay, Uncle D, now just calm down. You’re my most important weapon, and I can’t go firing it half-cocked or shooting from the hip with it. I need to use your special expertise at precisely the right moment. So you lie low for a while, and I faithfully promise that I will call you next Saturday afternoon with a complete update, and we’ll have a little consultation then.”
“You wouldn’t be stalling now, would you, Josie?”
“You trained me better than that, Uncle D. You know full well that when I say I’m going to do something, I do it.” Except when I don’t.
“Well, that’s a fact, I guess. But I’m not an idiot, despite what you and Emily Blount might think. I’m not gonna sit on my hands for a week while who knows what roof collapses on you. I’ll hold my fire until Tuesday.”
“The way things are going, Unc, I feel like Tuesday is two hours from now. Can we make it Thursday?”
“Tuesday. And try not to get yourself killed or in handcuffs between now and then.”
“All right, then. I guess.”
I hung up, absolutely exhausted. Drained. I looked up at Rafe—what he calls my “sad puppy” look. He was scratching away on a legal pad at the statement we’d been drafting.
“Problem?” he asked.
“Well, you might say that. Uncle D isn’t gonna be happy until he pulls some stunt that gets my name on the front page of the Post. Above the fold. And I don’t have the first idea what to do about it.”
“Up to you, Josie-belle. If it was me, though—excuse me, if it were I—I’d give him a job to do. Something that will keep him busy in a locale that the average Washington reporter couldn’t find on a map in three tries.”
“What in the world could I come up with for him to do that far from Washington?”
“That might take some thinking.” Rafe smiled wryly at me. “But as your former boss Congressman Temple used to say, ‘If it were easy, a Democrat could do it.’”
Chapter Twenty-four
Rafe’s suggestion actually helped. Really did. Gave me something constructive to do instead of just stewing. Between wracking my brain over busywork for Uncle D and flyspecking our draft statement, I ate up almost three hours. Started to mellow out a bit.
That lasted until a little after three-thirty, when our landline rang. Caller ID said “Wireless Caller” with a number I didn’t recognize, so it figured to be another reporter and I ignored it. Something funny about the voice when it went into voicemail, though. Labored breathing, outside background noise, and words oddly spaced, as if the speaker were talking on the phone while also doing something a lot more physically demanding.
“Josie, this is…Amanda…Amanda Schnabel. Not a…reporter. We…knew each…other back in…the day. If you…can’t…pick up, don’t…call me…back. Repeat.…Don’t call me back. Put my ass on…toast…if you do. I’ll…leave a…time when…I’ll call you…again. Say…tonight—”
I picked up.
“Amanda! Of course I remember you! We met when you were on the staff of the House Subcommittee on Issuing Subpoenas to People Named Clinton, didn’t we?”
“Right.…Uh…Government Affairs.…Yes.”
“You’re not in labor or having an intimate recreational experience, are you, Amanda?”
“No…I’m running. No one…will suspect I’m…using a phone…while I’m…actually running.…Uh, gonna stop now.”
“Thank God.” I looked at the phone like it had just grown horns and started dripping blood. “What in the name of crawfish pie is going on, girl?”
“I’m with the House Executive Branch Operations Committee now. Staff are subject to a permanent anti-leak inquisition. Anytime you make a phone call f
rom the committee offices, you assume that someone has their eye on you.”
“Why didn’t you just call from home?”
“On duty. All hands on deck since the story broke this morning. ‘EMERGENCY! EMERGENCY! THIS IS NO DRILL!’ Committee chair is a fitness freak, though, so going for a run is a way to get outside for a few minutes.”
“When you said ‘the story,’ you didn’t mean that silly breaking-and-entering at MVC, did you?”
“That’s exactly what I meant. You know Saris, right?”
“Yes, of course. Congressman Adler Saris, committee chair.”
“Okay. Well, he’s not just salivating; he’s frothing at the mouth. As soon as he read that story he talked himself into believing that we have a Democratic Watergate on our hands. You know, Democratic Party operative breaking into a Republican think-tank to get political intelligence.”
“Oh no.” I put the heel of my hand to my left temple, because I could already feel the headache coming on. “Oh, no no no no no no no. Oh dear Lord, please not that.”
“’Fraid so, Josie. Unless I miss my guess you’ll get your first tickle from committee counsel sometime tomorrow. You can say you have no idea what was going on. You can say that all you want to. But he’s not going to let it go with that. If you don’t have red meat for him and he feels like he’s not getting to the bottom of this, subpoenas could be flying like confetti by the end of the week. Just wanted to give you a head’s-up. For old time’s sake.”
“I really appreciate this, Amanda.” By now I was talking on automatic pilot while I tried to get my reeling mind to focus—focus on something, anything. “I’ll do my level best to be prepared. And I won’t forget how you came through for me on this. You didn’t have to do it.”
“Okay. Now I have to run back to work. Literally.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Believe me, it was one thoroughly shaken Josie Kendall who started getting spruced up around four-fifteen for Mass at St. Matt’s. A Congressional committee investigation isn’t like a criminal investigation by detectives or FBI agents. A criminal investigation eventually ends. Charges are filed or the case is closed. Once a member of Congress gets his (or her) teeth into something, though, it just goes on and on until every last second of cable news time and every last donation from true believers has been milked out of it. Years and years. Benghazi, IRS/Lois Lerner, Iran/Contra, Tailhook, Army/McCarthy, all the way back to Thaddeus Stevens auditing Mary Todd Lincoln’s household accounts during the War Between the States. Forget the headache; I was getting sick to my stomach. Literally.
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