“Someone claimed the body?” Lyle asked incredulously.
“Yes, and I want to know who. Use your contacts in Seattle Police Department to find out,” he demanded.
“I will, certainly, Brad,” Lyle was disturbed. “I thought all this was over,” he said as he hung up and buzzed Connie Porter. “Connie, I want you to get the police chief on the phone for me. I need to speak with him. Tell him it’s urgent.”
In less than a minute Lyle’s phone buzzed, “Captain Martin is on the line, Mr. Ramsey. The Chief is out of town until next week. Do you wish to speak with him?”
“Yes, thank you, Connie.” Lyle picked up the call, “Captain Martin, this is Lyle Ramsey of Ramsey and Carr. Perhaps you can help our firm with a little information.
We have had an inquiry about a crime victim who may have been without resources for a proper burial, whose name was George Kelshaw. We have a client and his wife who generously provide funds to a homeless shelter and have offered to give Mr. Kelshaw a decent burial, anonymously of course, if no one has claimed the body.”
“That’s very generous, Mr. Ramsey,” Captain Martin replied. “But, as it is the body was claimed and sent to the East Coast for burial.”
“But I thought he was a transient,” Lyle argued.
“Not really, Mr. Ramsey; his body was claimed by a gentleman from the U. S. State Department—I can give you his name, its right here on my desk,” the Captain paused looking through his rolodex. “Yes, here it is, a Mr. Evan Scott. He was a nice fellow, I spoke with him personally. “So I guess, Mr. Ramsey, you can tell the well-meaning folks that it has all been taken care of.”
This news was disconcerting. Ramsey didn’t want to appear too interested by asking more questions, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that there could be an important loose-end not thought about. He immediately placed a call to Brad. “You are right; we may have a problem. The man who claimed the body was a person from the State Department, an Evan Scott. Do you know him?”
“No, Lyle, I don’t, but I will certainly find out who he is when I get back to Washington. You’re sure about this?”
“Yes, Brad I am sure. I believe I made a convincing inquiry on behalf of a Good Samaritan client who wanted to pay for a proper burial. I then spoke to the Police Captain with whom Evan Scott personally negotiated for the release of the body.
“In view of this turn of events, I think perhaps it would be best if nothing more was said or done about Kelshaw for the moment. Call me when you get back to Washington and we will talk about the situation regarding the contracts.”
“Yes, to err on the side of caution is most prudent; your point is well taken, Lyle; thank you for your efforts, I’ll call next week after I have done some investigating.”
✽✽✽
Andrew checked his watch, it was 11:50; he had been told that General Coleman was still in the hotel and he bribed a bellman with a ten spot to give him the General’s room number.
Kincaid knocked loudly on the door of the VIP Suite. Brad was searching the papers for Kelshaw’s obituary to no avail; he threw the papers down to answer the knock. Opening the door Coleman was shocked when he saw Kincaid.
“Good morning, General. I was in the neighborhood and thought I would drop by for a little interview,” Andrew said glibly.
“What the hell do you want, Kincaid? Brad sputtered trying to shut the door, but Andrew had already wedged himself into the room.
“I’m serious, General.” Andrew stated sincerely. “I really do have some questions I would like you to answer.” He glanced around the room and noted the open suitcase on the bed indicating that Coleman was preparing to leave.
“I see you’re planning to depart our fair city, General. That must mean that you have concluded your business here. Was Charlene Thayer the only reason you came to Seattle or were there other reasons as well? Couldn’t be on military business since you are obviously alone and I assume are traveling commercial. No aide and so forth.”
Brad was angry at Kincaid’s intrusion. He knew Andrew was baiting him, but he decided to treat him as he would any other reporter who had invaded his privacy. He would not give way to his growing intense dislike of the journalist. “I’m a busy man, Kincaid! Why I came to Seattle is personal and is none of your business nor is it in any way connected to Charlene Thayer. With that said, ask whatever it is that you want to ask and get out!” he demanded.
“You’re an interesting study, Coleman; I’ve learned a little about you; for example, I know that you came from a coal mining town; from very humble roots actually, you were dirt poor, so to speak,” Andrew watched Brad’s face as he spoke and saw the General stiffen slightly and he knew he had touched a nerve... He continued, looking at his notes, “Let’s see, later you became a protégé of West Virginia Senator Mike Owens. In fact, he was your sponsor to West Point where I see you did well...”
Brad was watching Andrew, wondering what he wanted. He knew that Kincaid was not conducting a conventional interview. It was clearly a fishing expedition. What was he after? He broke in, “I’ll give you three minutes, Kincaid, and then I will have you forcibly removed from the premises,” he said firmly.
Andrew persisted, thumbing through his notes, “I’m getting there, General, bear with me a minute; I see that you married well; a very nice Philadelphia lady.” It was a flat statement. His eyes met Coleman’s. Did he see a flicker? Continuing, “She was a friend of Paul Thayer’s wasn’t she?”
“What are you after, Kincaid?”
“I told you, I wanted a short interview. A few more ques—”
“Bullshit,” Brad cut him off. “You’re after something and you’re down to two minutes.” Brad turned away and walked to the window watching the traffic below and looking at his watch.
“To get back to your story, tell me about your wife, Coleman? She’s stood by you all these years; she must be a special lady. How did she do while you were in Vietnam?”
Brad didn’t answer. He sensed the question had to do with Kincaid’s agenda and he waited.
“Come on, General,” Andrew was pushing. He knew Coleman was angry. “How did you do while you were in Vietnam? I’ve heard you did very well. You saw some combat with the 11th Cavalry, after that you were assigned to Germany. After a while you came back to the States and a couple of plum assignments came along; and now here you are Deputy Director of the Defense Intelligence Agency. And you did well in other areas too, didn’t you?”
Now a cold fury had come over Brad. “What do you mean? Get to the point, Kincaid; remember what I told you about the power of the press not withstanding...don’t push too far!”
Andrew wound up for the pitch. “I just want to know, Coleman, if your lovely wife Olivia, knows about Lia Dupre’? And if so did she know Lia was a spy?”
Brad was visibly shaken; his face had become ashen and it took everything he had to control his rage and surprise. “I don’t know a Lia Dupre’ or anyone else named Lia. I don’t know where you get your information, Kincaid, but you need better sources.” Brad’s voice was low and he emphasized each word like a bullet striking its mark. “Now get out,” he said as he moved to the telephone to call the desk.
“Okay, I’m going. I guess I should consider this to be a hostile interview, eh, General? I would also guess this means that your lovely wife Olivia doesn’t know a Lia Dupre` either. Am I right? Perhaps you should ask her,” Andrew offered a parting shot as the door closed behind him.
Brad used a phone code connecting him to Autovon and dialed a military number. “This is General Coleman, put me through to Dolliver.”
In a moment he heard, “Yes Sir, this is Dolliver, Sir.”
“I have been notified of, and have verified, a possible security breach. I’m ordering surveillance and monitoring of a Seattle Times columnist, Andrew Kincaid, and a woman who may be feeding classified information to unknown sources. The woman’s name is Charlene Thayer. Both are residents of Seattle. Addresses are as follows.�
��
“We’ll get on it right away, Sir. It will be done immediately, Sir. Are there any further instructions?”
“Not as yet; we need to ensure the leak is found as soon as possible. We’ll discuss its termination later.”
Brad finished packing.
1:30 PM
Andrew’s trip to the Olympic had gone better than he had hoped for. He congratulated himself on agitating Coleman. It seemed equitable that the General receive a little of the same medicine he had dished out to Charlene Thayer, and for that matter, to Andrew as well. Andrew’s dislike of Bradley Coleman for a variety of reasons was growing and he was certain Coleman didn’t harbor any warm fuzzies in his direction either.
As he was leaving the hotel he glanced into the dining room and caught sight of County Councilman Bob Mitchell lunching with a former Seattle Mayor who was now a key member of the opposite political party. He watched them briefly, engaged in deep conversation and wondered about the meeting.
He found it interesting that a few weeks ago he would have paid a waiter to eavesdrop; now his interest was only slightly piqued by the meeting. In fact, seeing Mitchell only irritated him. He was still not sure how the situation at the KGM would shake out, but it was becoming clear in his mind that an apology would not be forthcoming.
He entered the lobby of the Times totally preoccupied with his interview with Coleman and at first didn’t hear Wendy say, “Here are your messages, Andy.” Then she called in a louder voice, “Andrew, here are your messages.” And then, “Are you all right?”
“Oh, Wendy, I’m sorry, I--, thanks. I was thinking about something—” mumbling an apology. As he quickly thumbed through the messages, his eye caught the name Jack Hubbard. He noted that the call had come in shortly after he had left for the Olympic.
He dashed up the stairs through the newsroom and stopped in shocked surprise. Sitting calmly in his chair, feet on the desk, reading Andrew’s column was Jack Hubbard.
Jack laughed as he said, “Andy you old son of a gun—I took a chance that you would still be at the Times—how are you? You can close your mouth now.” The tall figure slouched in Andrew’s chair rose to greet him with a half embrace and handshake.
“What are you doing here?” Andrew asked incredulously.
“I figured you’d return to the scene of the crime eventually,” he laughed, tapping Andrew’s column. Jack looked older than the last time Andrew had seen him. He was thinner than the usual 190 pounds he carried on his tall frame, and his dark blonde hair showed strands of silver.
Though he smiled, Andrew noted that some of the merriment in his eyes was gone and a few deep lines were evident on the tanned face.
“Just thought I should stop by and talk about our mutual friend.”
Andrew looked puzzled. “What mutual friend would that be?”
“George Kelshaw, I assume he found you.” Jack answered raising his eyebrows in question.
“Oh, yeah, he found me, sort of. Boy! Do you have any idea what you got me into?” Andrew exclaimed.
“That bad, huh?” Jack smiled, knowingly.
“Well not all of it--,” Andrew, fumbled for the right phrase, but Jack hadn’t noticed.
“I would suppose, since you got caught in the web, that something has happened to George and he didn’t make it.”
“No. No, he didn’t,” Andrew said resignedly. “But now that you’re here, I’d like to know more about him and how the two of you were connected.”
“Andrew,” Jack said, standing and drawing himself to his full 6’ 2” height. “We need to talk in a more relaxed atmosphere. What’s your schedule today?”
“I have to finish my column and then I have a broadcast later this PM. Why don’t we meet for dinner? Where are you staying?”
“Nowhere yet, I thought I’d check in at the Sheraton. I need to get a few hours sleep.”
“No, no, go to the Washington Athletic Club as my guest. I’ll meet you there after 6:00 for dinner. It’s quiet and it will give you time to sack out for several hours.”
“You mean 1800 hours, don’t you?” Jack laughed “You civilian!”
“Oh, right, military time; don’t “civilian” me. Remember, my friend, I was a member of the Washington National Guard--still am,” he said somewhat proudly.
They shook hands, and Jack shouldered his large traveling bag, “See you at the Washington Athletic Club after 1800,” he said appreciatively.
Andrew watched Jack amble past reporters’ desks, pausing to shake hands with those who recognized him, stopping and joking with one or two of the editors.
A feeling of unrest crept over Andrew. Two weeks ago he was satisfied for the moment with his current niche. But George Kelshaw changed all that. Now, even Bob Mitchell didn’t stir any interest one way or the other.
He thought about Charlene Thayer and how much she had impacted his life, in so little time. “Yes, Kincaid, your life has changed,” he said to himself. He would call her later and plan to see her tomorrow.
Turning to the mostly written column Andrew began the process of the last rewrite.
It was 2:30 when the phone rang. Over the usual cacophony of the newsroom he heard Savalza’s voice, “Returning your call, Andy, what’s going on? By the way, since we last talked a couple of things have happened that I thought you should know.”
“Good! When you finish your news, I need to talk to you about something else.”
“Okay, sounds good. “Jim sounded upbeat.” He went on, “Ed Peterson got a lead on one of Monte’s phone records, a call that he made on the night of September 18, at about 2:00 in the morning, to Atlas Window Cleaners. We did a little investigating and found that a crony of Monte’s, one Sal Donato, happened to be on duty as the night watchman for Atlas. Coincidentally, the next day Jake and Leo had their little ‘accident’.”
“So, what...did he do?” Andrew asked, somewhat confused.
“I’m getting to that...” Savalza didn’t like to be rushed in telling his story. “We picked up Sal, and it didn’t take a lot of pressure to convince him that we had him, so he was willing to trade information for a reduced charge. He sang like a bird.
“It seems that he owed Monte a big favor and he also had a big personal dislike of Jake, so he got a ‘twofer’. He paid off the favor and got rid of Jake by fixing the cables on their scaffolding. He was a very busy boy ‘cause he had to hightail it over to the Rainier Tower before they started work that morning, to fix the cables on the pretext of inspecting them for the company. Well, that nearly winds that chapter up; I just have to square things with Labor and Industries.”
“Any more leads?” Andrew asked.
“No, Andy, the ball is in Evan Scott’s court now, but I think you know that, right?”
“Speaking of Evan Scott, Jim, I tried to call you earlier. Scott seems to think that you should order an electronic sweep of Charlene’s house and my apartment.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone until, “Andy, don’t you and Scott think I have enough to do? Now I’m supposed to get someone out to do an electronic sweep? Why? I last saw you on Tuesday, today is Friday and early PM at that; what happened on Wednesday and Thursday to cause Scott to think yours and Ms. Thayer’s places have been bugged?”
“Take my word for it, Jim—and do it, please. And if you find anything, Scott says to leave it alone.”
“Is this still the Kelshaw thing, Andy?”
“Yes, Jim, it is.”
“Okay, Andrew, if Evan Scott wants a sweep—okay—. I thought we were done with this,” he said wearily.
“No, but we’re getting there, thanks, Jim. Bye.”
✽✽✽
Looking forward to dinner with Jack stimulated Andrew. He smiled and shook his head in amazement as he thought about the unlikelihood of a reunion with Hubbard at the Times of all places.
On an upbeat note, he left for the station a little early, prepared to deal with the ‘Bob Mitchell’ problem once and for all
. If he was lucky he might catch station manager, Dan Carmichael in his office.
Dan was there, on the phone, and when he spotted Andrew he waved him into a chair in his office as he concluded the call.
Turning to Andrew he said, “Andy, I hate to bug you, but...” Carmichael leaned back in his chair and tapped his desk with his fingers. Although he was smiling, he was obviously uncomfortable as he continued, “But, this thing with Councilman Mitchell has to be resolved.”
“I agree,” sighed Andrew with relief.
“So, you have written a letter of apology?” Carmichael asked hopefully.
“No,” Andrew declared, “I haven’t. I don’t think that’s the way to resolve the problem.”
“I was afraid that you might feel that way so I took the liberty of drafting a letter of apology for your signature,” he said as he handed it to a surprised Andrew.
Andy read the letter, then quietly and purposefully tore it up.
“You mean you won’t sign a letter?” It was Dan’s turn to be surprised.
“That’s what I mean, Dan,” Andrew answered resolutely. “I can’t apologize when I’ve done nothing wrong. It goes to credibility. Mitchell gave a bad performance; he equivocated on every subject and dodged every question.
“I’ve seriously thought about it, and after listening to the replay of the program several times since, I’m convinced that I did my job as an interviewer.
“Mitchell knew what to expect, I didn’t lay any traps for him. He was playing some kind of political game and so here we are, and I can’t or won’t apologize for doing my job.”
Carmichael looked at the ceiling hands folded on his chest and sighed, “You put me and the station in a helluva’ spot, Andy.”
“Look, Dan,” Andrew spoke with intensity, “We either have a station policy and reputation for getting at the truth, or we don’t. We can’t buckle every time some politico feels that we’ve caused some of his warts to show; or else, why have a program like mine? A letter of apology in this particular case, flies in the face of all that I stand for; and for that matter, all that I believe KGM stands for as well. That’s my position.”
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