Arlo Goodman heard that and thought, Uh-oh. If she’d slipped out to be with Winter, if Darrell had killed them both, if something had gone wrong . . . He continued working: the state of Virginia doesn’t stop for a simple news story, or a missing brother.
At eleven, he tried Darrell’s cell phone, and it rang but cut out to an answering service. Where the hell was he?
At noon, now seriously worried, he was working at his desk when a thought popped into his head. Darrell and George had only gone to Wisconsin, where the pollster and his secretary had been killed, because of a conversation they’d overheard on the bug in the ceiling of Bowe’s town house. A conversation between Winter and Bowe, with no other witnesses.
Winter hadn’t known the pollster’s name. Had never heard of him. When the killings were done, and Winter had a chance to think, might he have asked, “How did these people get here so fast?”
If he was smart—and he was—he might have suspected a bug. If he suspected a bug . . .
Had he set them up? Jesus Christ: had Winter dragged them into a trap?
By six o’clock, he knew something had happened, but he didn’t know what. He could ask somebody to check on the location of Darrell’s cell phone, but he was unsure whether he should make the request. Better to wait until Darrell was obviously missing, let somebody else notice.
The TV was still on, and he caught Madison Bowe, escorted back to her house by her attorney: she had been talking to the FBI, she said from her porch. She refused to believe that Howard Barber had killed Lincoln; refused to believe that it was all a fraud. Broke into tears for the first time: refused to believe that Lincoln could have done this without giving her a hint; done it to her, as much as anybody else.
A good performance, Goodman thought. In fact, he was riveted.
Not by Madison, though.
The camera swung across the crowd of newsies, clustered on the porch. On one of the swings, it picked up a man leaning against a Mercedes-Benz, a half block away. One arm was braced against a cane.
“That fuckin’ Winter,” Arlo Goodman said aloud to his television set. “That fuckin’ Winter.”
Darrell, he thought, was dead. So was George.
He suspected that he should cry, that he should feel some deep emotional choke at the loss of his brother. He didn’t. He didn’t feel much at all.
What he did do was smile ruefully at the television and think,
Darrell’s dead—and that’s not all bad.
22
They got back to Washington late in the day, went to Jake’s house, unloaded the car, turned on the television. Jake went up to the junk room and got a gun-cleaning kit. When he came back down, Madison, pale faced, said, “There’s a story out that Howard killed Linc and that the FBI knows it.”
“Then they’re probably looking for you,” Jake said. “The media, anyway. Let me check my phones.”
He’d had a call from Novatny early that morning: “Get back to me if you know where Madison Bowe is. We need to talk to her.”
“What do you think?” she asked.
“People may have seen you here,” Jake said. “Neighbors, when we came in. I should call Novatny—but you should call Johnson Black first.”
“That’ll make it look . . .” She paused, shook her head. “Never mind.”
“What?”
“That’ll make it look like I’m trying to hide something—but that’s silly. Everybody in Washington would call their lawyer first.”
Johnson Black arrived thirty minutes later. The guns had been put away, they’d taken showers, the clothes from the cabin were running through the wash cycle. Black was beaming when he came through the door, kissed Madison on the cheek, shook Jake’s hand, said, “Now it’s getting interesting. Jake, if I could talk to Madison alone for a minute?”
“He can stay here,” Madison said. “What do you want to know?”
Black peered at Madison for a moment, then said to her, “I have to warn you that your interests might not be identical. Maybe it’d be better if I talked to you alone.”
“Forget that,” Madison said. “I want him here.”
Black shrugged. “All right. The FBI will ask if you know anything about Howard Barber killing Linc.”
“I guessed. Howard came over, I accused him of it. He more or less confessed, and I threw him out.”
“You didn’t tell the FBI or anyone else?”
“It was two days ago, Johnnie. I was going through a nightmare.”
“All right. When the FBI asks, I’ll advise you to stand silent. If they really want to know, they’ll take you before a grand jury, but they’ll have to give you immunity.”
“If I won’t talk to them, then they’ll know . . . I mean, they’ll really know.”
“Having them know, without going to prison, is better than going to prison. Period. End of story.”
“All right.”
“Besides, if you and Barber had a private conversation, well, Barber’s dead—so who’s there to contradict you?” Madison glanced at Jake, and Black caught it. “What? Who else was there?”
“Nobody. But Jake thinks my house might have been bugged.”
“Uh-oh.” Black looked at the ceiling. “How about this place? Who would have given them a warrant. You think Homeland Security . . . ?”
“We think it’s Goodman,” Jake said. “No warrants, just the Watchmen. Every time Madison has a conversation in her living room, it seems to wind up in the papers the next day.”
“Huh. Well, I know the people who can find it, if it’s there,” Black said. He looked at his watch. “Let’s go. First to the FBI, then home. You’ll have to make a statement to the press.”
He looked at Jake, then back to Madison: “Did you tell Jake? About Barber and Linc?”
“No. Not then. Not until we heard on the car radio that the FBI was looking into it.”
“What exactly is your relationship with Mr. Winter?”
Madison shrugged, then said, “Intimate.”
Black said, “That may not have been wise. To have become . . . intimate . . . under the circumstances.”
“I would have said ‘athletic,’ ” Madison told Black, hands on her hips. “And screw the circumstances.”
Black said, “Okay. Now, let me phrase this next question as carefully and fully as I can. Was Howard Barber suicidal because of his relationship with Linc? If he was, and if you were willing to say that, we might be able to smooth over some embarrassment that everybody’s feeling about his death. We might be able to . . . apply some political salve. Can you say that Howard was suicidal?”
Madison didn’t hesitate: “I pleaded with him not to do anything rash. He seemed absolutely despondent. He had a history of clinical depression. He told me that he’d thought about going along with Linc—when Linc died.”
Black showed a smile, then said, “Let’s call the feds. Jake, you’ve got the connection . . .”
Novatny picked up the phone and asked, “Have you seen Madison Bowe?”
“She’s here, hiding out,” Jake said. “She’s afraid a Watchman will find her and throw her out a window.”
“That’s about eighty percent bullshit,” Novatny said. “I think Barber jumped.”
“That’s not what they’re saying on TV—and the FBI’s not talking to us, if you remember. Ol’ buddy.”
“Yeah, well . . . Is she going to talk to us?”
“She’ll talk to you or a DOJ lawyer. Her attorney’s with her now,” Jake said. Across the living room, Johnson Black wiggled his thick eyebrows. “I don’t know what they’re talking about, but they’ve been in the study for a while.”
“We’re talking about Johnson Black?” Novatny asked.
“Yup. They told me to call you. Do you want to come here, or do you want them to come there?”
“Really?” Novatny was skeptical.
“Really.”
“It’d be more convenient if she came here.”
“Give her half
an hour,” Jake said. “Where do you want her exactly?”
“My office. Call ahead—I’d like to take a walk around the block with you, before we go upstairs.”
“With me?”
“Yup. A chat. Nothing sworn, no wires, no games. Just talk. Two ol’ buddies.”
“See you in an hour,” Jake said.
They went in two cars, Johnson Black leading in his limo, Madison and Jake following. They called ahead and found Novatny waiting at a pull-in parking strip, accompanied by what looked like an intern or possibly a random teenager. Novatny said, “Park where you are.”
“The signs say that’s illegal,” Jake said; a row of signs warned of heavy fines and immediate towing.
“Joshua here is going to guard the cars. He’ll shoot anybody who objects,” Novatny said. “C’mon, Jake. Two hundred yards.”
They went off together, Jake tapping along with his stick, Madison moving up to Black’s limo for a last-minute conference. Jake said, “So. What do you need?”
“I want to know what the White House is doing,” Novatny said. “If we’re about to have nine million pounds of shit land on our heads.”
“Judging from the television . . .”
Novatny stopped and turned. “Fuck the television, Jake. I want to know if we’re going to get hammered. If I’m on my way to Boise, if Mavis is going to get shuffled off to a basement somewhere.” Mavis Sanders was Novatny’s boss. “If I should quit and get a security job before it’s too late.”
Jake shook his head: “Chuck, I honest to God don’t know. The White House cut me loose a couple of days ago, closed the consulting contract. I may be on my way back, though. Something else came up.”
Novatny was interested. “Having to do with this case?”
“Having to do with something serious. Maybe related, maybe not. I can tell you, just between us ol’ buddies, it’s not this penny-ante shit you’ve been dealing with so far. Lincoln Bowe and Howard Barber.”
Novatny rubbed his forehead. “Not like this penny-ante shit? This penny-ante shit? Jesus Christ, Jake.”
“I’m telling you this because we’ve worked together, and I like you, and I like Mavis,” Jake said. “Get yourself braced for something coming from an entirely new direction. Political. You should know about it in twenty-four hours, forty-eight at the outside. I’ll try to get them to bring it directly to you and your office. You’ll be a star for bringing it in. You’ll go in a history book.”
“What do you want? For doing that?”
“Consideration,” Jake said.
“Consideration?”
“Yeah. We want some consideration. If we don’t get it, somebody’s going to shove some consideration up your ass and break it off. With what’s coming, you can look at it two ways—you can decide whether every niggling little procedure’s been followed, or you can go for the substance. If you go for the substance, you’ll be okay. I think. But that’s just me doing the thinking.”
Novatny licked his lower lip. “They’ve got some good hunting out of Boise.”
“Didn’t know you hunted,” Jake said.
“I don’t. That’s what I hear from the guys who’ve been there,” Novatny said. “That’s what they always say. ‘There’s some good hunting out of Boise.’ ”
“Well, that’s one thing.”
Novatny looked up and down the block. Joshua was guarding the cars like a hawk. “I’ll tell you, Jake. I’ve never worried too much about procedure. I’ve always been a substance guy. So’s my whole office.”
“You’re speaking for the office? For Mavis?”
“I am.”
“Substance is good. This new thing that’s coming, it has everybody so scared that we’ve literally been hiding out,” Jake said. “I’m afraid to let Madison out of my sight. I’m afraid somebody’s going to kill her, like those people in Wisconsin.”
“Ah, shit. The new stuff has to do with that?”
“It might. I’m not sure. You’ll know soon enough.”
They finished their walk and Novatny said, “Do what you can, man.” He collected Madison and Black and disappeared into the building, Madison turning to give Jake a finger wave before she went in. Novatny walked beside her, awkwardly straightening and restraightening his tie. If you didn’t know better, Jake thought, you might have thought Novatny was the one being investigated.
Jake got on his cell phone, called Gina in Danzig’s office.
“I need to talk to the man.”
“Things are intense right now,” Gina said. “Let me see if I can find him. I’ll call you back.”
“Tell him it’s critical. He has a real need to know this.”
“I’ll tell him,” she said. Her voice was absolutely neutral.
Fifty-fifty, Jake thought when she’d hung up. Fifty-fifty that they’d call. If they didn’t, he’d really been cut loose.
But Danzig got back in five minutes. “What’s going on?”
“Things are moving. There may soon be a settlement in the FBI/Madison Bowe/guy-thrown-out-the-window situation. My guy Novatny says he’s not interested in procedural matters. Only in substance.”
“You think that’ll hold?”
Jake nodded at his phone. “I do. It’s in everybody’s interest.” The Rule: Who benefits?
“You better get over here. I’ll have Gina put you on the log.”
Gina was five degrees on the warm side of neutral when Jake got to Danzig’s office. She shipped him straight through: “He’s tired. Take it easy.”
Danzig was wary: “There are rumors that you’ve gotten close to Madison Bowe.”
“They’re true,” Jake said. “But I’m still working for you—my loyalty runs to you. You don’t want to know everything that’s happened, but I think we’re in a place where everybody can be accommodated.”
Danzig nodded, and waited. He wasn’t giving anything away.
Jake said, “We need to get the package to the FBI. To Novatny, specifically. Novatny is willing to argue a particular view: that they should stick to the substance of the package, and not nitpick the procedure that got the package to them. So the question is, Where are you with the vice president?”
Danzig exhaled, relief showing on his face. “If they’ll do that . . .”
“We’re in a position to insist on it. I’ve already had a preliminary talk with Novatny, and he agreed; he said he was talking for Mavis Sanders, his boss. They have no idea of what’s coming and we’re delivering it to them. We had an absolutely solid reason for holding it for a few days, to check and make sure that it wasn’t a complete election-year fraud. When we realized it wasn’t, we acted as swiftly as anyone could expect . . . as long as we get it to them soon.”
Danzig nodded. “The vice president will resign tomorrow night. At one o’clock tomorrow afternoon, he’s going to call a press conference for seven o’clock, and he’ll announce that he’s leaving immediately. He wanted time to consult with his brother, which he’s done. If you were in a . . . condition . . . to take the package to the FBI, we thought you should do it, accompanied by the president’s counselor.”
“When?”
“Well, I think before the one-o’clock announcement. Word will start leaking about that time.”
Jake nodded. “I’ll need the originals.”
Using Danzig’s telephone, Jake called Madison on her cell phone. “Are you still talking to Novatny?”
“He’s here. We’re just finishing. And we’re not talking. We’ve offered to talk to a grand jury, if there is one, if we get immunity.”
“Are they going to go for it?”
“Nobody knows yet,” she said. She was crisp, controlled.
“Let me talk to him.”
He could hear Novatny fumble the phone: “Yeah?”
“Tell Mavis that we have a hot political package coming to you tomorrow, just after noon. She should alert the director, but don’t let it outside that circle. That’s absolutely critical. I’ll be at your office
at noon, and you should have a lawyer with you to receive the package.”
“Is this the thing we were talking about?”
“It is—and Chuck, this is going to be the biggest deal since Bill Clinton’s blow job. You’ve got to be ready. You’ve got to be ready to brief the director, you’ve got to be ready for a media blitz.”
“I’ll move. I’m sending Mrs. Bowe home now.”
“Let me talk to her.” Madison came on and Jake said, “There’ll be about a million reporters at your house. I think it’s better to face the music now, rather than hide out.”
“I can handle it,” she said.
“I’m going to come by—I’d like to watch. From a distance.”
Late evening, Jake dealt the cards.
They were at Jake’s house, in the living room, the shades drawn. Somebody had tipped the media, or part of it, anyway, and three media trucks were parked in the street at the side of the house. “I’d have a hard time in prison,” Madison said. She picked up her hand, looked at it, picked three cards and tossed them in the discard pile, and added, “Give me three.”
“You’re not going to prison,” Jake said. He dropped three cards in the discard pile, dealt three to Madison, took three for himself.
“That’s really comforting.” She showed her hand to Jake: “Two sevens.”
Jake said, “Two jacks.”
Madison said, “Damnit, I can’t win with these cards.” She stood up, blew a hank of hair out of her face, and took off her blouse. “The TV people probably think we’re in here plotting strategy.”
“I am plotting strategy,” Jake said.
He collected the cards and shuffled. He hadn’t lost a hand yet. Madison watched him shuffle and her eyes narrowed: “Hey, are you cheating?”
“Would I cheat?” He shuffled a second time, glanced at her. She was watching his hands, and he thought how solemnly she was doing it. She was solemnly playing strip poker. He’d seen her laugh, frown, cry, groan—had seen any number of expressions, including a really nice snarl—but he’d never seen her smile with simple pleasure.
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