Death of an Intern (15 page)

“I've got things happening in and around my organization I am not happy about,” he said bluntly. “Don't ask. I will only get angrier, and that's not safe for me or anybody around me.”

A rare rebuff from the big man. This wasn't my day. Max was the personification of control. However, there were exceptions when he could be the devil himself. His fire could get forge hot. We drove in silence past the National Zoo, through the Cleveland Park Village of shops and restaurants, and into the driveway of my apartment complex. He pulled up to the front.

“Thanks for the ride. I'll be good, I promise.”

He looked at me somberly. “I'm only a phone call away.”

I put my hand on his arm. “I know.”

I got out and walked into the foyer of the building. It was then, with me safely inside, that he put his car in gear and drove away. No matter his mood, Max was always caring.

My cell phone rang. It was Marsha. Kat had a softball game that evening on the Ellipse beginning at 6:30. After some deliberation, I thought it was worth the try. Marsha said Grayson would most likely be there. I told her I'd alter my appearance and be there around 7:30.

Marsha seemed very solid, showing no problem with setting up the rendezvous. She demonstrated considerable maturity. Maybe Jerry's firm could use a paralegal, aide, or whatever for the summer.

D
onna Talbot entered Frankie Grayson's office carrying a paper.
“Frankie, you've got to see this.”
“It must be something by the expression on your face.” Grayson was intrigued and took the paper. “Well, what do you know? It doesn't say how badly she was hurt.”

“She was taken to Virginia Hospital. They probably x-rayed and sonogrammed her, since she's pregnant.”

“Maybe her pregnancy is why she was so caught up with Janet.”

“The police report gave a sketchy account of the accident. Four cars, fender benders, except the reporter's that got flipped over on its side.”

“That wouldn't be too good for a baby, would it?”

“It might not be too good for her either. It'll be all over the news. Maybe the serial killer will see her as a potential victim.”

“Do I sense a little irony, Donna? I don't care what happens to her. All I care is that she leaves us alone. You coming to the game?”

“No. I need a night to chill out.”

M
ax and Mr. Brown agreed on the Old Post Office (OPO) building, almost across the street from FBI headquarters, for their hastily called meeting. The OPO, an ugly building to some, survived several threats of demolition during the twentieth century. The bicentennial in 1976 rescued it. With its tall bell tower, the brick building was a highly recognizable sight along the Pennsylvania Avenue skyline.

The restoration turned the OPO into boutiques and eateries on its balconied levels. It quickly became a tourist mecca with information stands, guided tour booths and souvenir stores. There was a large, open space on the main floor where small entertainment productions performed.

“Dapper Davis,” Max's private moniker for the special agent, was punctual. The agent had procured a private meeting room off the second balcony. “Since our visitors can be subpoenaed, we often meet here,” said Davis, a.k.a. Mr. Brown. They went up a wide, open, ornate staircase that dominated the center of the huge atrium, which is what the OPO mostly was. A lot of air under glass.

This would not be a friendly chitchat like their first meeting. Max did not like his people being mistreated or taken advantage of. True, Laura didn't work for him, but he considered her very much a part of him. His
don't tread on my people or I will tread on you was
well known at MPD and to those who covered his beat. He believed in loyalty up and down.

Once inside the room, Davis did not wait. “There are many good reasons why we did what we did. We need to know whom we were dealing with. We need to know what she's thinking. We need to know who she knows.”

Max had calmed considerably since dropping off Laura. The drive back downtown had given him a chance to collect himself mentally and emotionally. “You used what I said in confidence to tap one of my people. And yes, we will consider Ms. Wolfe one of my people. Worse, she was with a person who should have remained anonymous.”

“Max, I told you, we have a wider interest than who fathered Janet Rausch's baby.”

“So have I. Ms. Wolfe was meeting with her contact at my request for an investigation I was doing,” he said forcefully.

“We've been looking into activities in the Executive Branch as well,” the special agent said defensively.

Max didn't know if what he just heard was true. He felt the Bureau was out of the loop and wanted in. He challenged the agent. “What are you looking into?”

“I'm not at liberty to say. It's outside your investigation or Ms. Wolfe's interests.”

Max fixed his eyes on the FBI agent. “This is a two-way street. You better be at liberty or this is over.”

“Okay. We could use some inside contacts in the Vice President's office, and Ms. Wolfe might be of value to us.”

“So you aimed a telescopic boom mike at her.” Max knew he had the advantage and pressed it.

The agent was uneasy. “We got more than we thought we would, but so did Ms. Wolfe, I'm sure. She made a couple of calls after Morgan left.”

“One was to me. As I mentioned, I was the reason for that meeting.”

“Right. So you know what she learned.”

“Is your concern with the Vice President's sister being lesbian?”

“No. We've known that. She had a few problems, Morgan outlined one of them, but she stays under the radar, and frankly that's her business.”

He sounded a bit unsure.

“Does any of this have to do with Janet Rausch?” Max asked, wanting to get this conversation back on track.

“We think Ms. Wolfe's desire to bring closure to this for the Rausch family is admirable, but not—”

Max couldn't resist a big grin, which stopped Brown mid-sentence. “Ms. Wolfe is many things, but she is first and foremost a newspaper reporter. She is an investigative reporter with stripes. It makes me feel good to know she has you under her veil.”

“Veil? What's that supposed to mean?”

Max had thrown the agent off stride. “She says she wants to find the father, and she does, because she is not without heart. However, she is also not without imagination. It's a good cover for her more in-depth investigation. She met Janet Rausch twenty-four hours before the woman was killed. She identified Ms. Rausch's body at the crime scene. We had no clue as to her identity.

“Without that innocent meeting, you and I wouldn't be sitting here, and I would be out doing what I'm paid to do: chase killers. You see, Ms. Wolfe took advantage of her jump on the world and sought out the roommate. By evening, we knew of the pregnancy clinic connection because of that effort on Ms. Wolfe's part.

“Police and reporters have an interest in the victims of a crime. I'm sure you do too. Ms. Wolfe went deeper than that. She was not assigned to the killing of Thalma Williams. She knew Janet Rausch. That accident today? It could have been an attack on Ms. Wolfe.

“She said things in her second article that may have some people concerned. It got your interest. Curiously, the only ones blowing smoke are ones in the Vice President's office. It may be purely political, the VP's image and all, having nothing to do with the killer. And then again, it might not.

“Laura Wolfe learned about Tishana Rice from Marsha Hines. Those two confirmed Rausch was pregnant before our autopsy. Ms. Rice escorted Janet Rausch to the 2nd Street Clinic. Neither you nor the media had any knowledge of what Ms. Wolfe had uncovered until her article was printed.

“You allowed a minute ago that your interest piqued because Laura Wolfe wanted to know who got the young lady pregnant. So, I repeat, that is not idle curiosity. She wants to know because of what she alone has learned. She wants to know even more after being stonewalled by the Vice President's office. She has it on very good authority that Ms. Rausch didn't date. However, there were nights she didn't come home. Ms. Wolfe has also learned that most all of Ms. Rausch's social life involved work.”

“That's why we tapped her,” Mr. Brown squeezed in, “which, I promise, won't happen again. We needed to know why she was suspicious. We didn't know where or how she learned what you just told me. You are right, although I'll deny saying this. We are interested because Ms. Wolfe has stirred the pot.”

“And you now want Laura to aid you in your investigation?”

“No. We want to deal with her only through you. We don't deal with amateurs.”

“I'd be careful what you say.”

“She's a reporter. Granted, she's been around police work, and she lucked out a few years ago freeing that husband who was all but prosecuted—”

“Again, I'd be careful what you say.” Max lowered his voice, but his eyes remained halogen lamps on high beam.

Davis cleared his throat. “I don't mean anything personal. I clearly see what Wolfe's done, but when she uncovers something, we'll take it from there. We'll help wrap up Rausch and find the father. The director said so himself.”

Max noted that Mr. Brown had dropped the polite honorific to Laura. His manliness was being challenged. He could get rattled. A good thing to know. It helped to know who was in the foxhole with you.

“As long as her editor wants her on this story, that's how long she will be on it,” Max said, locking in on the special agent's eyes. “You and I have nothing to say about what she does, and she'll be the first to tell us that.”

“But you're her friend. Her husband's friend. She's pregnant.”

“She's a reporter.”

Mr. Brown pondered that. “We don't want to see her get hurt.”

“You know what might get her hurt? Your misuse of the information you illicitly gained from her conversation with Morgan.” Max grunted a laugh. “Even without your resources, I bet she'll come up with an answer before you do.” He knew that was a big swing at the Davis ego.

“Come on, that's insulting, there's no reason…we want to work with—”

“And I with you. There are places MPD can't go, but you can. As it relates to the Rausch killing, we welcome your assistance. However, I suggest you leave Laura Wolfe alone. Let her do her thing. She will tell me everything, because that's how she and I do it. If you want to watch her, I can't stop you. But if you do, be prepared to help her if she runs into trouble. We can work together, but we need to respect each other's abilities. I want to catch a serial killer.”

“We do too.”

“Good.”

The somewhat contrite Mr. Brown reached into his inside coat pocket and took out some folded papers. “Considering the lashing you just gave me, these will seem more like peace offerings than the background information we've compiled. But I do have some things for you and Ms. Wolfe.”

The honorific had returned. He wants peace. “Not for publication?” Max asked.

“Right. We researched the White House group of women nicknamed the Interns. They were also called the
Octofems
early on according to Ms. Wolfe's contact. One woman, Elizabeth ‘Beth' Carr, now works for the Labor Department. Rumors say she left over a broken relationship. We don't know with whom.”

“Somebody in the Vice President's office?”

“Not sure. However, it appears Carr came into some good fortune about that same time. She had been renting an apartment in the District, but soon after departing the VP, she purchased a two-bedroom, two-story condo in Arlington, putting down a hefty cash payment.”

“Family?” Max asked.

“We're checking. She also paid twenty-five thousand in cash for a new car. By law, the dealer had reported it.”

“Pregnant?”

“We don't think so.”

T
he Ellipse is located between the White House and the Washington Monument, north of Constitution Avenue. It is probably best known for where the White House Christmas-tree-lighting ceremony takes place. The rest of the year, it is the permanent setting for the Pageant of Peace.

A light breeze brought smells of pretzels and hot dogs across the field from the vendors along 15th Street. A softball field diamond was located in the northwest corner of the Ellipse. I took a ten-minute cab ride from the apartment, got out at 17th and New York Avenue, and walked through a perimeter of trees to behind the home plate backstop.

I had dressed like a jogger, my medium-length hair pulled back into a short ponytail that protruded out of the gap in my baseball cap. My T-shirt and running shorts gave me a youthful appearance, I thought. I had a water bottle strapped to my fanny pack.

I saw Grayson at bat. She hit a fly ball that the centerfielder misplayed into a double. Kat came up next and hit a ground ball inside the third base bag and down the line. Grayson scored and Kat ended up on second due to sloppy play.

I located Marsha, and we eventually made eye contact. The next batter walked. A guy lined the ball into right center, scoring Kat. I saw I wouldn't have to worry about Grayson; she was totally into the game.

During an inning changeover, Marsha sidled up to me. We chatted about the game. I could see Marsha was enjoying herself, conceivably for the first time since Janet's death. I suspected the young law student might have tapped the tap, so to speak; she seemed very up and brought the smell of beer with her. I mentioned Grayson's playing.

“She's good. Hit a home run her first time up. Kat's good too, hits the ball well, had a single before you got here.”

“Any chance we can meet with Kat?” I hoped.

Marsha shook her head. “I'm afraid not.”

A bunch of concerns clogged my brain. “Oh?”

“It's because of her boyfriend over there in the dress shirt. He came straight from work. They're going out afterward.”

“But the door is still open?” I asked anxiously.

“I guess.”

I knew not to push. “Good. Set something up when you can.”

“Sure. You want me to ask her anything?”

I didn't know how
inside
Kat might be. Still, it was worth the try.

“Do you think Kat might know who fathered Janet's baby?”

“She knew Janet was pregnant, but I don't know about the guy.”

“Don't make it an obvious question, wait until Janet comes up in conversation.”

“Okay.” Marsha was off, back to the tap.

I wandered over toward the Pageant of Peace. A placard read “Pathway of Peace. Surrounding the National Christmas Tree are 56 trees representing all 50 states, five territories, and the District of Columbia.”

I walked the circular path, stopping at Wisconsin. I reflected about mom and dad, but only briefly. I headed for 15th Street and a taxi stand.

I got home a little after 9:00. Chilled by the apartment's air conditioning, I pulled off my damp T-shirt and went into the bathroom for a towel. I slipped off my running shorts and dried off, and then went to the kitchen and was about to pop open a beer. Oops, no alcohol. I replaced it with a bottle of water and returned to the bedroom. A little self-inspection was in order. I opened the closet door with its floor-length mirror.

I stood profile to it and rubbed my pudgy stomach that had been somewhat pudgy before I became pregnant. Actually, it was more soft than pudgy, I rationalized. I took a swig of water and looked myself over. Well, Jerry loved me, and that was all that mattered.

I grabbed a fresh T-shirt from the dresser, threw the towel toward the bathroom, and walked back into the living room. I had seen the phone's red light blinking earlier, but needed to change first. I punched
messages
.

The phone voice announced, “You have three messages. First message.”

“Do you know where your husband is?”

It was Jerry. That nut. He made me smile.

“Hi, I'm just going out for dinner. I'll have my phone. How are you feeling? Give me a call. Love you.”

“Second message.”

“I was afraid you wouldn't be home. It's 7:45.” Max clicked off.

“Damn.”

“Third message.”

There was no voice. I heard what I thought was heavy breathing, and then it went to dial tone. It wasn't the first time something like that had happened.

I thought of Max's call. He didn't call at night. Something must be up. That other call had to be a wrong number; our phone number isn't listed. I felt a chill and slipped on the T-shirt. I went to the kitchen and took down a loaf of whole wheat bread and a jar of peanut butter. I made a sandwich. No jelly. Just leave me my peanut butter.

I made the mistake of getting comfortable on the sofa. I awoke with a start to the ringing of my phone. The clock on top of the entertainment center read 10:25. I reached for the phone. “Hello.”

“I'm glad to hear you are home.”

“Oh, Max, I forgot. You woke me, but I'm not in bed,” I blabbered.

“I won't ask where you were. I received an interesting call from an associate. However, it is too sexy for the phone. Since you are without a car, I shall pick you up at 7:30. We'll have coffee and a bagel from that little place down the street from you.”

“Decaf for me. You're going to leave it at that?”

“Have to. Nothing to lose sleep over, and remember you are sleeping for two now. Did you tell your boss?” He hung up.