Mounting Fears (19 page)

“All right, all right,” he said, raising both hands. “Will you let me know more about Ned Partain?”

“The Panama City police will deal with you on that,” Holly said. “Good day.” She rose and walked out of the office, satisfied with her day’s work.

As she passed the reception desk, a skinny, slightly disheveled young man wearing a backpack was talking with the receptionist. “But I have to see Gaynes right now,” he said. “Ned Partain is out of town, and this is too important to wait.”

“I told you, he’s with somebody,” the woman replied.

Holly pressed the elevator button. “Not anymore,” she said. “Mr. Gaynes is entirely free.”

“What is your name again?” the secretary asked.

“Felix Potter,” the young man said.

The elevator arrived, and Holly got on.

“It’s about some very important tapes,” the young man said.

The elevator door closed, and Holly rode down.

35

FELIX SAT IN THE RECEPTION ROOM AT THE NATIONAL INQUISITOR FOR MORE THAN three hours, getting hungrier and hungrier but determined to see Willard Gaynes. Finally, the receptionist got up and went to the ladies’ room, and Felix saw his chance. He was through the door and into the editorial offices before the woman had a chance to get her knickers down.

He stopped for a moment and assessed the layout of the floor. There was a sea of desks in a large newsroom, and offices, apparently for higher-ranking people, along the walls. Where would he sit if he were Willie Gaynes? he asked himself. The corner office, that’s where.

Felix walked purposefully along one side of the newsroom, not dawdling but not hurrying, either. He was wearing a necktie and his best jacket, so he wasn’t dressed too differently from how the other men present were dressed. The corner office was dead ahead, and the door was closed. He stopped, took a deep breath, let it out, rapped on the door, opened it, and stepped in.

Gaynes was sitting at his desk, talking on the telephone. He looked up at Felix and put a hand over the mouthpiece. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

“I’m one of Ned Partain’s best sources, Mr. Gaynes, and Ned told me that if ever I couldn’t reach him about something important I should come directly to you.”

Gaynes pointed at a sofa. “Sit over there and shut up,” he said, then went back to his phone conversation. “Señor, please give me the name and number of that funeral home,” he said, then jotted down the information. “Can you tell me, señor, was this accidental or a homicide?” He listened. “All right, I understand that the official investigation will take some time, but can you give me your personal opinion, based on your experience as a police officer?” He listened again, and his face grew more serious. “Thank you, señor,” he said. “Please call me at this number should you learn anything new about the case, and may I call you again, if I have any questions? Thank you, señor, and good-bye.” He hung up and turned to Felix, but he said nothing. He seemed to be deep in thought.

Felix waited him out, and suddenly Gaynes seemed to snap out of his reverie.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asked, as if he hadn’t asked before.

“I’m Felix Potter, Mr. Gaynes, one of Ned Partain’s sources. Ned told me to contact you if I had something important and couldn’t find him, and I can’t find him.”

“That’s because Ned is in Panama, playing the role of corpse,” Gaynes said. “I’ve never lost a man due to violence before, and I’m having a little trouble digesting it.”

“Ned has been murdered?” Felix asked.

“It appears so. That’s the opinion of the Panamanian police officer I just spoke to, anyway. You’ve worked with Ned, you say?”

Although Felix had set eyes on Ned Partain only once, in a coffee shop in the building, he saw an opportunity. “Yes, sir, and I’m extremely sorry to hear about Ned’s death. Is there anything I can do?”

“You can tell me what’s so important that you come barging into my office unannounced,” Gaynes said, appearing to recover himself.

Ned held up his briefcase. “Mr. Gaynes, I have something in here of national importance, something that could have an important effect on the presidential race.”

Gaynes sighed. “Spit it out, kid. This has been a bad day all ’round, and there isn’t much of it left.”

Felix opened his briefcase and took out a small CD player. He got up and walked toward Gaynes’s desk. “I have a recording of two people here that’s going to knock your socks off, Mr. Gaynes.” He set the little machine on Gaynes’s desk and switched it on.

“This better be two celebrities fucking,” Gaynes said.

“Almost,” Felix replied. The two voices began speaking, their conversation broken, then there was a gap, and they spoke again.

“What’s with all the interruptions?” Gaynes asked. “And why do I care about this?”

“These people were on a cell phone and were recorded just outside the White House,” Felix said.

“What, you’re telling me they’re White House staff? That’s certainly not the president’s voice. This guy doesn’t have a southern accent.”

“Sir, what does it sound like to you that they’re doing?” Felix asked.

“Doing? They’re certainly not fucking. I’ve heard a lot of recordings of people fucking, and that’s not what they’re doing.”

“No, sir, but they’re talking about fucking.”

“Well, I guess you could draw that conclusion,” Gaynes said, “but I wouldn’t want to have to prove it in court. Why do you come in here with crap like this?”

“Because the man is the vice president of the United States,” Felix said.

“The vice president is dead,” Gaynes said. “Don’t you watch TV?”

“Not that vice president, the new vice president,” Felix said.

Gaynes squinted at Felix. “Play it again,” he said.

Felix played it again.

“Well, he’s got the deep voice and no accent,” Gaynes said. “He sounds like Dick Nixon. Why do you think it’s what’s-his-name?”

“Martin Stanton, sir. I’ve had an expert compare this recording with Stanton’s press conference on TV, after he was picked to be the veep. It’s the same voice.” This was a bald-faced lie, but Gaynes didn’t know that.

“Well, Stanton is getting a divorce,” Gaynes said. “Who’s the woman?”

“I haven’t been able to nail that down yet, sir.”

“What city is she in?”

“I’m not sure about that, either.”

“Who recorded this?”

“I did, Mr. Gaynes. My car is equipped to intercept cell-phone conversations.”

“And you were at the White House?”

“I was driving around the neighborhood of the White House, sir.”

“Play it again,” Gaynes said.

Felix played it again.

“It does sound like Stanton,” Gaynes admitted. “Who’s your expert?”

“I’m afraid I have to keep that confidential, sir. He thinks this is too hot to touch.”

“Well, it’s hot only if it’s Stanton and only if he’s fucking this woman and only if we can find out who the hell she is.”

“I think it’s a pretty good start, sir.”

Gaynes pressed the eject button on the machine and removed the disc. “You leave this with me, and I’ll have it checked out by an expert I trust. If he says it’s Stanton, then we’ll talk.”

“We need to talk now, Mr. Gaynes,” Felix said. “We need to agree on a deal, if what I’ve told you is confirmed.”

“All right, I’ll give you a grand, cash, right now, and another ten grand, if it checks out.”

“I’m going to need twenty-five thousand, if it checks out,” Felix said.

“I’ll pay you that when Stanton’s voice is confirmed and the woman is identified,” Gaynes said. He swiveled his chair around, opened a safe, and counted out some money with his back turned. “Here’s your grand,” Gaynes said. “Give me your phone number and get out of here.”

Felix gave him a card, picked up the money, and got out of there.

36

HOLLY USED HER CELL PHONE TO GET THE ADDRESS OF THE LAW FIRM OF BARTON & Falls, which turned out to be in a seedy part of Washington in a commercial strip mall, next door to a bail bondsman. The plate-glass windows had been darkened with film stuck to them, and the door was locked, but there was a doorbell and intercom. Holly rang it.

“Yes?” a voice said.

“I want to see a lawyer,” Holly said.

“What’s your problem?”

“My husband has just been arrested for possessing a firearm and drugs.”

A buzzer rang, and Holly pulled open the door. A woman of about forty, not unattractive, sat at a desk in the small reception room, filing her nails. The remains of a sandwich rested on a paper bag, next to a cardboard coffee cup, which was next to a large handbag.

“Everybody’s at lunch,” the woman said, shoving a sheet of paper and a pen across the desk before returning to her nails. “Fill out this form.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Holly said. “Are you Darlene Cole?”

“Who wants to know?” the woman asked.

Holly held up her FBI ID. “FBI. Let me see some ID.”

“What’s this about?” the woman asked.

“Don’t make me ask you again,” Holly said.

“I don’t have to show you any ID,” the woman said.

Holly returned her ID to her handbag, set it on the floor, raked the sandwich and coffee cup off the desk, grabbed the woman’s handbag, and turned the considerable contents out onto the desk.

“Hey!” the woman yelled.

“Shut up, unless you’d rather be handcuffed and interviewed at the federal detention center.” Holly found a wallet amid the detritus of the handbag contents and inside that, a Maryland driver’s license in the name of Darlene M. Cole.

Holly went to the front door, locked it, and returned to the desk. “Let’s make this short and sweet,” she said to Darlene, holding up the photo of Teddy Fay. “You met this man some years ago, and he told you his name was Fay, is that correct?”

“What if it is?”

“His name is not Fay—Fay has been dead for some time. This man is an American intelligence officer currently assigned to a foreign country. You made the mistake of believing him when he told you he was Teddy Fay and the further mistake of trying to expose him to Ned Partain of the
National Inquisitor.
As a result, Mr. Partain is dead, and the agent’s life is in jeopardy, and you have committed a serious violation of the National Defense Act that could get you detained for up to a hundred and twenty days without being charged or seeing a lawyer. If you are convicted you’ll do up to twenty-five years in prison.”

“You’re crazy, lady. I don’t know anything about this,” Darlene said, pushing her chair back against the wall.

“I want all the prints of the photograph, and the negative,” Holly said, “and I don’t have time to argue with you.”

Darlene’s eyes swiveled toward her wallet on the desk, then snapped back to Holly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Holly produced a pair of handcuffs. “You are under arrest for a Title I violation of the National Security Act,” she said. “You do not have the right to remain silent, and you do not have the right to an attorney for the first one hundred and twenty days of your detention. Stand up and put your hands behind your back.”

Darlene sat wide-eyed and unmoving. Holly walked around the desk, jerked her out of the chair, threw her against the wall, and handcuffed her. “Sit down,” she said, shoving her back into the chair.

Holly picked up the wallet and emptied it of its contents: credit cards and photographs. She flicked through the pile until she found a small envelope, which yielded a strip of thirty-five-millimeter negatives. Holding it up to the light, she compared the frames to the photo of Teddy Fay. “Right,” she said. “Where are the prints?”

Darlene said nothing.

“All right, let’s get out of here,” Holly said. “We’ll continue this discussion in a cell downtown.”

“I don’t have any prints,” Darlene yelled, bursting into tears. “I gave them all to Ned Partain.”

“If you’re lying to me, I’ll find out,” Holly said. “Under the act, you’re eligible for extreme interrogation techniques, and you’ll tell me everything.”

“I swear I don’t have any prints,” Darlene sobbed. “You’ve got the negatives, so take them and leave me alone.”

Holly jerked her to her feet and unlocked the cuffs. “As I told you, Ned Partain is dead, murdered, and you could be next. You’d better not breathe a word to a soul about my visit, and you’d better forget you ever talked to Partain, or you could be joining him down at the morgue in Panama City, do you understand me?”