"Not going to tell them, and maybe they won't find out. What do they know?"

"They know Mattiece."

Trope managed a slight smile at this thought. "Where is Mr. Mattiece?"

"Who knows? In the past three years, he's been seen little in this country. He owns at least a half-dozen homes in as many countries, and he's got jets and boats, so who knows?"

Trope finished the muffin and stuffed the wrapper in the sack. "The brief nailed him, didn't it?"

"It's beautiful. And if he'd played it cool, the brief would have been ignored. But he goes berserk, starts killing people, and the more he kills the more credibility the brief has."

Trope glanced at his watch. Too long already, but this was good stuff. "Voyles says we may need your help."

Booker nodded. "Done. But this will be a very difficult matter. First, the probable gunman is dead. Second, the probable bagman is very elusive. There was an elaborate conspiracy, but the conspirators are gone. We'll try to find Mattiece."

"And the girl?"

"Yes. We'll try."

"What's she thinking?"

"How to stay alive."

"Can't you bring her in?" Trope asked.

"No. We don't know where she is, and we can't just snatch innocent civilians off the streets. She doesn't trust anyone right now."

Trope stood with his coffee and sack. "I can't blame her." He was gone.

Grantham held a cloudy fax photo sent to him from Phoenix. She was a junior at Arizona State, a very attractive twenty-year-old coed. She was listed as a biology major from Denver. He had called twenty Shaws in Denver before he stopped. The second fax was sent by an AP stringer in New Orleans. It was a copy of her freshman photo at Tulane. The hair was longer. Somewhere in the middle of the yearbook, the stringer had found a photo of Darby Shaw drinking a Diet Coke at a law school picnic. She wore a baggy sweater with faded jeans that fit just right, and it was obvious the photo was placed in the yearbook by a great admirer of Darby's. It looked like something out of Vogue. She was laughing at something or someone at the picnic. The teeth were perfect and the face was warm. He had tacked this one onto the small corkboard beside his news desk.

There was a fourth fax, a photo of Thomas Callahan, just for the record.

He placed his feet on the desk. It was almost nine-thirty, Tuesday. The newsroom hummed and rocked like a well-organized riot. He'd made eighty phone calls in the last twenty-four hours, and had nothing to show but the four photos and a stack of campaign finance forms. He was getting nowhere, and, really, why bother? She was about to tell all.

He skimmed the Post, and saw the strange story about one Gavin Verheek and his demise. The phone rang. It was Darby.

"Seen the Post?" she asked.

"I write the Post, remember?"

She was not in the mood for small talk. "The story about the FBI lawyer murdered in New Orleans, have you seen it?"

"I'm just reading it. Does it mean something to you?"

"You could say that. Listen carefully, Grantham. Callahan gave the brief to Verheek, who was his best friend. Friday, Verheek came to New Orleans for the funeral. I talked to him by phone over the weekend. He wanted to help me, but I was scared. We agreed to meet yesterday at noon. Verheek was murdered in his room around eleven Sunday night. Got all that?"

"Yeah, I got it."

"Verheek didn't show for our meeting. He was, of course, dead by then. I got scared, and left the city. I'm in New York."

"Okay." Grantham wrote furiously. "Who killed Verheek?"

"I do not know. There's a lot more to the story. I've read the Post and the New York Times from front to back, and I've seen nothing about another killing in New Orleans. It happened to a man I was talking to and I thought was Verheek. It's a long story."

"Sounds like it. When do I get this long story?"

"When can you come to New York?"

"I can be there by noon."

"That's a little quick. Let's plan on tomorrow. I'll call you at this time tomorrow with instructions. You must be careful, Grantham."

He admired the jeans and the smile on the corkboard. "It's Gray, okay? Not Grantham."

"Whatever. There are some powerful people afraid of what I know. If I tell you, it could kill you. I've seen the bodies, okay, Gray? I've heard bombs and gunshots. I saw a man's brains yesterday, and I have no idea who he was or why he was killed, except that he knew about the pelican brief. I thought he was my friend. I trusted him with my life, and he was shot in the head in front of fifty people. As I watched him die, it occurred to me that perhaps he was not my friend. I read the paper this morning, and I realize he was definitely not my friend."

"Who killed him?"

"We'll talk about it when you get here."

"Okay, Darby."

"There's one small point to cover. I'll tell you everything I know, but you can never use my name. I've already written enough to get at least three people killed, and I'm quite confident I'll be next. But I don't want to ask for more trouble. I shall always be unidentified, okay, Gray?"

"It's a deal."

"I'm putting a lot of trust in you, and I'm not sure why. If I ever doubt you, I'll disappear."

"You have my word, Darby. I swear."

"I think you're making a mistake. This is not your average investigative job. This one could get you killed."

"By the same people who killed Rosenberg and Jensen?"

"Yes."

"Do you know who killed Rosenberg and Jensen?"

"I know who paid for the killings. I know his name. I know his business. I know his politics."

"And you'll tell me tomorrow?"

"If I'm still alive." There was a long pause as both thought of something appropriate.

"Perhaps we should talk immediately," he said.

"Perhaps. But I'll call you in the morning."

Grantham hung up, and for a moment admired the slightly blurred photo of this very beautiful law student who was convinced she was about to die. For a second he succumbed to thoughts of chivalry and gallantry and rescue. She was in her early twenties, liked older men, according to the photo of Callahan, and suddenly she trusted him to the exclusion of all others. He would make it work. And he would protect her.

The motorcade moved quietly out of downtown. He was due for a speech at College Park in an hour, and he relaxed in his limo with his jacket off, reading the words Mabry had put together. He shook his head and wrote in the margins. On a normal day, this would be a pleasant drive out of the city to a beautiful campus for a light little speech, but it wasn't working out. Coal was seated next to him in the limo.

The Chief of Staff routinely avoided these trips. He treasured the moments the President was out of the White House and he had the run of the place. But they needed to talk.

"I'm tired of Mabry's speeches," the President said in frustration. "They're all sounding the same. I swear I gave this one last week at the Rotary convention."

"He's the best we've got, but I'm exploring," Coal said without looking up from his memo. He'd read the speech, and it wasn't that bad. But Mabry had been writing for six months, and the ideas were stale and Coal wanted to fire him anyway.

The President glanced at Coal's memo. "What's that?"

"The short list."

"Who's left?"

"Siler-Spence, Watson, and Calderon." Coal flipped a page.

"That's just great, Fletcher. A woman, a black, and a Cuban. Whatever happened to white men? I thought I said I wanted young white men. Young, tough, conservative judges with impeccable credentials and years to live. Didn't I say that?"

Coal kept reading. "They have to be confirmed, Chief."

"We'll get 'em confirmed. I'll twist arms until they break, but they'll be confirmed. Do you realize that nine of every ten white men in this country voted for me?"

"Eighty-four percent."

"Right. So what's wrong with white men?"

"This is not exactly patronage."

"The hell it's not. It's patronage pure and simple. I reward my friends, and I punish my enemies. That's how you survive in politics. You dance with the ones that brought you. I can't believe you want a female and a black. You're getting soft, Fletcher."

Coal flipped another page. He'd heard this before. "I'm more concerned with reelection," he said quietly.

"And I'm not? I've appointed so many Asians and Hispanics and women and blacks you'd think I was a Democrat. Hell, Fletcher, what's wrong with white people? Look, there must be a hundred good, qualified, conservative judges out there, right? Why can't you find just two, only two, who look and think like I do?"

"You got ninety percent of the Cuban vote."

The President tossed the speech in a seat and picked up the morning's Post. "Okay, let's go with Calderon. How old is he?"

"Fifty-one. Married, eight kids, Catholic, poor background, worked his way through Yale, very solid. Very conservative. No warts or skeletons, except he was treated for alcoholism twenty years ago. He's been sober since. A teetotaller."

"Has he ever smoked dope?"

"He denies it."

"I like him." The President was reading the front page.

"So do I. Justice and FBI have checked his underwear, and he's very clean. Now, do you want Siler-Spence or Watson?"

"What kind of name is Siler-Spence? I mean, what's wrong with these women who use hyphens? What if her name was Skowinski, and she married a guy named Levondowski? Would her little liberated soul insist she go through life as F. Gwendolyn Skowinski-Levondowski? Give me a break. I'll never appoint a woman with a hyphen."

"You already have."

"Who?"

"Kay Jones-Roddy, ambassador to Brazil."

"Then call her home and fire her."

Coal managed a slight grin and placed the memo on the seat. He watched the traffic through his window. They would decide on number two later. Calderon was in the bag, and he wanted Linda Siler-Spence, so he would keep pushing the black and force the President to the woman. Basic manipulation.

"I think we should wait another two weeks before announcing them," he said.

"Whatever," the President mumbled as he read a story on page one. He would announce them when he got ready, regardless of Coal's timetable. He was not yet convinced they should be announced together.

"Judge Watson is a very conservative black judge with a reputation for toughness. He would be ideal."

"I don't know," the President mumbled as he read about Gavin Verheek.

Coal had seen the story on page two. Verheek was found dead in a room at the Hilton in New Orleans under strange circumstances. According to the story, official FBI was in the dark and had nothing to say about why Verheek was in New Orleans. Voyles was deeply saddened. Fine, loyal employee, etc.

The President flipped through the paper. "Our friend Grantham has been quiet."

"He's digging. I think he's heard of the brief, but just can't get a handle on it. He's called everyone in town, but doesn't know what to ask. He's chasing rabbits."

"Well, I played golf with Gminski yesterday," the President said smugly. "And he assures me everything's under control. We had a real heart-to-heart talk over eighteen holes. He's a horrible golfer, couldn't stay out of the sand and water. It was funny, really."

Coal had never touched a golf club, and hated the idle chatter about handicaps and such. "Do you think Voyles is investigating down there?"

"No. He gave me his word he would not. Not that I trust him, but Gminski didn't mention Voyles."

"How much do you trust Gminski?" Coal asked with a quick glance and frown at the President.

"None. But if he knew something about the pelican brief, I think he would tell me - " The President's words trailed off, and he knew he sounded naive.

Coal grunted his disbelief.

They crossed the Anacostia River and were in Prince Georges County. The President picked up the speech and looked out his window. Two weeks after the killings, and the ratings were still above fifty percent. The Democrats had no visible candidate out there making noise. He was strong and getting stronger. Americans were tired of dope and crime, and noisy minorities getting all the attention, and liberal idiots interpreting the Constitution in favor of criminals and radicals. This was his moment. Two nominations to the Supreme Court at the same time. It would be his legacy.

He smiled to himself. What a wonderful tragedy.

The taxi stopped abruptly at the corner of Fifth and Fifty-second, and Gray, doing exactly what he was told, paid quickly and jumped out with his bag. The car behind was honking and flipping birds, and he thought how nice it was to be back in New York City.

It was almost 5 P.M., and the pedestrians were thick on Fifth, and he figured that was precisely what she wanted. She had been specific. Take this flight from National to La Guardia. Take a cab to the Vista Hotel in the World Trade Center. Go to the bar, have a drink, maybe two, watch your rear, then after an hour catch a cab to the corner of Fifth and Fifty-second. Move quickly, wear sunglasses, and watch for everything because if he was being followed he could get them killed.

She made him write it all down. It was a bit silly, a bit of overkill, but she had a voice he couldn't argue with. Didn't want to, really. She was lucky to be alive, she said, and she would take no more chances. And if he wanted to talk to her, then he would do exactly as he was told.

He wrote it down. He fought the crowd and walked as fast as possible up Fifth to Fifty-ninth to the Plaza, up the steps and through its lobby, then out onto Central Park South. No one could follow him. And if she was this cautious, no one could follow her.

The sidewalk was packed along Central Park South, and as he neared Sixth Avenue he walked even faster. He was keyed up, and regardless of how restrained he tried to be, he was terribly excited about meeting her. On the phone she had been cool and methodical, but with a trace of fear and uncertainty. She was just a law student, she said, and she didn't know what she was doing, and she would probably be dead in a week if not sooner, but anyway this was the way the game would be played. Always assume you're being followed, she said. She had survived seven days of being chased by bloodhounds, so please do as she said.

She said to duck into the St. Moritz at the corner of Sixth, and he did. She had reserved a room for him under the name of Warren Clark. He paid cash for the room, and rode the elevator to the ninth floor. He was to wait. Just sit and wait, she'd said.

He stood in the window for an hour and watched Central Park grow dark. The phone rang.

"Mr. Clark?" a female asked.

"Uh, yes."

"It's me. Did you arrive alone?"

"Yes. Where are you?"

"Six floors up. Take the elevator to the eighteenth, then walk down to the fifteenth. Room 1520."

"Okay. Now?"

"Yes. I'm waiting."

He brushed his teeth again, checked his hair, and ten minutes later was standing before room 1520. He felt like a sophomore on his first date. He hadn't had butterflies this bad since high school football.

But he was Gray Grantham of the Washington Post, and this was just another story and she was just another woman, so grab the reins, buddy.

He knocked, and waited. "Who is it?"

"Grantham," he said to the door.

The bolt clicked, and she opened the door slowly. The hair was gone, but she smiled, and there was the cover girl. She shook his hand firmly. "Come in."

She closed and bolted the door behind him. "Would you care for a drink?" she asked.

"Sure, what do you have?"

"Water, with ice."

"Sounds great."

She walked into a small sitting room where the television was on with no sound. "In here," she said. He set his bag on the table, and took a seat on the sofa. She was standing at the bar, and for a quick second he admired the jeans. No shoes. Extra-large sweatshirt with the collar to one side where a bra strap peeked through.

She handed him the water, and sat in a chair by the door.

"Thanks," he said.

"Have you eaten?" she asked.

"You didn't tell me to."

She chuckled at this. "Forgive me. I've been through a lot. Let's order room service."

He nodded and smiled at her. "Sure. Anything you want is fine with me."

"I'd love a greasy cheeseburger with fries and a cold beer."

"Perfect."

She picked up the phone and ordered the food. Grantham walked to the window and watched the lights crawling along Fifth Avenue.

"I'm twenty-four. How old are you?" She was on the sofa now, sipping ice water.

He took the chair nearest to her. "Thirty-eight. Married once. Divorced seven years and three months ago. No children. Live alone with a cat. Why'd you pick the St. Moritz?"

"Rooms were available, and I convinced them it was important to pay with cash and present no identification. Do you like it?"

"It's fine. Sort of past its prime."

"This is not exactly a vacation."

"It's fine. How long do you think we might be here?"

She watched him carefully. He'd published a book six years earlier on HUD scandals, and though it didn't sell she'd found a copy in a public library in New Orleans. He looked six years older than the photo on the dust jacket, but he was aging nicely with a touch of gray over the ears.

"I don't know how long you'll stay," she said. "My plans are subject to change by the minute. I may see a face on the street and fly to New Zealand."

"When did you leave New Orleans?"

"Monday night. I took a cab to Baton Rouge, and that would have been easy to follow. I flew to Chicago, where I bought four tickets to four different cities, including Boise, where my mother lives. I jumped on the plane to La Guardia at the last moment. I don't think anyone followed."

"You're safe."

"Maybe for the moment. We'll both be hunted when this story is published. Assuming it's published."

Gray rattled his ice and studied her. "Depends on what you tell me. And it depends on how much can be verified from other sources."

"The verification is up to you. I'll tell you what I know, and from there you're on your own."

"Okay. When do we start talking?"

"After dinner. I'd rather do it on a full stomach. You're in no hurry, are you?"

"Of course not. I've got all night, and all day tomorrow, and the next day and the next. I mean, you're talking about the biggest story in twenty years, so I'll hang around as long as you'll talk to me."