High Treason (9 page)

He’d never dreamed that he’d end up reaching bottom on the very day that he first appeared on television. He’d awoken still tired—and, frankly, a little raw and achy in his southern parts, thanks to a series of carnal stunts that startled the hell out of him. It turned out that Becky had studied the
Kama Sutra
. Or yoga. Or maybe was a gymnast in her past life. Either way, it had been a hell of a night. It had apparently been good for Becky, too, because the deep rhythm of her breathing never changed as he reached over her to lift the remote from her nightstand. The clock read 6:59.

Still glowing, he tuned into the
Today
show to catch the top-of-the-hour news. He didn’t learn much that he didn’t already know. The economy was still slogging along on its anemic recovery, the Arabs still didn’t like the Jews, and the American military was slumping back to the meals-on-wheels mission that had dominated it during his childhood years.

At the quarter-hour break, when the “news” show switched to promoting upcoming movies and their stars, he rolled out of bed and padded to the bathroom for morning chores, as his mother used to call them. He’d just gotten the water temperature right for his shower when he heard Becky calling from the other room. Her voice had a touch of panic to it. “David! Come here! Quickly!”

He damn near killed himself dashing back into the bedroom, where he found Becky sitting upright and bare breasted, pointing at the television screen. And what fine breasts they were. He allowed his eyes to follow the line of her finger, and that’s when his world ended. Again.

The television screen had transformed into a giant portrait of his face. Along the bottom, just under his chin, an electronic caption read,
Wanted in Cop’s Murder
. What was it, he wondered, about seeing it on television made it more real than merely knowing it to be true? Just like that, the air in the room seemed to thin and he needed to sit on the edge of the bed, one foot curled under his butt, and the other dangling to the floor, as if to keep him in contact with the reality of the hardwood. Without looking, Becky laid a reassuring hand on his knee.

The newsreader from Washington’s Channel Four said something about the “brutal murder” of DeShawn Lincoln around nine o’clock the previous evening, but David didn’t pay attention to the actual words. He was too overwhelmed by their meaning. This wasn’t just bad news anymore. This was an all-out call for the people closest to him to call the police. If his bank accounts hadn’t been locked out before, they sure as hell were now. At his apartment, his computer and his records and probably his underwear and socks were all in an evidence locker now, being pored over by cops who would sell their souls for the honor of shooting a cop killer.

“We need to move quicker than I thought,” Becky said, and then she was on her feet. “Let’s shower together,” she said. “It’ll save time.”

That had been two hours ago.

Now, he sat on a bench in Farragut Park with the collar of his new down coat standing high and a stocking cap pulled low against the bitter cold. If there was one ray of sunshine to be found in the black pall that his life had become in the last twelve hours, it was the fact that the frigid weather made it easier to be disguised.

He sat on the bench nearest the western side of Daniel Farragut’s towering statue, keeping a close eye on the mouth of the Farragut West Metro Station. Becky had called the other party for this meeting under the auspices of introducing him to a news source. She and David had both been surprised that he’d agree so readily, and that fact alone added more stress to the day.

At a few minutes before nine-thirty, Grayson Cantrell emerged from the shadows of the subway station and stood at the corner of H Street and Connecticut Avenue, waiting for the light to turn, and for the red sign to turn white so that he could cross the street to the park. Seventy pounds overweight and bearing the ruddy complexion of a heavy drinker, Cantrell was to David part of the last of the old-school Washington journalists, for whom research meant a phone call to an old buddy, and source development meant buying a couple of rounds at lunch. At least thirty years younger, David didn’t so much feel sorry for the old guy who’d been caught in a weird time warp as he did envy him for having lived the life of the reporter that he’d always dreamed of one day being.

Cantrell didn’t seem the least bit anxious or even curious about what lay ahead as the light changed and he strolled across the street and entered the park. In the summer, this was a place of Frisbee games and impromptu concerts. This time of year, however, Farragut Park was merely a place of transit, a spot for commuters to hurry through, on their way to their offices in the morning, and to their homes at night. Of the precious few who occupied the park benches, the vast majority were homeless people who lay insulated in a dozen layers of fabric.

Grayson Cantrell walked right up to David and sat down. “How’s life as a fugitive?” he asked.

David’s insides melted at the question. “You knew?”

True to the overall image, Cantrell wore an old-style London Fog trench coat—with the wool lining installed—the collar of which he scrunched up around his throat as he helped himself to the seat next to the younger man. “Knew what?” he baited. “That you were you, or that you were wanted for murder?”

“Um, both.”

“I’ve known since last night that you were suspected of killing that cop,” Cantrell explained. As he spoke, he seemed more interested in the passing crowd than he did in David. “But I thought from the beginning that that was bullshit. You’re a lot of things—most of them less than complimentary—but I don’t see you as a murderer.”

David found himself smiling. “Thank you.”

“For what? I’m neither a jury nor a cop who’d mortgage his nut sack for a chance to shoot you. As for knowing that you were you, well, suffice to say that disguises are not your long suit.”

David pulled his hat further down on his ears.

“Is it safe to assume that you put Becky up to calling me?” Cantrell asked.

David cleared his throat. “Well,” he said. It was all he could come up with.

Cantrell chuckled. “Let me amend my last comment,” he said. “Deception in general is not your long suit. Tell me what is going on.”

David didn’t know precisely how he thought this meeting was going to go, but he knew for a fact that this was not it. He’d been shitty with Cantrell for both of the two years that he’d been at the
Enquirer
, and as such, Cantrell had every right to be shitty back to him. This niceness routine made him uncomfortable. It took David the better part of ten minutes to catch Cantrell up on the essential elements of what had transpired in the last twenty-four hours.

Cantrell listened intently through the whole recitation, and when David was finally done, he let out a low whistle. “Jesus, David. You’re in serious trouble.”

“I knew that.”

“No, I mean
serious
trouble.” He pulled his hands from his pockets, cupped them, and blew into them before stuffing them back. “If what you and your friend are implying is true, then the Secret Service is framing you for murder. In my experience, if the feds want to hurt you, you’re going to end up hurt.”

David scowled and stretched his neck on his shoulders. This wasn’t turning out to be as helpful or empowering as he’d hoped.

“So, why did you call me?” Cantrell asked.

“You know everybody,” David replied. “You have forty years’ worth of sources, and I’m going to guess that they’ll be happy to talk with you about anything. I need to know what I’m really up against.”

“And you can’t approach these sources yourself.”

“Exactly,” David said. “After watching the news this morning, I was close to ratting
myself
out. Their case seems damn strong. Except, you know, for the part where they’re completely wrong.”

“Jails are filled with the innocent,” Cantrell said. “Just ask them.” As he spoke, he continued to seem more interested in the crowd than he was in David.

David craned his neck to check what he was checking. “What are you looking at?”

“For,” Cantrell said. “I’m looking
for
anyone who might see through your brilliant disguise. Unlike you, at this precise moment in time, I still have a great deal to lose.” It was classic Cantrell, simultaneously insulting and helpful.

“Why did you come if you knew I was going to be here?” David asked. At this point, life was literally too short to be subtle.

When Cantrell looked at him this time, David caught the first glimpse of real kindness in the grumpy old fart’s eyes. Nestled under thick, droopy lids and surrounded by squint lines, the irises were a remarkable blue, nearly gray. “First of all, I didn’t
know
you would be here. I merely suspected. But to your larger point— why am I here alone instead of with a SWAT team in tow—I told you before that I thought from the very beginning that the news reports were wrong.”

Grayson placed a hand on David’s shoulder in a fatherly gesture that stirred emotion in David’s throat.

“My boy, I am an old man. I’d been three times around the block before Woodstein got their first sniff of Watergate. My first big story was the DC riots of sixty-eight. Over that many years, you get a sense for people, a kind of sixth sense that is more compelling than any curriculum vitae. It’s never let me down.”

David scowled. “I don’t—”

“Listen,” Cantrell said, finishing the sentence in a way David had not intended. “You don’t listen. And that’s a terrible flaw in a reporter. It’s also a trait common to every reporter your age. Hell, maybe it’s common to every
person
your age.” The statement ended in a glare that somehow froze David’s vocal cords.

“In any event, while I find you to be arrogant, narcissistic, and in general way too full of yourself, you have never for a moment impressed me as a person capable of murder. Sitting here next to you, I’ve seen nothing to change my mind.”

For a second, David wondered if the appropriate response was to thank him. On further consideration, though, finding no compliment, he decided not to. “Still,” he said, “I appreciate you taking the chance and coming to see me. I wanted to ask you a favor.”

Cantrell held up his hand for silence.

Yeah, and I’m the arrogant one
, David didn’t say.

“Your friend DeShawn Lincoln was not liked among his fellow cops. My sources have independently referred to him as twitchy, paranoid, obnoxious, and one who bristled at authority. The phrase common to all sources was ‘pain in the ass.’ And please know that I mean no offense to the dead, or to your friendship.”

David scowled. “You’ve already started looking into the case?”

“I’ve been at my desk since six this morning. I’m always at my desk by six. All of this notwithstanding, those who knew him all agreed that he seemed genuinely unnerved yesterday. Two actually used the word ‘frightened
.
’ The law of the police locker room being what it is, though, no one ventured to ask him why.”

“I assumed that he didn’t want to talk to his fellow cops because he feared that they were in on whatever bad things were happening,” David explained.

“Oh, how I love to depend on assumptions. They have served me so well over the years.” Cantrell did sarcasm better than most. “Based on what your friend Becky told me on the phone, I did some research on the shooting at the Wild Times Bar the other night. Before I get into it, though, tell me again what your friend said about the Secret Service.”

David shook his head. “He didn’t really
say
much of anything. There was just a mention that whatever bad things were happening, the Secret Service might be involved. Beyond being the victims of the shooting, I mean.”

“He suspected that the Secret Service might have shot their own?”

David checked himself before answering. “Admittedly another assumption,” he said, “but that’s what I got by reading between the lines.”

Cantrell inhaled deeply, and ran the back of his hand between his neck and the collar of his coat. “Interesting indeed,” he said. He scanned the park one more time, then poked David with his elbow. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s walk and talk.”

They headed north, away from the White House, which lay only three blocks to the south. As they headed toward Connecticut Avenue, it occurred to David that every morning and evening, the Secret Service closed this road in a rolling roadblock as the vice president headed back to his residence in the Naval Observatory. David’s legs felt stiff after having sat for so long.

“In such a short time, I haven’t had a lot of time to speak with witnesses,” Cantrell said. It was his habit to start with an apology before launching the game-changing revelation. “One of the bartenders, though, is friends with my nephew, and he told me that he thought for sure that Anna Darmond was there when the shooting started.”

David felt his jaw slacken. “The First Lady?”

“Exactly she.”

“The president’s wife. In a sleazoid bar.” David had a hard time wrapping his head around that one.

“She’s famous for nighttime jaunts,” Cantrell said. “And that would explain the Secret Service presence.”

David cocked his head as he tried to connect the dots. “So, you’re saying this was an attempted assassination?”

“I’m saying nothing of the sort, because no one can prove that Mrs. Darmond was even there. Andy Wahl, the ABC White House stringer for NBC, sort of floated the question during the morning news briefing, but the suit behind the lectern piffled the question away, as if to say such a thing was preposterous.”

“Did he actually
say
it was preposterous?”

Cantrell gave him a disappointed look. “Does this administration ever actually
say
anything?”

David tried to make it work in his mind. “Why wouldn’t it be all over the news? That’s not exactly a little thing.”