My King The President (10 page)

Cal drove while I worked on my rip sheet. It was too full of
whys
. I reduced them down to the main three:

We found Master Sergeant Joe Mackenzie asleep in a semi-private room, almost unheard of in a Veteran’s Administration hospital. And, he had company. A chubby woman of maybe fifty or so was sitting by his bed, holding a limp hand. She looked up, smiled, and before we could introduce ourselves, said, “I’m Betty Kucinski, Joe’s wife. Well, common law wife, I mean. You men from the government?”

Keeping my voice down, I said, “No, ma’am. I’m Jeb Willard, and this is my father. Just private citizens. We’d like to talk to Sergeant Mackenzie when he wakes up.”

Betty shook her head slowly. Looked back at the ruddy, smooth-shaven face with the military haircut. “So would I. I guess you don’t know, do you?”

“Know what, ma’am?”

“Joe
cain’t
talk. Not to nobody. He’s had a bunch of strokes. Ain’t said a single word since he’s been here. Don’t even recognize me, and I’ve come to see him every day for two straight years. I feed him most of his meals, empty his bedpan, read him the funnies on Sunday, but he don’t even know I’m here. But you know what? I have a lot of faith. One of these days, he’s gonna wake up and know me, and I’m gonna shout glory hallelujah and praise the Lord all up and down these halls. You gents are the first ones not in uniform ever to come see him. That’s why I thought you was from the government.”

“I’m sorry, Miz Kucinski. Really sorry.”

“Oh, thanks, but that’s all right. The Lord moves in mysterious ways. One of these mornings Joe’s gonna pop up outa this bed and want some cold beer and then some never-you-mind. If you’ll leave me your phone number, I’ll let you know when he does. What did you want to talk to him about?”

“I’m a free-lance writer. I’d like to have heard his story. It occurred to me that a lot of people would like to hear about his adventures with General Tyndall.”

“Yeah, he’d have a lot to tell, all right. Too bad.”

I wrote down the Mayflower address and phone number, which she tucked in her blouse. “You gotta have some faith in this world, Mr. Willard. A lotta faith.”

“Yes, ma’am. We do that,” I said, and followed Cal out, feeling absolutely defeated.

On the drive back to Washington, Cal tried his best to lift my spirits, first by filling me in on the latest Tryon’s Cove gossip, which I had no interest in whatsoever, then by relating some of the Tyndall stories he’d written about himself. I paid no attention to those either, until one struck a nerve.

“They say the first twenty days and nights in office, he called every single Federal judge in America personally. It was rumored that he either insulted or bribed a lot of them enough to retire, and then appointed a batch of the hardest law noses he could find to replace them. Until now, I had always wondered where he got his list. Plus, don’t forget, two Justices from the Supreme Court left the bench as well. Garner retired and Brewster died. Old Snow White must have been one busy boy indeed.”

“You’re right, Cal. I had completely forgotten that.”

“An angle to check out, don’t you think?”
It was, for sure, and I promised myself to dig into it.

We parked the car in the Marina lot and took a cab to the Mayflower, having agreed to meet downstairs for dinner again soon as we each cleaned up. Cecil gave me a spare room key; using fewer words than I’d ever heard him say, which surprised me. I usually couldn’t get him to shut up. I took the elevator to my floor wondering why he’d been so close-mouthed for a change. I found out the moment I opened the door and saw all the lights turned on and a man sitting on my sofa.

It was the one who had been with Frye earlier at Ernie’s office. He wasted no time telling me his name, Special Agent Barnes, showing me his FBI credentials, and opened his mouth to say something else, but I got in the first shot. “I hope you have a warrant, mister.”

He pointed to the document lying open on the coffee table. “Right there. By the way, that was a neat little trick you played this morning. I kind of got a kick out of it, but my boss was not amused.”

“What do you want?”

“The diaries, of course. Where are they?”

I gave my room a quick look around. If it had been tossed, there was no sign, but then, these guys were pros. They wouldn’t have left anything out of place, not even a cigarette butt in an overfilled ashtray. I sat down. Sighed. “Go back and tell Frye there are no diaries. I made them up. They were a ruse to get Judge Koontz all riled up, that’s all. It worked, too.”

“You’re telling me McCarty’s diaries don’t exist?”

“Figments of my overactive imagination. Of course they don’t exist. Besides, if they did, do you think I’d be stupid enough to keep them here?” I don’t know why I said that. Maybe I was overtired as well as angry. Maybe I wanted to needle Frye a little more than I should have. Anyway, I said it, and Agent Barnes certainly heard it. “I’ll tell him what you said, Mr. Willard. Count on it. He also had a message for you. Actually two messages.”

“What?”

“The first was to forget about that private phone call you wanted. Abigail McCarthy had a total breakdown when we told her the news about her mother. She’s in a special hospital. No visitors.”

Barnes shrugged. “I’ll be going, now. I think you’ll find everything’s in place. My compliments on your taste in clothes. Nice stuff hanging in that closet.”

The shower I took after he left helped my muscle aches, but not my temper, which was strained further by the knock on my door just as I was putting on my shirt. Cecil came in with his arms full of more clothes, apologizing for taking so long to shop for me. Nevertheless, he wanted to be paid, and with tip, I was suddenly another thousand dollars poorer.

Chapter 9

I slept well into the morning, and woke up worried. After Barnes’ visit, I was sure I’d have a tail on me the moment I left the hotel. Neither could I be certain Frye didn’t know Cal was staying at the Mayflower, and knowing how thorough Frye was, he’d probably have Cal followed as well.

I could have kicked myself for not having thought about that the night before, when Cecil was on duty. Maybe he could help anyway. I went downstairs.

There was no use asking the manager or his assistant to give me Cecil’s phone number. All hotels have policies and rules to protect their employees. But I knew another way. As many times as I’d over-tipped Georgio, the headwaiter, I didn’t think it would cost me too much to get what I wanted. I was wrong. It cost me plenty! I ate an early, light lunch, and walked to the bank of phones in the lobby, noticing two unfamiliar men lounging there, and reading magazines. They were good, I’ll grant them that. I never caught them so much as glancing my way, ready to jump to it if I went out.

I dialed, praying I’d get lucky. A male voice I didn’t recognize answered, told me Cecil was asleep, and “wished to know” what I wanted with him. I told him I was Cecil’s number one business contact, gave him my name, and asked him to have Cecil call me as soon as possible. It was “Something extremely important to me, and very profitable for him,” I said. The voice said he’d give Cecil my message and hung up. I hoped whoever that voice belonged to was the recipient of most of Cecil’s loving generosity, and wouldn’t hesitate to awaken the gander that laid his golden eggs. This time I was right. I hadn’t been back in my room five minutes before my phone rang.

“I love
you
, Mr. Hathaway.”

“Don’t I wish. See you at four.”

I hung up, noticing Cal leave the elevator on his way to the restaurant. I caught up with him, sat down and waited for him to order. “Aren’t you going to eat?” he said.

Cal thanked the headwaiter and followed him to his station. He returned a couple minutes later, saying, “That was Sammy. They just pulled into the marina with your boat. Wanted to know if you wanted a phone hook-up as well as water and electricity. I told him you did.”

I blew out my cheeks. “Nothing I can do until Walt brings that computer.” I glanced at my watch. “Bet you a buck he’s here right after lunch.”

I would have lost that bet. I paced my room until half past three before he showed up, loaded down with boxes. It took him three trips to his car to bring it all up. There was no surface of my room furniture large enough to hold the computer and monitor except the coffee table. “No problem,” Walt said, “I brought an extension cord that’s long enough.”

I called Cal, thinking he might be able to help, since I was hopeless with electronic gadgets. He arrived at practically the same time Walt brought in his final load, and they both began tearing into the boxes. They were maybe half way through their work when Cecil’s familiar knock came. I looked at my watch. Five till four. He was a greedy five minutes early. I asked Walt where he’d parked, then for his car keys, which he handed over without question. Like a kid with a new electric train, he was already absorbed with computer construction. I let Cecil in, led him over by the window, out of the way, and told him what I wanted. With what I was offering, it didn’t take too much arm-twisting.

He was back in less than an hour, and Walt’s Plymouth was now parked in the employee’s area of the basement parking garage, next to the door marked “Hotel Staff Only”; a door, which took a personal magnetic ID card to unlock. Cecil handed me his card and assured me he wouldn’t get into trouble. “I’ll simply report it lost. They will issue me another one. Once you’re inside, take three steps to the right. There is a service elevator that goes to every floor. Anything else?”

“No, not at the moment. You’re amazing, my friend.”

“Glad to be of service.” Ever the gentleman, he pocketed the bills I handed him without counting them.

I let him out and sat down with my rip sheet. The thing that was bothering me the most was the way Koontz had taken my bait. Okay, so he’d set the FBI dogs on me, looking for Mac’s non-existent diaries, and gotten me fired from the paper, but all in all, a relatively mild reaction. Practically anyone with his influence and a reputation to protect would have done the same in a snit. Also, what, if anything, did he have to do with Jean Tyndall’s death, which I knew could not possibly have been a suicide. All of a sudden, a flash came to me. “Walt?”

He looked up from his work. “Yessir?”

“I just thought of something that might narrow your search for those six men. Each of them would’ve had some personal connection with the Judge.”

“Really? Well! That’ll certainly make the cross checking easier. We’re almost done here, and I can get started on it. I’ve tied into my home computer, too. All you need to do is type in my password, which is—”

I had to think fast. “Please listen carefully, Miz Kucinski. Go outside and take a cab to Reilly’s Bar and Grill. It’s in Chelsea. Whatever the cab fare costs, I’ll pay for it. I can meet you there right away. Can you do that?”

I hung up, headed for the door at a run, hoping she had it right. “Walt, I’m borrowing your car for a while. Be back soon as I can.”