“Honestly, no. I’ve looked at this objectively and from every possible angle. The woman lost her child. For that, she has my heartfelt sympathy. But isn’t it possible that instead of being a victim of cruel fate, she’s the victim of unfathomable malice, which drove her to commit the worst crime imaginable? That’s the question that’s got its hooks into me.
“From the start, it smelled fishy. Why’d she call and invite me to meet her? She’s never done that before—not with any reporter I know of. And while we were talking, it was as though she was trying to communicate something without coming right out and saying it. What if that something was a confession?
“If she were anyone other than the First Lady, I wouldn’t have waited this long to investigate her story. I think I owe it to myself to dig a little deeper. And, at the risk of sounding incredibly corny, I think I owe it to our nation.”
“Okay,” Daily said. “Let me ask you just one more thing.”
“Shoot.”
“What the hell are you hanging around here for?”
Chapter Six
After a week of zealously following leads that led nowhere, Barrie’s ardor began to cool. All she had to show for the time she’d spent pursuing the story of Robert Rushton Merritt’s death was frustration.
She’d explored every angle that she and Daily had discussed, but none had panned out. She was trapped in a Catch-22: The story called for a full-fledged investigation, which couldn’t be conducted without revealing the story.
To make matters worse, Howie’s prostate was acting up again—of course, he had regaled her with all the disgusting details—so he’d been grumpier than usual. Jealous over the success of her series, he was assigning her the stories that other reporters refused to do, the ones placed last in the broadcast lineup. She covered them without complaint, and as quickly as possible, so she could spend more time on the story that consumed her.
Even to consider that the First Lady might have smothered her baby son was treasonous. What was the penalty for treason these days? Public hanging? Firing squad?
Barrie had come to fear that she, not Vanessa Merritt, was suffering a mental breakdown. She was hearing voice inflections that weren’t really there, reading hidden meanings into offhand remarks. She should give up this ridiculous notion and concentrate her efforts on the stories Howie doled out to her, rather than hitch her future to a star that would probably explode and form a black hole around her and her career.
But she couldn’t give it up. What if, after a few setbacks, Bernstein and Woodward had given up the Watergate story?
She was in her cubicle, studying her notes in search of another new slant, when the director of the evening news interrupted her concentration. “Yo, Barrie. The intro on the story you did for tonight?”
“What about it?”
“There was a hum in the mike. Howie says you should do an intro live from the set.”
She glanced at the clock on her desk. They were eight minutes from airtime. “In case you haven’t noticed, I got soaked this afternoon, just as we finished shooting the story. My hair’s still wet.”
“And your eye makeup is all…” The hand gestures he made over his own face were discouraging. “But it’s either that or ditch the story. Howie says this is your big chance at stardom.”
“I’m not holding my breath,” she sighed, “but to keep the peace, I’ll do it.” She grabbed her satchel. “If anybody’s looking for me, I’ll be in the ladies’ room.”
“I’ll be out here praying for a miracle,” the director called after her.
After the newscast, Barrie returned to her desk and checked her messages. One was from a crank who’d been calling her for years claiming that the makers of a popular laxative had put a voodoo hex on him that caused chronic constipation. One was from a newly acquired crank, identifying herself as Charlene and reviling Barrie for being dense and just plain stupid. And one was from Anna Chen, her source at D.C. General.
“Anna?”
“Hi.”
Anna Chen’s voice was hushed and cautious, and Barrie noticed that she hadn’t addressed her by name, although she obviously recognized her voice. Barrie automatically reached for a pad and pencil.
“The matter we discussed a few days ago?” the hospital clerk began.
“Yes.”
“There’s no copy available.”
“I see.” Barrie waited, sensing that the woman had more to say.
“The procedure was never performed.”
Barrie swallowed hard. “Never performed? Is it… an elective procedure? Under the, uh, unusual circumstances, wasn’t it mandatory?”