"Then it's sleazy as hell."
"Okay. It's sleazy as hell. But I did it, and there it is, and it could be our link to Mattiece."
"Our link?"
"Yes, our link. I thought you wanted to nail Mattiece."
"Did I say that? I want him to pay, but I'd rather leave him alone. He's made a believer out of me, Gray. I've seen enough blood to last me a long time. You take this ball and run with it."
He didn't hear this. He walked behind her to the window, then back to the bar. "You mentioned two firms. What's the other?"
"Brim, Stearns, and somebody. I didn't get a chance to check them out. It's sort of odd because neither firm is listed as counsel of record for any of the defendants, but both firms, especially White and Blazevich, kept popping up as I went through the file."
"How big is Brim, Stearns, and somebody?"
"I can find out tomorrow."
"As big as White and Blazevich?"
"I doubt it."
"Just guess. How big?"
"Two hundred lawyers."
"Okay. Now we're up to six hundred lawyers in two firms. You're the lawyer, Darby. How can we find Garcia?"
"I'm not a lawyer, and I'm not a private detective. You're the investigative reporter." She didn't like this "we" business.
"Yeah, but I've never been in a law office, except for the divorce."
"Then you're very fortunate."
"How can we find him?"
She was yawning again. They had been talking for almost three hours, and she was exhausted. This could resume in the morning. "I don't know how to find him, and I really haven't given it much thought. I'll sleep on it, and explain it to you in the morning."
Grantham was suddenly calm. She stood and walked to the bar for a glass of water.
"I'll get my things," he said, picking up the tapes.
"Would you do me a favor?" she asked.
"Maybe."
She paused and looked at the sofa. "Would you mind sleeping on the sofa tonight? I mean, I haven't slept well in a long time, and I need the rest. It would, well, it would be nice if I knew you were in here."
He swallowed hard, and looked at the sofa. They both looked at the sofa. It was a five-footer at most, and did not appear to be the least bit comfortable.
"Sure," he said, smiling at her. "I understand."
"I'm spooked, okay?"
"I understand."
"It's nice to have someone like you around." She smiled demurely, and Gray melted.
"I don't mind," he said. "No problem."
"Thanks."
"Lock the door, get in the bed, and sleep well. I'll be right here, and everything's all right."
"Thanks." She nodded and smiled again, then closed the door to her bedroom. He listened, and she did not lock it.
He sat on the sofa in the darkness, watching her door. Some time after midnight, he dozed and slept with his knees not far from his chin.
Her boss was Jackson Feldman, and he was the executive editor, and this was her turf, and she didn't take any crap off anyone but Mr. Feldman. Especially an insolent brat like Gray Grantham, who was standing in front of Mr. Feldman's door, guarding it like a Doberman. She glared at him, and he sneered at her, and this had been going on for ten minutes, ever since they huddled in there and closed the door. Why Grantham was waiting outside, she did not know. But this was her turf.
Her phone rang, and Grantham yelled at her. "No calls!"
Her face was instantly red, and her mouth flew open. She picked up the receiver, listened for a second, then said, "I'm sorry, but Mr. Feldman is in a meeting." She glared at Grantham, who was shaking his head as if to dare her. "Yes, I'll have him call you back as soon as possible." She hung up.
"Thanks!" Grantham said, and this threw her off guard. She was about to say something nasty, but with the "Thanks" her mind went blank. He smiled at her. And it made her even madder.
It was five-thirty, time for her to leave, but Mr. Feldman asked her to stay. He was still smirking at her over there by the door, not ten feet away. She had never liked Gray Grantham. But then, there weren't too many people at the Post she did like. A news aide approached and appeared headed for the door when the Doberman stepped in front of him. "Sorry, you can't go in right now," Grantham said.
"And why not?"
"They're in a meeting. Leave it with her." He pointed at the secretary, who despised being pointed at and despised being referred to simply as "her." She had been here for twenty-one years.
The news aide was not easily intimidated. "That's fine. But Mr. Feldman instructed me to have these papers here at precisely five-thirty. It's precisely five-thirty, here I am, and here are the papers."
"Look, we're real proud of you. But you can't go in, understand? Now just leave the papers with that nice lady over there, and the sun will come up tomorrow." Grantham moved squarely in front of the door, and appeared ready for combat if the kid insisted.
"I'll take those," the secretary said. She took them, and the news aide left.
"Thanks!" Grantham said loudly again.
"I find you to be very rude," she snapped.
"I said 'Thanks.'" He tried to look hurt.
"You're a real smartass."
"Thanks!"
The door suddenly opened, and a voice called out, "Grantham."
He smiled at her, and stepped inside. Jackson Feldman was standing behind his desk. The tie was down to the second button and the sleeves were rolled to the elbows. He was six-six, with no fat. At fifty-eight, he ran two marathons a year and worked fifteen hours a day.
Smith Keen was also standing, and holding the four-page outline of a story along with a copy of Darby's handwritten reproduction of the pelican brief. Feldman's copy was lying on the desk. They appeared dazed.
"Close the door," Feldman said to Grantham.
Gray closed the door and sat on the edge of a table. No one spoke.
Feldman rubbed his eyes roughly, then looked at Keen. "Wow," he finally said.
Gray smiled. "You mean that's it. I hand you the biggest story in twenty years, and you are so moved you say 'Wow.'"
"Where's Darby Shaw?" Keen asked.
"I can't tell you. It's part of the deal."
"What deal?" Keen asked.
"I can't tell you that either."
"When did you talk to her?"
"Last night, and again this morning."
"And this was in New York?" Keen asked.
"What difference does it make where we talked? We talked, okay? She talked. I listened. I flew home. I wrote the outline. So what do you think?"
Feldman slowly folded his thin frame and sat deep in his chair. "How much does the White House know?"
"Not sure. Verheek told Darby that it was delivered to the White House one day last week, and at the time the FBI thought it should be pursued. Then for some reason, after the White House had it, the FBI backed off. That's all I know."
"How much did Mattiece give the President three years ago?"
"Millions. Virtually all of it through a myriad of PACs that he controls. This guy is very smart. He's got all kinds of lawyers, and they figure out ways to funnel money here and there. It's probably legal."
The editors were thinking slowly. They were stunned, as if they'd just survived a bomb blast. Grantham was quite proud, and swung his feet under the table like a kid on a pier.
Feldman slowly picked up the papers clipped together and flipped through until he found the photograph of Mattiece and the President. He shook his head.
"It's dynamite, Gray," Keen said. "We just can't run without a bunch of corroboration. Hell, you're talking about the world's greatest job of verifying. This is powerful stuff, son."
"How can you do it?" Feldman asked.
"I've got some ideas."
"I'd like to hear them. You could get yourself killed with this."
Grantham jumped to his feet, and stuck his hands in his pockets. "First, we'll try to find Garcia."
"We? Who's we?" Keen asked.