into this, perhaps I will. But we’re not there yet.”
“What happened to her?” she asked in a subdued voice.
“The other guy was smarter, and more patient. So now she’s a psychiatrist’s wife in Boston. I never see her.”
“Is that why you came to Washington?” Her eyes had softened into curiosity.
I shrugged. “Not necessarily. I had a lot of reasons.”
Mary looked down at the table. She finally spoke. “I’m sorry, Chris. Perhaps I’ve acted badly this morning—under the circumstances.”
She sounded as if she weren’t sure. But then it was a new situation, I thought. For her and for me. And she didn’t know all of it.
Her fingers held my arm now. I stopped drawing my squares and circles. I reached and pulled her up, suddenly wanting to cheat the voice on the phone. My white shirt fell in the corner. Her hair lay on her shoulders, where the collar had touched. The sun made her skin rich olive. It looked warm.
Thirteen
McGuire sat staring at Capitol Hill, where new commissioners were confirmed. His fingers were rubbing the armrest and his feet inched the chair back and forth on its rollers. I wondered if he ever sat still.
He looked up at me. “Sit down, Chris.” I pulled up a chair while he tried on his rubbery smile. It looked sick, like a minister’s smile at a big contributor’s dirty joke.
“You’re late this morning,” he started, then fished for some banter to match his smile. “You out getting laid or something?”
“That’s very droll. Particularly under the circumstances.”
“You can’t lose your sense of humor.”
That would be a shame, I thought. “Why don’t you call the Lehman household, Joe. They’re starving for a joke.”
“Look, I’m as sick about this Lehman thing as you are.” He waited. I didn’t answer. “Did you find out anything in Boston?”
“Not really.”
“Then where the hell were you yesterday?”
“Out getting laid.”
His smile evaporated. “Don’t bullshit around. Where were you?”
“I was at Lehman’s house.”
The chair stopped moving. “I didn’t say you could do that. What were you doing there?” His voice quickened into staccato.
“I was hoping to find something.”
“The day after the guy was killed?” McGuire sounded both appalled and intrigued.
“That’s right.”
“Christ, do you realize how we look? One of our guys bothering people after the husband gets killed. That’s just awful.” His mind shifted. “Find anything?”
So much for compassion. I wondered who else wanted to know. The attaché case sat at my feet, the memo still in it. “Nothing much. Old financial statements, junk like that.”
His eyebrows converged anxiously. “Are you sure?”
Something was wrong. “Did something happen here that I should know?”
The question brought on his cheerless smile. “You’re meeting with William Lasko this afternoon. At 3:30.”
Lasko again. The news hit my stomach like an indigestible lump. I didn’t trust myself to say anything. So I tried to stare out an explanation. His frozen smile was a ghastly rictus of embarrassment.
“Lasko’s attorney called this morning and asked for a meeting.” He paused. “A Mr. Catlow,” he added vaguely.
The last was very cute. I figured McGuire must have almost forgotten Catlow’s name, since Monday. I wanted to remind him, then knock out his teeth. But I didn’t. I waited for more.
He gave it in a reluctant voice, as if the words were extracted by my silence. “Lasko thinks this case clouds his reputation. He’s asked for a meeting to answer any questions we may have.”
That was straightforward enough. But something in McGuire’s voice tipped me.
“Do you have a stenographer to take it all down?”
That was it. McGuire shook his head at the floor, not facing me. “No. This is just an informal meeting.” He tried to say it casually, as if this was our standard routine.
I wanted to do something. Anything but sit. But I sat, and
“What happened to her?” she asked in a subdued voice.
“The other guy was smarter, and more patient. So now she’s a psychiatrist’s wife in Boston. I never see her.”
“Is that why you came to Washington?” Her eyes had softened into curiosity.
I shrugged. “Not necessarily. I had a lot of reasons.”
Mary looked down at the table. She finally spoke. “I’m sorry, Chris. Perhaps I’ve acted badly this morning—under the circumstances.”
She sounded as if she weren’t sure. But then it was a new situation, I thought. For her and for me. And she didn’t know all of it.
Her fingers held my arm now. I stopped drawing my squares and circles. I reached and pulled her up, suddenly wanting to cheat the voice on the phone. My white shirt fell in the corner. Her hair lay on her shoulders, where the collar had touched. The sun made her skin rich olive. It looked warm.
Thirteen
McGuire sat staring at Capitol Hill, where new commissioners were confirmed. His fingers were rubbing the armrest and his feet inched the chair back and forth on its rollers. I wondered if he ever sat still.
He looked up at me. “Sit down, Chris.” I pulled up a chair while he tried on his rubbery smile. It looked sick, like a minister’s smile at a big contributor’s dirty joke.
“You’re late this morning,” he started, then fished for some banter to match his smile. “You out getting laid or something?”
“That’s very droll. Particularly under the circumstances.”
“You can’t lose your sense of humor.”
That would be a shame, I thought. “Why don’t you call the Lehman household, Joe. They’re starving for a joke.”
“Look, I’m as sick about this Lehman thing as you are.” He waited. I didn’t answer. “Did you find out anything in Boston?”
“Not really.”
“Then where the hell were you yesterday?”
“Out getting laid.”
His smile evaporated. “Don’t bullshit around. Where were you?”
“I was at Lehman’s house.”
The chair stopped moving. “I didn’t say you could do that. What were you doing there?” His voice quickened into staccato.
“I was hoping to find something.”
“The day after the guy was killed?” McGuire sounded both appalled and intrigued.
“That’s right.”
“Christ, do you realize how we look? One of our guys bothering people after the husband gets killed. That’s just awful.” His mind shifted. “Find anything?”
So much for compassion. I wondered who else wanted to know. The attaché case sat at my feet, the memo still in it. “Nothing much. Old financial statements, junk like that.”
His eyebrows converged anxiously. “Are you sure?”
Something was wrong. “Did something happen here that I should know?”
The question brought on his cheerless smile. “You’re meeting with William Lasko this afternoon. At 3:30.”
Lasko again. The news hit my stomach like an indigestible lump. I didn’t trust myself to say anything. So I tried to stare out an explanation. His frozen smile was a ghastly rictus of embarrassment.
“Lasko’s attorney called this morning and asked for a meeting.” He paused. “A Mr. Catlow,” he added vaguely.
The last was very cute. I figured McGuire must have almost forgotten Catlow’s name, since Monday. I wanted to remind him, then knock out his teeth. But I didn’t. I waited for more.
He gave it in a reluctant voice, as if the words were extracted by my silence. “Lasko thinks this case clouds his reputation. He’s asked for a meeting to answer any questions we may have.”
That was straightforward enough. But something in McGuire’s voice tipped me.
“Do you have a stenographer to take it all down?”
That was it. McGuire shook his head at the floor, not facing me. “No. This is just an informal meeting.” He tried to say it casually, as if this was our standard routine.
I wanted to do something. Anything but sit. But I sat, and
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