"You have three messages in the past two hours from a man named Cleve. Says he's a cop. Do you know him?"
"Yes."
"Well, he wants to talk tonight. Says it's urgent."
"I'll call him later."
"Okay. You guys be careful. We'll be here till late, so check in."
Gray hung up and looked at his notes. It was almost seven. "I'm going to see Mrs. Morgan. I want you to stay here."
She sat between the pillows and crossed her arms on her knees. "I'd rather go."
"What if they're watching the house?" he asked.
"Why would they watch the house? He's dead."
"Maybe they're suspicious now, because a mysterious client appeared today looking for him. Even though he's dead, he's attracting attention."
She thought about this for a minute. "No. I'm going."
"It's too risky, Darby."
"Don't talk to me about risks. I've survived in the minefields for twelve days. This is easy."
He waited on her by the door. "By the way, where am I staying tonight?"
"Jefferson Hotel."
"Do you have the phone number?"
"What do you think?"
"Dumb question."
* * *
THE PRIVATE JET with Edwin Sneller aboard landed at National in Washington a few minutes after seven. He was delighted to leave New York. He'd spent six days there bouncing off the walls in his suite at the Plaza. For almost a week, his men had checked hotels and watched airports and walked streets, and they knew damned well they were wasting their time, but orders were orders. They were told to stay there until something broke and they could move on. It was silly trying to find the girl in Manhattan, but they had to stay close in case she made a mistake like a phone call or a plastic transaction that could be traced, and suddenly they were needed.
She made no mistakes until two-thirty this afternoon when she needed money and went to the account. They knew this would happen, especially if she planned to leave the country and was afraid to use plastic. At some point, she would need cash, and she'd have to wire it since the bank was in New Orleans and she wasn't. Sneller's client owned eight percent of the bank; not a lot, but a nice little twelve-million-dollar holding that could make things happen. A few minutes after three, he'd received a call from Freeport.
They did not suspect her to be in Washington. She was a smart girl who was running away from trouble, not to it. And they certainly didn't expect her to link up with the reporter. They had no idea, but now it seemed so logical. And it was worse than critical.
Fifteen thousand went from her account to his, and suddenly Sneller was back in business. He had two men with him. Another private jet was en route from Miami. He had asked for a dozen men immediately. It would be a quick job, or no job at all. There was not a second to spare.
Sneller was not hopeful. With Khamel on the team, everything seemed possible. He had killed Rosenberg and Jensen so cleanly, then disappeared without a trace. Now he was dead, shot in the head because of one little innocent female law student.
* * *
THE MORGAN HOUSE was in a neat suburb in Alexandria. The neighborhood was young and affluent, with bikes and tricycles in every yard.
Three cars were parked in the drive. One had Ohio plates. Gray rang the doorbell and watched the street. Nothing suspicious.
An older man opened the door slightly. "Yes," he said softly.
"I'm Gray Grantham with the Washington Post, and this is my assistant, Sara Jacobs." Darby forced a smile.We would like to speak with Mrs. Morgan."
"I don't think so."
"Please. It's very important."
He looked at them carefully. "Wait a minute." He closed the door and disappeared.
The house had a narrow wooden porch with a small veranda over it. They were in the darkness and could not be seen from the street. A car passed slowly.
He opened the door again. "I'm Tom Kupcheck, her father, and she doesn't want to talk."
Gray nodded as if this was understandable. "We won't be five minutes. I promise."
He walked onto the porch and closed the door behind him. "I guess you're hard of hearing. I said she doesn't want to talk."
"I heard you, Mr. Kupcheck. And I respect her privacy, and I know what she's been through."
"Since when do you guys respect anyone's privacy?"
Evidently, Mr. Kupcheck had a short fuse. It was about to blow.
Gray kept calm. Darby backed away. She'd been involved in enough altercations for one day.
"Her husband called me three times before he died. I talked to him on the phone, and I don't believe his death was a random killing by street punks."
"He's dead. My daughter is upset. She doesn't want to talk. Now get the hell out of here."
"Mr. Kupcheck," Darby said warmly. "We have reason to believe your son-in-law was a witness to some highly organized criminal activity."
This calmed him a bit, and he glared at Darby. "Is that so? Well, you can't ask him about it, can you? My daughter knows nothing. She's had a bad day and she's on medication. Now leave."
"Can we see her tomorrow?" Darby asked.
"I doubt it. Call first."
