But my assumption is that Flynn Coe and russ Claven and the forensic types hold the key to this one. Not us." e decided to drive home to Boulder late Sunday morning on Highway 40 instead of Highway 9. The route would take us through Granby, past Winter Park, and over Berthoud Pass before it intersected with 1-70. For the first hour that we were on the road the traffic was minimal, the air outside was more warm than cool, and the midday sky above us a pale and soothing blue that was the color of glacier ice.
As we neared Silver Creek I asked Lauren, whose nose was buried in the Sunday newspaper, if she could guess what Mary Wright wanted.
She spent the next minute or so folding the newspaper down the spine, then over the fold, then once more in half. She rested the project on her lap, turned my way, and said, "Who knows? Statute of limitations, grand jury rules, trial protocols, special prosecutors. Could be just about anything."
"No guesses?"
"No. No guesses."
We arrived home by about 1:30. Adrienne and jonas were out somewhere and they'd left Emily in her dog run. I assumed that there had been a protracted argument between mother and son about why Emily couldn't go with them wherever they were going.
I emptied our things out of the car, played with the dog for a few minutes, opened some windows to ventilate the house, and started a load of laundry before I called Diane and told her I was back in town and back on my beeper. She said my patients had been good while I'd been gone. No emergencies. We talked about things friends talk about for a little while before I thanked her for covering, hung up, and checked messages on the home machine.
Our contractor for the renovation project that we'd done the previous year, Dresden Lamb, had returned my call about a leaking down spout and some disintegrating grout in the new shower. He promised that he'd take care of both problems the following week. My friend Sam Purdy had called inviting me to loiter-his word-with him at North Boulder Park during his son Simon's last soccer game of the season.
There were two hang-ups.
The last message was from a woman named Dorothy Levin. Her succinct message wasn't directed toward either Lauren or me. She said, "Hi. My name is Dorothy Levin. I'm with the Washington Post" She left a number with a 202 area code-which I knew from my recent Lo-card experience was indeed Washington, DC.-and concluded with, "Please return my call at your earliest convenience."
Lauren heard the message, too. She asked, "Is that for you or for me?"
"I think it must be for you."
"Bull. It's for you."
"I bet it's Locard business. Washington Post? It has to be."
"How would a reporter with the Washington Post know about us being involved with Locard?"
"How did they know about Monica Lewinsky?"
"I don't want to have that discussion again," Lauren admonished me, "Ken Starr has managed to do for prosecutors what O. J. did for Heisman Trophy winners.
Should we return Ms. Levins call?"
"No, I don't think so. Kimber's instructions were to 'no-comment' the press and to let him know about any contacts we receive. We should just let him or A. J. know she called and not worry about it." Lauren said, "Until we return her call, we don't actually know whether or not we've been contacted about Locard business, do we?"
Her argument was persuasive, as usual.
"Okay," I said, "then you go ahead and call her back."
She was already walking away from the general vicinity of the phone.
"No. I think you should. This may just be another Jonbenet cold call. I'm tired of them and I don't even want to think about taking another one. You promised you'd field them for me while I was pregnant."
"You haven't had one of those for months."
She leaned over and knocked on the pine table in front of her.
"Thank God for small favors."
I had promised I'd shield her fromjonbenet calls.
"Okay, on the unlikely premise that this might be yet another reporter writing a true-crime book about Jonbenet, I will return Dorothy Levin's call. But… it's only because you're pregnant and beautiful."
"Actually," she said, lowering her T-shirt off one shoulder, "I'm beautiful and I'm pregnant."
"Whatever you say. I'm not about to argue. Pretty soon you'll be bigger than me so I have to be careful." Two seconds later I successfully dodged a pillow that was whizzing past my head.
The number in D.C. was that of Dorothy Levin's home phone. She answered breathlessly after two rings. She said, "Hell-o." The emphasis was harsh and clearly on the "hell."
"Dorothy Levin, please."
"You got her."
"This is Alan Gregory returning your call from Colorado."
"Yeah? Good, good. Great. What a surprise. Hold on a second." I heard background noises as though she was fumbling around for something.
"Listen, is it Mister or Doctor?"
What?
"You still there? Is it Mister Gregory or Doctor Gregory?"
I had enough of my wits about me to ask, "Am I being interviewed about something?" She sighed.
"I didn't say on my message? I'm a reporter with the Washington Post and-"
"No, no. You didn't say that you were a reporter. Only that you were with the Post"
"Really? That's not like me. I'm an honest person and I'm pretty sure I-"
"I'm happy to play back the message for you. Would you like me to play your message back for you?"
Another sigh.
"That won't be necessary." The sarcasm was spread thick, like peanut butter on Wonder bread.
"Listen… okay, okay. This isn't going like I had planned. I'm not smiling at the moment-you know what I'm saying? I'm just not a happy person when things don't go well at the beginning.
Whadya say we start over?" She didn't wait for me to concur with her request.
"Here goes. This is my new intro:
Hello, Mr. Gregory? I'm Dorothy Levin. I'm a reporter with the Washington Post.
How are you today?"
She was so out-there that I played right along with her.
"I'm fine, Ms. Levin.
How are you?"
"Great, great. Hey, what I need-" She caught herself falling back out of character.
"Sorry. Sorry. I'm doing well, thank you. I'm so sorry to interrupt your weekend, but I'm doing this story about fundraising practices in the early congressional campaigns of Representative Raymond Welle. Your name was brought to my attention as someone who-"
"How? How did you get my name?"
She slapped something. Hard. The sound cracked like a steak dropped on the counter.
"Oh, damn. And we were doing so much better the second time around.
That question really ruins things though. The momentum? It's a fragile thing in interviews. You know I can't tell you how I got your name. There are rules.
Journalism rules. You ever hear of Watergate? Confidential sources, stuff like that? Deep Throat ring a bell? Let me see-do you want to just back up and pretend you didn't really ask that question? Or do we need to start all over again?"
I laughed. She laughed. I heard her strike a match and light a cigarette. She sucked hard on it before she spoke again.
"You still there? You didn't hang up on me, did you? Can't stand it when that happens."
"I don't know anything about Welle's campaign financing."
It sounded like she was trying to spit a speck of tobacco out of her mouth. Was she really smoking non filters I tried to imagine a Camel hanging from her lips, smoke circling toward the heavens carrying the souls of dead smokers to their reunions with God.
She said, "Go on."
I laughed again.
"I'm not going on, Ms. Levin. I don't have anyplace to go on to. I don't know anything about Raymond Welle and his campaign financing." She didn't respond immediately. But I thought I could hear the squeaky sounds of someone writing quickly with a felt-tip pen.
She was jotting down everything I said.
I decided that it was prudent to either shut up or hang up. But I couldn't decide which. So I waited.
She did, too. Patiently. For about twenty or thirty seconds. Then she said, "Okay? Yeah?"