“And Denning?”
“Had what to most people would have seemed a productive life. He taught college. Wrote for political journals. Contributed editorial columns to the New York Times and the Washington Post. But he always felt cheated, and he never forgave the grand counselors. In fact, he devoted most of his spare time to researching a book about them, an expose of their ruthlessness.”
“Is that how you know about him? Because of the book?”
“No. The book was never published. Near the end of his research, his house caught fire. All his notes were destroyed. After that, he was a defeated man. Seven years ago, when I was preparing to write a story about Millgate, one of the few people who agreed to talk to me told me about Denning. I came down here to Washington to see him. But he’d been drinking, and what he had to say was all innuendo-he’d once had proof, he insisted, but it went up in the fire-and I finally realized I couldn’t quote him. I never wrote the story, anyhow. After I was arrested and my jaw was broken by those two prisoners in jail, my editor assigned me to something else.”
Driving, Pittman brooded. Thinking of his reassignment had reminded him of Burt Forsyth, not only his editor but his closest friend. The fight in the construction area off Twenty-sixth Street was brutally vivid in Pittman’s memory, Burt stepping back as the gunman came into the shadows, the gunman shooting at Pittman, then at Burt.
Grief felt like arms around his chest, squeezing him breathless. They didn’t need to kill Burt, he thought. The bastards.
“You look awfully angry,” Jill said.
“Don’t you think I’ve got reason to be?”
“Without a doubt. But it’s surprising.”
“How so?”
“When you came to my apartment Sunday, the emotion you communicated was desperation. Your motive was passive-a reaction to being threatened. But anger’s an active emotion. It’s… Let me ask you a question. If somehow a truce could be arranged and the police wouldn’t be after you and the grand counselors would leave you alone, would you walk away?”
“After everything those bastards have put me through? No way.”
Jill studied him. “Yes, you’ve definitely changed.”
“You have no idea how much. This is Wednesday. Remember, a week ago tonight, I was ready to kill myself.”
Jill didn’t react, just kept staring at him.
“Say something.”
“I keep forgetting how deeply upset you were,” Jill said.
“Still am. None of this changes my grief for Jeremy.”
“Yes. You’ll continue to grieve for the rest of your life.”
“That’s right.”
“But if you wanted to die as much as you say you did, why didn’t you let the grand counselors do the job for you? No. In the last week, something happened to you to make you want the rest of your life to go on as long as possible.”
“You.”
Jill touched his shoulder with affection. “But you’d been on the run for a couple of days before you showed up at my apartment. You had plenty of opportunity to give in to your despair. You know what I think?”
Pittman didn’t answer.
“Fear made you feel alive again. While we’ve been driving, you told me how you sometimes have the sense that Jeremy’s with you, that he talks to you.”
Pittman nodded. “You think it’s foolish to believe that?”
“On the contrary, I’ll go you one better. I think Jeremy’s been pushing you into fighting back. I think he wants you to decide to live for something.”
Pittman’s voice was husky with emotion. “That would be nice to believe.” His throat ached as he squinted ahead toward the bright lights and congested traffic in the area of Wisconsin Avenue and M Street.
Jill sounded puzzled. “What’s the problem ahead? An accident?”
Affected by the intensity of what they’d been discussing, Pittman was grateful to change the subject. “No, it’s always this crowded. Wisconsin Avenue and M Street are where the action is in Georgetown-bars, restaurants, nightclubs, shops selling everything you can imagine as long as it’s expensive.”
“Denning lives around here?”
“Not at all. He couldn’t possibly afford it. He lives on his college pension, which isn’t very much. No, when I finally got in touch with him on the phone, I told him I was a journalist doing a story on Anthony Lloyd’s death. I told him so many diplomats and politicians were canonizing Lloyd that I thought a dissenting opinion would give my story depth. I asked him if I could take him to dinner. He was more than happy to accept. He said he planned to go to a memorial service for Anthony Lloyd”-Pittman hesitated-“and then sit down to eat a big meal with me to celebrate.”
10
The restaurant, Il Trovatore, was spacious and soothingly lit, the tables far enough apart that politicians and personalities could discuss delicate topics without being easily overheard. As Pittman walked in with Jill, he glanced to the right toward the bar and recognized a well-known senator. A network news anchorman was eating dinner with an important-looking man at a table to the left. From somewhere, a piano was playing soft jazz. The clink of silverware against plates and the murmur of voices blended with the subtle level of the music, cloaking individual conversations.
“Yes, sir?” The maitre d’ had pinched nostrils, wore a white dinner jacket, and looked disapprovingly at Jill’s sweater, jeans, and sneakers.
“We have a reservation in Bradford Denning’s name.” Pittman had phoned to make the reservation during one of their stops along the interstate en route to Washington.
The maitre d’ glanced at a list of names. “Yes, Mr. Denning has already arrived. He’s been seated at the table.”
“Good.”
But the maitre d’ continued to look with disapproval at Jill’s clothing.
“If there’s a problem with the restaurant’s dress code…” Pittman discreetly handed the maitre d’ twenty dollars from their diminishing supply of cash.
“No problem at all, sir. Come this way.”
The maitre d’ led them toward the back of the restaurant, where a short, thin, elderly but intense man was seated alone in a booth. The man had sparse white hair that contrasted with the fierce brown of his eyes and the red of his cheeks. He wore a gray suit that was somewhat out of date. He was drinking whiskey on ice. A second lowball glass, empty, had been placed to the side.
“Here you are, sir,” the maitre d’ told Pittman.
“Thank you.”
“Enjoy.”
Pittman turned to the man in the booth. “Bradford Denning?”
“Lester King?”
“That’s right.” Because the police now knew that Pittman was using the pseudonym Peter Logan, he had decided that the change was necessary. He was nervously aware that he risked being recognized by Denning, but he had to take the chance. He and Denning had met only once before, seven years ago, and Denning had been so drunk that Pittman didn’t think it likely he would remember that long-ago evening. “This is my assistant, Jennifer.”
“A pleasure.” Keeping a careful grip on his whiskey glass, Denning half got out of his seat in a polite gesture of greeting.
“Please, there’s no need to be formal.” Jill sat next to him.
Pittman took the seat across from him. “It’s kind of you to agree to join us.”
“Kind?” Denning found the comment amusing. “I haven’t been able to afford to eat in a place like this since… too long.”
“I’m glad you approve of my choice.”
“It reminds me of another Italian restaurant that used to be up the street. What was it called?” Denning sipped from his whiskey and shook his head. “Can’t remember. This was back in the fifties. Elegant. Used to eat there all the time. Everybody who mattered did.” He finished the whiskey. “Of course, it’s out of business now. They come, and they go.” He squinted. “Like people…. By the way, I hope you don’t mind.” He gestured toward the empty glasses. “I got here a little early and started ahead of you.”