“When you say they bought him—”
“A new car. A nice apartment off campus. Clothes. Tuition. Grades.”
“Grades?”
Whitman snorted. “Of course. Don’t you know? Barrett graduated with close to a three-point average, even though the man’s as dumb as a post and half illiterate. Now how do you suppose that happened?”
Ben shrugged. “The same way football players always get through college. They take easy courses. They major in phys ed.”
“And they cheat.” Whitman folded his hands across his chest. “Take my word for it. Barrett couldn’t have gotten a degree in basketweaving without help.”
“I find that very hard to believe—”
“Why?” Whitman looked at Ben with incredulity. “You believe they’ll pay him gobs of money to come, but won’t make sure he stays in school. C’mon! They had to protect their investment. Failing students can’t play ball, much less win two national championships. So he cheated.”
“And never got caught?”
“Who wanted to catch him? The ones who should have been doing the catching were the ones who were helping him cheat!” Whitman swore bitterly. “They gave him everything.”
“And,” Christina said softly, “they didn’t give you anything, right?”
“I thought you wanted to talk about Barrett.”
“We do,” Ben said. He pulled his chair closer to the desk. “You must’ve been surprised when Barrett graduated, moved back to Tulsa, became a business success, then the mayor.”
Whitman’s smile thinned and narrowed. “Disgusted, yes. Surprised, no.”
“Being a bit cynical, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m simply being realistic. I’m a pragmatist. If a man rises to fame by cheating, he’s likely to go on cheating till he gets caught. Or, in this case, arrested for murder.”
“Are you suggesting—”
“It’s well known that Barrett bought his way into that corporation by agreeing to be their high-profile spokesman. They told him what to believe, and he believed it, at Rotary Clubs and after-dinner gigs and anyplace else that would have him. He made a lot of friends. And you don’t want to hear the list of charges brought against him when he ran for mayor. He violated every campaign spending regulation in the book.”
“As I recall,” Christina said, “all the charges against Mayor Barrett were dropped.”
Whitman spread his arms open wide. “Like I said, Barrett’s got a lot of friends.”
“Mr. Whitman,” Ben said, “I have some information suggesting that someone may have hired an enforcer—that is, a hit man—to kill Wallace Barrett’s family.”
“What!”
“Neighbors have reported seeing unsavory characters casing the neighborhood—stalking the Barretts, perhaps. People who had no business being there. One of them was carrying a bag that could easily have contained a weapon.”
“That’s absurd!” Whitman pushed away from his desk. “I think this interview has come to an end.”
“Look!” Christina pointed toward the window. “Is that a scissor-tailed flycatcher?”
Whitman turned and looked. “What? Where?”
“Out there,” she said, pointing.
Whitman turned back. “Do we care?”
Christina sat back in her seat, looking somewhat miffed. “Well, it is the state bird, after all.”
Whitman stared at her a moment, then turned to face Ben. “Look, I don’t believe a word of this cockamamie fantasy about a hit man. This is some absurd defense you and Barrett have cooked up to cheat his way out of being convicted. Next we’ll be hearing that he couldn’t help himself because his daddy beat him when he was growing up.”
“Mr. Whitman, I’m taking these allegations very seriously. Are you sure you don’t know anything about this?”
Whitman slowly rose out of his chair. “What are you suggesting?”
“I’ve been following a number of leads, and one of them led me to your office. Your phone number, actually.” Not precisely true, but close enough for present purposes.
“This is an outrage!”
“I’m Barrett’s attorney, sir. I have to follow up all possible leads.”
Whitman’s eyes burned. He stepped out from behind his desk, arm extended. “I want both of you out of my office. This instant!”
“So you’re saying you don’t know this hit man?”
“I’m saying I want you out!”
“He’s been described as tall, thin, goateed, with long brown hair. Wears fatigues. Know anyone like that?”
“Of course not!”
Ben stood firm. “May I take that as a denial?”
Whitman grabbed Ben by the shoulders and shoved him toward the door. “You may take that as an eviction. Get out!”
“But I still—”
“On the count of three, I’m calling Security! One …”
“But—”
“Two …”
Christina tugged at Ben’s arm. “Ben, I’ve spent the night in jail before, and it wasn’t fun. Let’s vamoose.”
They closed the door behind them a split second before they heard Whitman’s resounding “Three!”
“You were in an awful big hurry to get out,” Ben said after they returned to the main corridor. “Aren’t you supposed to be the fearless one?”
“He wasn’t going to reveal anything else. You told him what you know. If he is connected to this alleged hit man, he’s sure to contact him.”
“Yeah, except there’s one minor problem. When he does, we won’t be there.”
“Yes, but being your faithful aide-de-camp, I have prepared for this contingency.”
They continued walking down the corridor. “If you’re thinking you’re going to try that redial trick again, forget it. We’ll never be allowed anywhere near that office. At least not until he’s gone.”
“True.” She grabbed his arm again, and ducked into the ladies’ room.
“Wait a minute!” Ben said. “I can’t go in there!”
“Sure you can. Tout de suite.”
“No!”
“Oh, don’t be so prissy.” She leaned through the door. “Anybody in here?” There was no response. “See? Coast is clear.” She pulled him through the door.
“Christina! Have you lost your mind? This is the ladies’ room!”
“And here I thought it was some wacky kind of elevator. Thanks for the clarification.”
She opened a stall and tried to drag him inside. “Look at you! You’re turning beet red. You get so embarrassed about these guy/girl things.”
“I do not.” He stood firm outside the stall. “I’m not going in there!”
“Well, if someone comes in, do you want to be seen?”
“Good point.” He stepped inside and locked the stall behind them. “So what’s the deal?”
“The deal is, I want to find out what’s going on in Wallace Barrett’s office.”
“From here?”
“Yes.” She set down her huge purse and began rummaging. “With the help of this.” With a flourish, she removed the blue-and-white plastic receiver from her purse and set it on the tank above the toilet.
“Have you taken leave of your senses?”
“Nope.” She turned the dial, switching the receiver on. A red light shone on the front; low level static emerged.
“Why are you carrying that thing in your purse?”
“Because you threw it at me last night, remember? You told me to take it and I still had it in my purse when we were in Whitman’s office.”
Ben’s eyes lowered. “Christina, I’m getting a sinking feeling I’m not going to like what you say next.”