“Okay, I’m going. I guess I should consider this to be a hostile interview, eh, General? I would also guess this means that your lovely wife Olivia doesn’t know a Lia Duprè either. Am I right? Perhaps you should ask her,” Andrew offered a parting shot as the door closed behind him.
Brad used a phone code connecting him to Autovon and dialed a military number. “This is General Coleman, put me through to Dolliver.”
In a moment he heard, “Yes Sir, this is Dolliver, Sir.”
“I have been notified of, and have verified, a possible security breach. I’m ordering surveillance and monitoring of a Seattle Times columnist, Andrew Kincaid, and a woman who may be feeding classified information to unknown sources. The woman’s name is Charlene Thayer. Both are residents of Seattle. Addresses are as follows.”
“We’ll get on it right away, Sir. It will be done immediately, Sir. Are there any further instructions?”
“Not as yet; we need to ensure the leak is found as soon as possible. We’ll discuss its termination later.”
Brad finished packing.
1:30 PM
Andrew’s trip to the Olympic had gone better than he had hoped for. He congratulated himself on agitating Coleman. It seemed equitable that the General receive a little of the same medicine he had dished out to Charlene Thayer, and for that matter, to Andrew as well. Andrew’s dislike of Bradley Coleman for a variety of reasons was growing and he was certain Coleman didn’t harbor any warm fuzzies in his direction either.
As he was leaving the hotel he glanced into the dining room and caught sight of County Councilman Bob Mitchell lunching with a former Seattle Mayor who was now a key member of the opposite political party. He watched them briefly, engaged in deep conversation and wondered about the meeting.
He found it interesting that a few weeks ago he would have paid a waiter to eavesdrop; now his interest was only slightly piqued by the meeting. In fact, seeing Mitchell only irritated him. He was still not sure how the situation at the KGM would shake out, but it was becoming clear in his mind that an apology would not be forthcoming.
He entered the lobby of the Times totally preoccupied with his interview with Coleman and at first didn’t hear Wendy say, “Here are your messages, Andy.” Then she called in a louder voice, “Andrew, here are your messages.” And then, “Are you all right?”
“Oh, Wendy, I’m sorry, I—, thanks. I was thinking about something—” mumbling an apology. As he quickly thumbed through the messages, his eye caught the name Jack Hubbard. He noted that the call had come in shortly after he had left for the Olympic.
He dashed up the stairs through the newsroom and stopped in shocked surprise. Sitting calmly in his chair, feet on the desk, reading Andrew’s column was Jack Hubbard.
Jack laughed as he said, “Andy you old son of a gun—I took a chance that you would still be at the Times—how are you? You can close your mouth now.” The tall figure slouched in Andrew’s chair rose to greet him with a half embrace and handshake.
“What are you doing here?” Andrew asked incredulously.
“I figured you’d return to the scene of the crime eventually,” he laughed, tapping Andrew’s column. Jack looked older than the last time Andrew had seen him. He was thinner than the usual 190 pounds he carried on his tall frame, and his dark blonde hair showed strands of silver.
Though he smiled, Andrew noted that some of the merriment in his eyes was gone and a few deep lines were evident on the tanned face.
“Just thought I should stop by and talk about our mutual friend.”
Andrew looked puzzled. “What mutual friend would that be?”
“George Kelshaw, I assume he found you.” Jack answered raising his eyebrows in question.
“Oh, yeah, he found me, sort of. Boy! Do you have any idea what you got me into?” Andrew exclaimed.
“That bad, huh?” Jack smiled, knowingly.
“Well not all of it—,” Andrew, fumbled for the right phrase, but Jack hadn’t noticed.
“I would suppose, since you got caught in the web, that something has happened to George and he didn’t make it.”
“No. No, he didn’t,” Andrew said resignedly. “But now that you’re here, I’d like to know more about him and how the two of you were connected.”
“Andrew,” Jack said, standing and drawing himself to his full 6’ 2” height. “We need to talk in a more relaxed atmosphere. What’s your schedule today?”
“I have to finish my column and then I have a broadcast later this PM. Why don’t we meet for dinner? Where are you staying?”
“Nowhere yet, I thought I’d check in at the Sheraton. I need to get a few hours sleep.”
“No, no, go to the Washington Athletic Club as my guest. I’ll meet you there after 6:00 for dinner. It’s quiet and it will give you time to sack out for several hours.”
“You mean 1800 hours, don’t you?” Jack laughed “You civilian!”
“Oh, right, military time; don’t “civilian” me. Remember, my friend, I was a member of the Washington National Guard—still am,” he said somewhat proudly.
They shook hands, and Jack shouldered his large traveling bag, “See you at the Washington Athletic Club after 1800,” he said appreciatively.
Andrew watched Jack amble past reporters’ desks, pausing to shake hands with those who recognized him, stopping and joking with one or two of the editors.
A feeling of unrest crept over Andrew. Two weeks ago he was satisfied for the moment with his current niche. But George Kelshaw changed all that. Now, even Bob Mitchell didn’t stir any interest one way or the other.
He thought about Charlene Thayer and how much she had impacted his life, in so little time. “Yes, Kincaid, your life has changed,” he said to himself. He would call her later and plan to see her tomorrow.
Turning to the mostly written column Andrew began the process of the last rewrite.
It was 2:30 when the phone rang. Over the usual cacophony of the newsroom he heard Savalza’s voice, “Returning your call, Andy, what’s going on? By the way, since we last talked a couple of things have happened that I thought you should know.”
“Good! When you finish your news, I need to talk to you about something else.”
“Okay, sounds good. “Jim sounded upbeat.” He went on, “Ed Peterson got a lead on one of Monte’s phone records, a call that he made on the night of September 18, at about 2:00 in the morning, to Atlas Window Cleaners. We did a little investigating and found that a crony of Monte’s, one Sal Donato, happened to be on duty as the night watchman for Atlas. Coincidentally, the next day Jake and Leo had their little ‘accident’.”
“So, what… did he do?” Andrew asked, somewhat confused.
“I’m getting to that…” Savalza didn’t like to be rushed in telling his story. “We picked up Sal, and it didn’t take a lot of pressure to convince him that we had him, so he was willing to trade information for a reduced charge. He sang like a bird.
“It seems that he owed Monte a big favor and he also had a big personal dislike of Jake, so he got a ‘twofer’. He paid off the favor and got rid of Jake by fixing the cables on their scaffolding. He was a very busy boy ‘cause he had to hightail it over to the Rainier Tower before they started work that morning, to fix the cables on the pretext of inspecting them for the company. Well, that nearly winds that chapter up; I just have to square things with Labor and Industries.”
“Any more leads?” Andrew asked.
“No, Andy, the ball is in Evan Scott’s court now, but I think you know that, right?”