“Names, numbers, details, but you didn’t get them from me, okay?” The
worm appeared to dance in the water, and it was no longer apparent that the
hook was the thing really moving.
“What if I can’t verify anything?”
“Then there’s no story, and my sources are wrong, and I hope you en-
joyed dinner.” Of course, the worm might just go away.
“Why, Roy? Why you, why the story?” Circling, circling. But how did
this worm ever get here?
“I’ve never liked the guy. You know that. We butted heads on two big
irrigation bills, and he killed a defense project in my state. But you really
want to know why? I have daughters, Libby. One’s a senior at U-Penn. An-
other one’s just starting University of Chicago Law School. They both want
to follow in their dad’s footsteps, and I don’t want my little girls staffing on
the Hill with bastards like Ed Kealty around.” Who really cared how the
worm got in the water, anyway?
With a knowing nod, Libby Holtzman took the envelope. It went into her
purse without being opened. Amazing how they never noticed the hook until
it was too late. Sometimes not even then. The waiter was disappointed when
both diners passed on the dessert cart, settling for just a quick espresso
before paying the bill.
“Hello?”
‘ ‘Barbara Linders?” a female voice asked.
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“Libby Holtzman from the Post. I live a few blocks away from you. I’d
like to know if I might come over and talk about a few things.”
“What things?”
“lul Realty, and why they’ve decided not to prosecute tin- i;isc.”
“They what?”
“That’s what we’re hearing,” the voice told her.
“Wait a minute. They warned me about this,” Linders said suspiciously,
already giving part of the game away.
“They always warn you about something, usually the wrong ihiug. Re-
member, I was the one who did the story last year about Congressman (Irani
and that nasty little thing he had going on in his district office? And I was
also the one who nailed that bastard undersecretary in Interior. I keep a close
eye on cases like this, Barbara,” the voice said, sister-to-sister. It was true.
Libby Holtzman had nearly bagged a Pulitzer for her reporting on political
sex-abuse cases.
“How do I know it’s really you?”
“You’ve seen me on TV, right? Ask me over and you’ll see. I can be there
in five minutes.”
“I’m going to call Mr. Murray.”
“That’s fine. Go ahead and call him, but promise me one thing?”
“What’s that?”
“If he tells you the same thing about why they’re not doing anything, then
we can talk.” The voice paused. “In fact, how about I come over right now
anyway? If Dan tells you the right thing, we can just have a cup of coffee and
do some background stuff for later. Fair enough?”
“Okay … I guess that’s okay. I have to call Mr. Murray now.” Barbara
Linders hung up and dialed another number from memory.
“Hi, this is Dan-”
“Mr. Murray!” Barbara said urgently, her faith in the world so badly
shaken already.
“-and this is Liz,” another voice said, obviously now on tape. “We
can’t come to the phone right now …” both voices said together-
“Where are you when I need you?” Ms. Linders demanded of the record-
ing machine, hanging up in a despairing fury before the humorous recording
delivered her to the beep. Was it possible? Could it be true?
This is Washington, her experience told her. Anything could be true.
Barbara Linders looked around the room. She’d been in Washington for
eleven years. What did she have to show for it? A one-bedroom apartment
with prints on the wall. Nice furniture that she used alone. Memories that
threatened her sanity. She was so alone, so damned alone with them, and she
had to let them go, get them out, strike back at the man who had wrecked her
life so thoroughly. And now that would be denied her, too? Was it possible?
The most frightening thing of all was that Lisa had felt this way. She knew
that from the letter she’d kept, a photocopy of which was still in the jewelry
box on her bureau. She’d kept it both as a keepsake of her best friend and to
remind herself not to go as dangerously far into despair as Lisa had. Reading
that letter a few months ago had persuaded her to open up to her gynecolo-
gist, who had in turn referred her to Clarice Golden, starting the process thai
had led her-where? The door buzzed then, and Barbara went to answer it.
“Hi! Recognize me?” The question was delivered with a warm and sym-
pathetic smile. Libby Holtzman was a tall woman with thick ebony hair that
framed a pale face and warm brown eyes.
“Please come in,” Barbara said, backing away from the door.
“Did you call Dan?”
“He wasn’t home … or maybe he just left the machine on,” Barbara
thought. “You know him?”
“Oh, yes. Dan’s an acquaintance,” Libby said, heading toward the couch.
“Can I trust him? I mean, really trust him.”
“Honestly?” Holtzman paused. “Yes. If he were running the case all by
himself, yes, you could. Dan’s a good man. I mean that.”
“But he’s not running the case by himself, is he?”
Libby shook her head. “It’s too big, too political. The other thing about
Murray is, well, he’s a very loyal man. He does what he’s told. Can I sit
down, Barbara?”
“Please.” Both sat on the couch.
“You know what the press does? It’s our job to keep an eye on things. I
like Dan. I admire him. He really is a good cop, an honest cop, and I’ll bet
you that everything he’s done with you, well, he’s acted like your big tough
brother, hasn’t he?”
“Every step of the way,” Barbara confirmed. “He’s been my best friend
in all the world.”
“That wasn’t a lie. He’s one of the good guys. I know his wife, Liz, too.
The problem is, not everyone is like Dan, and that’s where we come in,”
Libby told her.
“How do you mean?”
“When somebody tells a guy like Dan what he has to do, mostly they do
it. They do it because they have to, because that’s what the rules are-and
you know something? He hates it, almost as much as you do. My job, Bar-
bara, is to help people like Dan, because I can get the bastards off their
backs, too.”
“I can’t… I mean, I just can’t-”
Libby reached out and stopped her with a gentle touch on the hand.
“I’m not going to ask you to give me anything on the record, Barbara.
That could mess up the criminal case, and you know I want this one to be
handled through the system just as much as you do. But can you talk to me
off the record?”
“Yes! …I think so.”
‘ ‘Do you mind if I record this?” The reporter pulled a small recorder from
her purse.
“Who will hear it?”
“The only other person will be my AME-assistant managing editor. We
do that to make sure thai we have good sources, lixevpt loi thai, il’s like
talking to your lawyer or doctor or minister. Those are the rules, and we
never break them.”
Intellectually speaking, Barbara knew that, but here and now in her apart-
ment, the ethical rules of journalism seemed a thin reed. Libhy Holt/man
could see it in her eyes.
“If you want, I can just leave, or we can talk without the recorder, but”
a disarming smile-“I hate taking shorthand. You make mistakes that way.
If you want to think about it a little while, that’s okay, too. You’ve had
enough pressure. I know that. I know what this can be like.”
‘ That’s what Dan says, but he doesn’t! He doesn’t really.”
Libby Holtzman looked straight into her eyes. She wondered if Murray
had seen the same pain and felt it as deeply as she did now. Probably so, she
thought, quite honestly, probably in a slightly different way, because he was
a man, but he was a good cop, and he was probably just as mad about the
way the case was going as she now felt.
“Barbara, if you just want to talk about… things, that’s okay, too. Some-
times we just need a friend to talk to. I don’t have to be a reporter all the
time.”
“Do you know about Lisa?”
“Her death was never really explained, was it?”
“We were best friends, we shared everything . .. and then when he-”
“Are you sure Kealty was involved with that?”
“I’m the one who found the letter, Libby.”
“What can you tell me about that?” Holtzman asked, unable to restrain
her journalistic focus now.
“I can do better than tell you.” Linders rose and disappeared for a mo-