Стюарт Вудс - Shakeup

“I’ll look forward to hearing about that. How are you holding up down there?”

“Well, the conversation with Shaker lifted my spirits a bit, as did a visit to the Oval this morning from the choir of a Catholic girls’ school.”

“Next, no doubt, it will be the cast of Hamilton! ”

“What a good idea! I could never afford the tickets on a mere president’s salary.”

“Next time you’re in town, I know where to get seats for only the price of a small house.”

“Oh, good. Uh-oh, I’m told the secretary of defense is waiting. We’ll talk soon.” She hung up.

Stone worked on for a few minutes, when there was a knock at the other door.

“Come in,” he said.

Maren looked around the door. “Am I disturbing you?”

“More than you know,” Stone said.

She came over to his desk. “Is it legal to kiss you in these surrounds?”

“Strictly speaking, yes, but Joan has very sensitive antennae and tends to walk in at such times. Bob, over there,” he said, nodding toward the sleeping dog, “wouldn’t mind a bit.”

“I’ll try to control myself. I’m off to speak with Arthur Jacoby and Donald Clark.”

“Dinner tonight?”

“Oh, good, where?”

“I’ll think of something.”

“Well, I’d better repair to the Carlyle and exchange these clothes for others,” she said. “Or someone might notice.”

“Joan certainly would, and I’d never hear the end of it.”

“After dinner, your place or mine? I need to select the appropriate wardrobe.”

“Appropriate would be nothing at all, and I think we should come here. The director of the FBI might be noticed coming and going with a man at the Carlyle.”

“That’s deputy director,” she said.

“Perhaps for the moment.”

She perked up. “Have you heard something?”

“The breeze bears rumors,” he replied. “I hear Shaker is being encouraged to vacate that space.”

“From your lips to God’s ears.”

“Here at six-thirty?”

“Done,” she said, and closed the door behind her.

Joan buzzed him. “That Donald Clark character is here again.”

Stone ground his teeth for a moment. “Send him in, and disturb us after about three minutes.”

Donald Clark strode into Stone’s office, looking more athletic and self-confident than on his last visit. “Good morning, Stone!” he boomed, taking a seat, uninvited.

“Now what, Donald?” Stone asked, with no attempt to conceal his displeasure at the visit.

“I’ve been cleared of anything to do with the murder of Ms. Carlyle,” he said.

“Oh, really? Did the DCPD post a notice?”

“The DCPD has closed the case,” Clark said confidentially.

“How did you come to hear that?”

“I have ears here and there.”

“Well, you’d better have them cleaned,” Stone said. “The DCPD has simply closed the case without further recommendation.”

“And that is as good as it can get,” Clark said.

“Perhaps so, Donald, but it can get worse.”

His face took on a wary look. “What do you mean by that?”

“Tell me, Donald, what did Ms. Carlyle do for a living?”

“I believe that she was a secretary.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Does it matter?”

“I fear it’s going to matter a great deal.”

“Stone, what do you know that I don’t know?”

“Ms. Carlyle was a secretary at the Justice Department.”

Clark’s face went blank. “So?”

“So, she was a federal employee, and the DCPD does not investigate the murders of federal employees.”

“That’s okay with me,” Clark replied.

“The FBI investigates the murders of federal employees.”

Clark’s face seemed to collapse. “The FBI?”

“Yes, and in this instance, the case is being personally dealt with by the deputy director for criminal investigations, a woman called Maren Gustav, who has a big reputation for her dogged pursuit of perpetrators.”

“Dogged?”

“Do you possess a dog, Donald?”

“Yes, a Lab, much like yours.”

“Does he ever tire of chasing a ball?”

Stone thought the man was going to burst into tears. “And I believe she has an appointment with you today. Better check your calendar.”

Donald Clark got up and left.

Clark had been gone only a quarter of an hour when Joan buzzed. “Art Jacoby, on one.”

Stone picked up the phone. “Yes, Art?”

“Stone, the feds have picked up Deana’s case. DCPD is out of it.”

“I heard,” Stone replied. “That’s good news for you, isn’t it, Art?”

“Why?”

“Well, because you are innocent, are you not?”

“I am.”

“Then the FBI has a better chance of proving that than does the DCPD, whose fearless leader wants you hanged at dawn, does she not?”

“She does,” Art admitted.

“That means that Little Debby will have no influence on the investigation.”

“Yes,” Art replied, brightly.

“Do you have an appointment today with someone called Maren Gustav?”

“I do. Who is she?”

“She’s the deputy director of the FBI for criminal investigations.”

“Her boss, Shaker, hates me.”

“Don’t worry about it, Shaker hates everybody. Anyway, there are substantial rumors that he is on his way out, and other rumors that Gustav may replace him.”

“Uh-oh, then she’s going to be trying to make a name for herself.”

“Art, she’s already made a name for herself. That’s why she’s on the fast track for the job. She doesn’t need your head mounted over her fireplace.”

“She’s due here in ten minutes,” Art said. “What should I tell her?”

“The truth, Art. And if you’ve sprinkled a fib or two around in your earlier statements, now’s the time to iron out the wrinkles. She can smell a lie the way my dog, Bob, can sniff out a sausage from two rooms away.”

“I’ll remember that,” Art said.

“Remember, too, that her eventual goal is Donald Clark. She just needs you to pave the way.”

“Right.”

“Call me when you’re done.”

“All right.”

They both hung up.

Stone was finishing a sandwich at his desk, three hours later, when Jacoby called again.

“How’d it go, Art?”

“My shirt is soaked clean through.”

“Well, let’s hope that she does not equate the smell of sweat with lying.”

“I didn’t lie. I told her the same things, over and over, as she slightly changed the questions. You’ve heard of a steel-trap mind? That woman has a mind like a bear trap, and I was the grizzly in question.”

“She’s done with you now, Art,” Stone said. “It’s Clark’s turn in the bear trap, and I have a feeling he’s going to have to gnaw off his own leg to get free of her.”

“I have to go take a shower,” Art said and hung up.

Maren Gustav was shown by a butler into a large, mahogany-paneled room, festooned with hunting trophies — meat, fish, and fowl. There were not, she noted, very many books in evidence, and those present were, mostly, sporting in nature.

Donald Clark stood respectfully, shook her hand, welcomed her, and offered her coffee, which she declined. He offered her the opposite end of the sofa on which he sat, but she accepted a freestanding chair, instead.

“I understand you have a few questions for me,” he said.

“On the contrary, Mr. Clark,” she replied, “I have a great many questions for you, and I wish to record your answers.” She placed a small recorder on the coffee table. “Do you have any objections to being recorded?”

“Certainly not.” He shrugged. “Why should I?”

She noted the time and began to ask rapid-fire questions about his schedule on the day of the Carlyle murder, his companions at different times, and his past relationship with the various other suspects and witnesses, never consulting notes. Two hours and ten minutes later, she noted, she abruptly changed tactics.