The Pelican Brief

"Is this Gray Grantham?" It was a very timid female.

"Yes. Who is this?"

"Beverly Morgan. You stopped by last night."

Gray was on his feet, listening hard, wide awake. "Yes. I'm sorry if we upset you."

"No. My father is very protective. And angry. The reporters were awful after Curtis was killed. They called from everywhere. They wanted old pictures of him and new photos of me and the child. They called at all hours. It was terrible, and my father got tired of it. He pushed two of them off the porch."

"I guess we were lucky."

"I hope he didn't offend you." The voice was hollow and detached, yet trying to be strong.

"Not at all."

"He's asleep now, downstairs on the sofa. So we can talk."

"Why aren't you asleep?" he asked.

"I'm taking some pills to make me sleep, and I'm all out of sync. I've been sleeping days and rambling nights." It was obvious she was awake and wanted to talk.

Gray sat on the bed and tried to relax. "I can't imagine the shock of something like this."

"It takes several days for it to become real. At first, the pain is horrible. Just horrible. I couldn't move my body without hurting. I couldn't think because of the shock and disbelief. I went through the motions to get through the funeral, which now seems like a bad dream. Is this boring?"

"Not at all."

"I've got to get off these pills. I sleep so much I don't get to talk to adults. Plus, my father tends to run people off. Are you taping this?"

"No. I'm just listening."

"He was killed a week ago tonight. I thought he was working very late, which was not unusual. They shot him and took his wallet, so the cops couldn't identify him. I saw on the late news where a young lawyer had been murdered downtown, and I knew it was Curtis. Don't ask me how they knew he was a lawyer without knowing his name. It's strange, all the little weird things that go with a murder."

"Why was he working late?"

"He worked eighty hours a week, sometimes more. White and Blazevich is a sweatshop. They try to kill the associates for seven years, and if they can't kill them they make them partners. Curtis hated the place. He was tired of being a lawyer."

"How long was he there?"

"Five years. He was making ninety thousand a year, so he put up with the hassle."

"Did you know he called me?"

"No. My father told me you said that, and I've thought about it all night. What did he say?"

"He never identified himself. He used the code name of Garcia. Don't ask how I learned his identity - it'll take hours. He said he possibly knew something about the assassinations of Justices Rosenberg and Jensen, and he wanted to tell me what he knew."

"Randy Garcia was his best friend in elementary school."

"I got the impression he had seen something at the office, and perhaps someone at the office knew he had seen it. He was very nervous, and always called from pay phones. He thought he was being followed. We had planned to meet early Saturday before last, but he called that morning and said no. He was scared, and said he had to protect his family. Did you know any of this?"

"No. I knew he was under a great deal of stress, but he'd been that way for five years. He never brought the office home with him. He hated the place, really."

"Why'd he hate the place?"

"He worked for a bunch of cutthroats, a bunch of thugs who'd watch you bleed for a buck. They spend tons of money on this marvelous facade of respectability, but they are scum. Curtis was a top student and had his pick of jobs. They were such a great bunch of guys when they recruited him, and complete monsters to work with. Very unethical."

"Why did he stay with the firm?"

"The money kept getting better. He almost left a year ago, but the job offer fell through. He was very unhappy, but he tried to keep it to himself. I think he felt guilty for making such a big mistake. We had a little routine around here. When he came home, I would ask him how his day went. Sometimes this was at ten at night, so I knew it was a bad day. But he always said the day had been profitable - that was the word, profitable. And then we talked about our baby. He didn't want to talk about the office, and I didn't want to hear it."

"Well, so much for Garcia. He's dead, and he told his wife nothing. Who cleaned out his desk?"

"Someone at the office. They brought his stuff Friday, all neatly packaged and taped in three cardboard boxes. You're welcome to go through it."

"No, thanks. I'm sure it's been sanitized. How much life insurance did he have?"

She paused for a second. "You're a smart man, Mr. Grantham. Two weeks ago, he bought a million-dollar term policy with double indemnity for accidental death."

"That's two million dollars."

"Yes, sir. I guess you're right. I guess he was suspicious."

"I don't think he was killed by muggers, Mrs. Morgan."

"I can't believe this." She choked a little, but fought it off.

"Have the cops asked you a lot of questions?"

"No. It's just another D.C. mugging that went one step further. No big deal. Happens every day."

The insurance bit was interesting, but useless. Gray was getting tired of Mrs. Morgan and her unhurried monotone. He was sorry for her, but if she knew nothing, it was time to say good-bye.

"What do you think he knew?" she asked.

This could take hours. "I don't know," Gray answered, glancing at his watch. "He said he knew something about the killings, but that's as far as he would go. I was convinced we would meet somewhere and he would spill his guts and show me something. I was wrong."

"How would he know anything about those dead judges?"

"I don't know. He just called me out of the blue."

"If he had something to show you, what would it be?" she asked.

He was the reporter. He was supposed to ask the questions. "I have no idea. He never hinted."

"Where would he hide such a thing?" The question was sincere, but irritating. Then it hit him. She was going somewhere with this.

"I don't know. Where did he keep his valuable papers?"

"We have a lockbox at the bank for deeds and wills and stuff. I've always known about the lockbox. He handled all the legal business, Mr. Grantham. I looked at the lockbox last Thursday with my father, and there was nothing unusual in it."

"You didn't expect anything unusual, did you?"

"No. Then Saturday morning, early, it was still dark, I was going through his papers in his desk in the bedroom. We have this antique rolltop desk that he used for his personal correspondence and papers, and I found something a bit unusual."

Gray was on his feet, holding the phone, and staring wildly at the floor. She had called at four in the morning. She had chitchatted for twenty minutes. And she waited until he was ready to hang up to drop the bomb.

"What is it?" he asked as coolly as possible.

"It's a key."

He had a lump in his throat. "A key to what?"

"Another lockbox."

"Which bank?"

"First Columbia. We've never banked there."

"I see. And you knew nothing about this other lockbox?"

"Oh no. Not until Saturday morning. I was puzzled by it, still am, but I found all of our legal papers in the old lockbox, so I had no reason to check this one. I figured I'd run by when I felt like it."

"Would you like me to check it for you?"

"I thought you would say that. What if you find what you're looking for?"

"I don't know what I'm looking for. But what if I find something he left behind, and this something proves to be very, let's say, newsworthy?"

"Use it."

"No conditions?"

"One. If it disparages my husband in any way, you can't use it."

"It's a deal. I swear."

"When do you want the key?"

"Do you have it in your hand?"

"Yes."

"If you'll stand on the front porch, I'll be there in about three seconds."

The private jet from Miami had brought only five men, so Edwin Sneller had only seven to plan with. Seven men, no time, and precious little equipment. He had not slept Monday night. His hotel suite was a mini-command center as they stared at maps through the night, and tried to plan the next twenty-four hours. A few things were certain. Grantham had an apartment, but he was not there. He had a car he was not using. He worked at the Post, and it was on Fifteenth Street. White and Blazevich was in a building on Tenth near New York, but she would not return there. Morgan's widow lived in Alexandria. Beyond that, they were searching for two people out of three million.

These were not the type of men you could rustle out of the bunkhouse and send in to fight. They had to be found and hired, and he'd been promised as many as possible by the end of the day.

Sneller was no novice at the killing game, and this was hopeless. This was desperation. The sky was falling. He would do his best under the circumstances, but Edwin Sneller had one foot out the back door.

She was on his mind. She had met Khamel on his terms, and walked away from it. She had dodged bullets and bombs, and evaded the best in the business. He would love to see her, not to kill her, but to congratulate her. A rookie running loose and living to tell about it.

They would concentrate on the Post building. It was the one spot he had to come back to.

The downtown traffic was bumper to bumper, and that suited Darby just fine. She was in no hurry. The bank lobby opened at nine-thirty, and some time around seven, over coffee and untouched bagels in her room, he had convinced her that she should be the one to visit the vault. She was not really convinced, but a woman should do it, and there weren't many available. Beverly Morgan told Gray that her bank, First Hamilton, froze their box as soon as they learned of Curtis's death, and that she was allowed only to view the contents and make an inventory. She was also allowed to copy the will, but the original was placed back in the box and secured in the vault. The box would be released only after the tax auditors finished their work.

So the immediate question was whether or not First Columbia knew he was dead. The Morgans had never banked there. Beverly had no idea why he chose it. It was a huge bank with a million customers, and they decided that the odds were against it.

Darby was tired of playing the odds. She'd blown a wonderful opportunity last night to get on a plane, and now here she was about to be Beverly Morgan matching wits with First Columbia so she could steal from a dead man. And what was her sidekick going to do? He was going to protect her. He had this gun, which scared her to death and had the same effect on him though he wouldn't admit it, and he planned to play bodyguard by the front door while she pilfered the lockbox.

"What if they know he's dead," she asked, "and I tell them he isn't?"

"Then slap the bitch in the face and run like hell. I'll catch you at the front door. I've got a gun, and we'll blast our way down the sidewalk."

"Come on, Gray. I don't know if I can do this."

"You can do it, okay? Play it cool. Be assertive. Be a smartass. It should come natural."

"Thanks so much. What if they call security on me? I have this sudden phobia of security guards."

"I'll rescue you. I'll come blazing through the lobby like a SWAT team."

"We'll all be killed."

"Relax, Darby. It'll work."

"Why are you so chipper?"

"I smell it. Something's in that lockbox, Darby. And you have to bring it out, kid. It's all riding on you."

"Thanks for easing the pressure."

They were on E Street near Ninth. Gray slowed the car, then parked illegally in a loading zone forty feet from the front entrance of First Columbia. He jumped out. Darby's exit was slower. Together, they walked quickly to the door. It was almost ten. "I'll wait here," he said, pointing to a marble column. "Go do it."

"Go do it," she mumbled as she disappeared inside the revolving door. She was always the one being fed to the lions. The lobby was as big as a football field, with columns and chandeliers and fake Persian rugs.

"Safe deposit boxes?" she asked a young woman behind the information desk. The girl pointed to a corner in the far right.

"Thanks," she said, and strolled toward it. The lines in front of the tellers were four deep to her left, and to her right a hundred busy vice presidents talked on their phones. It was the largest bank in the city, and no one noticed her.

The vault was behind a set of massive bronze doors that were polished enough to appear almost golden, no doubt to give the appearance of infinite safety and invulnerability. The doors were opened slightly to allow a select few in and out. To the left, an important-looking lady of sixty sat behind a desk with the words SAFE DEPOST BOXES across its front. Her name was Virginia Baskin.

Virginia Baskin stared at Darby as she approached the desk. There was no smile.

"I need access to a box," Darby said without breathing. She hadn't breathed in the last two and a half minutes.

"The number, please," Ms. Baskin said as she hit the keyboard and turned to the monitor.

"F566."

She punched the number and waited for the words to flash on the screen. She frowned, and moved her face to within inches of it. Run! Darby thought. She frowned harder and scratched her chin. Run, before she picks up the phone and calls the guards. Run, before the alarms go off and my idiot cohort comes blazing through the lobby.

Ms. Baskin withdrew her head from the monitor. "That was rented just two weeks ago," she said almost to herself.

"Yes," Darby said as if she had rented it.

"I assume you're Mrs. Morgan," she said, pecking on the keyboard.

Keep assuming, baby. "Yes, Beverly Anne Morgan."

"And your address?"

"891 Pembroke, Alexandria."

She nodded at the screen as if it could see her and give its approval. She pecked again. "Phone number?"

"703-664-5980."

Ms. Baskin liked this too. So did the computer. "Who rented this box?"

"My husband, Curtis D. Morgan."

"And his social security number?"

Darby casually opened her new, rather large leather shoulder bag, and pulled out her wallet. How many wives memorized their husband's social security number? She opened the wallet. "510-96-8686."

"Very well," Ms. Baskin said properly as she left the keyboard and reached into her desk. "How long will this take?"

"Just a minute."

She placed a wide card on a small clipboard on the desk, and pointed at it. "Sign here, Mrs. Morgan."

Darby nervously signed on the second slot. Mr. Morgan had made the first entry the day he rented the box.

Ms. Baskin glanced at the signature while Darby held her breath.

"Do you have your key?" she asked.

"Of course," Darby said with a warm smile.

Ms. Baskin took a small box from the drawer, and walked around the desk. "Follow me." They went through the bronze doors. The vault was as big as a branch bank in the suburbs. Designed along the lines of a mausoleum, it was a maze of hallways and small chambers. Two men in uniform walked by. They passed four identical rooms with walls lined with rows of lockboxes. The fifth room held F566, evidently, because Ms. Baskin stepped into it and opened her little black box. Darby looked nervously around and behind her.

Virginia was all business. She walked to F566, which was shoulder-high, and stuck in the key. She rolled her eyes at Darby as if to say, "Your turn, dumbass." Darby yanked the key from a pocket, and inserted it next to the other one. Virginia then turned both keys, and slid the box two inches from its slot. She removed the bank's key.

She pointed to a small booth with a folding wooden door. "Take it in there. When you finish, lock it back in place and come to my desk." She was leaving the room as she spoke.

"Thanks," Darby said. She waited until Virginia was out of sight, then slid the box from the wall. It was not heavy. The front was six inches by twelve, and it was a foot and a half long. The top was open, and inside were two items - a thin, brown legal-sized envelope, and an unmarked videotape.

She didn't need the booth. She stuffed the envelope and videotape in her shoulder bag, and slid the box back into its slot. She left the room.

Virginia had rounded the corner of her desk when Darby walked behind her. "I'm finished," she said.

"My, that was quick."

Damned right. Things happen fast when your nerves are popping through your skin. "I found what I needed," she said.

"Very well." Ms. Baskin was suddenly a warm person."You know, that awful story in the paper last week about that lawyer. You know, the one killed by muggers not far from here. Wasn't his name Curtis Morgan? Seems like it was Curtis Morgan. What a shame."

Oh, you dumb woman. "I didn't see that," Darby said. "I've been out of the country. Thanks."

Her step was a bit quicker the second time through the lobby. The bank was crowded, and there were no security guards in sight. Piece of cake. It was about time she pulled a job without being grabbed.

The gunman was guarding the marble column. The revolving door spun her onto the sidewalk, and she was almost to the car before he caught her. "Get in the car!" she demanded.

"What'd you find!" he demanded.

"Just get outta here." She yanked the door open, and jumped in. He started the car and sped away.

"Talk to me," he said.

"I cleaned out the box," she said. "Is anyone behind us?"

He glanced in the mirror. "How the hell do I know? What is it?"

She opened her purse and pulled out the envelope. She opened it. Gray slammed on the brakes and almost smashed a car in front.

"Watch where you're going!" she yelled.

"Okay! Okay. What's in the envelope!"

"I don't know! I haven't read it yet, and if you get me killed, I'll never read it."

The car was moving again. Gray breathed deeply. "Look, let's stop yelling, okay? Let's be cool."

"Yes. You drive, and I'll be cool."

"Okay. Now. Are we cool?"

"Yes. Just relax. And watch where you're going. Where are you going?"

"I don't know. What's in the envelope?"

She pulled out a document of some sort. She glanced at him, and he was staring at the document. "Watch where we're going."

"Just read the damned thing."

"It makes me carsick. I can't read in the car."