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.
“Mr. Clark,” she said, with a little smile, “can you enumerate for me the occasions on which you had sexual intercourse with Ms. Carlyle?”
Clark blinked. “I decline to address that question,” he said, finally.
“How about the nature of such intercourse?”
Clark collected himself. “I decline to answer.”
“How about the occasions on which one or more others were involved, and what persons participated in such intercourse? And their names, genders, and occupations?”
“Decline. I will not bring others into this matter.”
As if propelled by some spring-loaded mechanism, a man in a pinstripe suit, carrying a briefcase, entered the room at a trot through a rear door, crying, “Stop! Stop! My client will answer no further questions!”
“Oh, really,” Clark said. “I don’t mind.” This with patent insincerity.
“This interview is over,” the lawyer said to Maren. “Kindly leave the premises at once.”
“I take it you would prefer to have your client answer these questions before a grand jury,” Maren said, rising and picking up, but not turning off, her recorder. “I can arrange that.”
“Go, go!”
“A subpoena follows,” Maren said, then departed, noting the time on her recorder before switching it off.
* * *
—
Stone received her in his study, and Fred took her small suitcase and makeup bag away.
“Good evening,” Stone said, kissing her. “You look lovely!”
“Thank you,” she said, sitting.
“A drink?”
“Of course. A very dry martini,” she replied.
“Is there any other kind?” he asked, pouring one out of a premixed bottle from the freezer, frosting the glass immediately.
“Where are we dining?”
“At Rotisserie Georgette,” he replied. “Specializing in roast fowl.”
“Sounds lovely.”
“How did your day go?”
“Better than I expected,” she said. “Art Jacoby will make an excellent witness either for himself or against Donald Clark. I pretty much wrung him out, but he has his story straight now.”
“What about Clark?”
“I got everything I expected from him, and when I brought up the subject of sex, an attorney, apparently mechanically operated, sprang from somewhere, shouting ‘Stop!’ I’ll see his client before a grand jury, where he will, very likely, take the Fifth.”
“Very likely.”
“I’ll tell you this, though. He’s scared, and that’s the way I like my suspects.”
36
Stone had his houseguest for a couple of nights, then she folded her tent and readied herself for departure.
“When will I see you in Washington?” she asked.
Stone gulped. “I rarely visit Washington, and when I do my time there is fully occupied.”
“Oh,” she said, sounding disappointed. “I thought that might be over.”
Stone kissed her, took her downstairs, and put her into her car.
“If your investigation brings you north again, please let me know.”
“Perhaps,” she said, then drove away.
* * *
—
That afternoon, Stone had a sandwich at his desk. Joan stuck her head around the door. “Put on CNN,” she said.
Stone turned on the TV, which was already tuned to CNN. “According to a source at FBI headquarters, Director Shaker has never been happy serving under President Barker. Other sources say he would be unhappy serving under any woman. After leaving his resignation at the White House, handing it to a Marine guarding the doors, Mr. Shaker returned to the Bureau, packed his briefcase and a few boxes of books and personal items, and left for his country house in Virginia. There was no farewell speech to the men and women he left behind.”
“Who is replacing him?” Stone shouted at the TV.
“His replacement, Maren Gustav, is a sixteen-year veteran of the Bureau who has served in a number of posts there, climbing the promotion ladder steadily, and has been a favorite of President Barker’s since the president served as CIA director.”
“Thank you very much!” Stone yelled, then switched off the TV.