been trying to do that, as well: to distract him. And Burt's tactic had
been effective. Because the crossword puzzle wasn't effective. The
only words that kept coming into Pittman's mind were Jonathan Millgate.
Pittman had once worked on a story about Millgate, back when he had been
at the national affairs desk. Before Jeremy's death. Before ... Seven
years ago, Jonathan Millgate had been rumored to be involved as a
middleman in a covert White House operation whereby munitions were
illegally supplied to right-wing governments in South America in
exchange for the cooperation of those governments in fighting the war
against drugs. It was further rumored that Millgate had received
substantial fees from those South American governments and certain
weapons manufacturers in exchange for acting as a go-between in the
secret exchange.
But Pittman had found it impossible to substantiate those rumors. For a
man who had once been so much in the public eye, Millgate had become a
remarkably private, guarded person. The last interview he'd given had
been in 1968 after the Tet offensive against American forces in Vietnam.
Millgate had spoken to a senior reporter for the Washington Post,
expressing strong sympathy with the Nixon administration's policy of
sending considerably more U.S. soldiers to Vietnam. Because Millgate
was respected so much, his statement was interpreted to represent the
opinion of other conservative political theorists, especially Millgate's
fellow grand counselors. Indeed, the implication was that Millgate was
endorsing a policy that he and the other four grand counselors had
themselves formulated and privately urged the Nixon White House to
adopt: heightening America's involvement in the Vietnam War. By the
time Pittman became interested in Millgate because of the possible
munitions scandal, Millgate's effect on presidential attitudes was so
discreet and yet powerful that his reputation for diplomacy had achieved
mythic status. But no government source could or would say anything
about him. As a consequence, Pittman (full of energy, motivated, in his
prime) had gone to Burt Forsyth and requested permission to investigate
Millgate's legend.
Pittman's telephone log eventually recorded one hundred attempts to call
Millgate's business and government associates. Each executive had
declined to be interviewed. Pittman had also contacted Millgate's law
office in an attempt to make an appointment to interview him. Pittman
was put on hold. He was switched from secretary to secretary. He was
told to call numbers that were no longer in service. Pittman had phoned
the Justice Department, hoping that the team investigating Millgate
would give Pittman an idea of how they stayed in contact with him. He
was told that the Justice Department had no need to remain in contact
with Millgate, that the rumors about his receiving kickbacks because of
his alleged involvement in a munitions scandal had been proven to lack
substance, and that the investigation had been concluded in its early
stages. "Can you tell me which attorney represented him in your initial
discussions?"
After a long pause, the man had answered, "No. I can not.'$
"I didn't get your name when you picked up the phone. Who am I speaking
to, please?"
The connection had been broken.
Pittman had gone to a computer hacker, about whom Pittman had written
what the hacker considered to be a fair story about the hacker's motives
for accessing top secret Defense Department computer files. "I wanted
to show how easy it was, how unprotected those files were," the hacker
had insisted. But despite his pleas that he'd been motivated by loyalty
to his government, the hacker had gone to prison for five years.
Recently released, bitter about how the government had treated him,
delighted to see his defender again, the hacker had agreed to Pittman's
request and, with greater delight, had used a modern to access telephone
Company computer files in Massachusetts.
"Unlisted number? No problem. As a matter of fact, check this-your
dude's got four of them." Pittman had looked at the glowing computer
screen and begun to write down the numbers.
"Forget the pen-and-paper routine. I'll print out the dude's whole
file."
That was how Pittman had learned not only Millgate's private numbers but
the addresses for his Boston mansion and his Martha's Vineyard estate,
as well. Determined, he had phoned each of Millgate's private numbers.
Each person on the other end had treated Pittman with deference until
with shock they realized what he wanted.
"I demand to know how you learned this number."
"If you'd just let me speak to Mr. Millgate."
"What newspaper did you say you worked for?"
Fifteen minutes after Pittman's final attempt, he'd been summoned to
Burt Forsyth's office.
"You're off the Millgate story."
"This is a joke, right?"
"I wish it was. I just got a call from the Chronicle's publisher, who
just got a call from somebody who must have a hell of a lot of
influence. I'm under strict orders to give you strict orders to work on
something else."
"And you're actually going to give me those orders?"
Burt had squinted at the smoke he blew from his cigarette in those days,
smoking in the building had not been forbidden. "You've got to know
when to be rigid and when to bend, and this is a time to bend. It's not
as if you had anything solid. Admit it, you were on a fishing
expedition, hoping you'd find a story. To tell the truth, you were
taking more time than I'd expected. And there's something else to be
considered. It's been suggested that you broke the law in the way you
obtained Millgate's telephone numbers. Did you?" Pittman hadn't
answered. "Work on this story instead." Pittman had been angry at Burt
for several days, but the object of his anger had shifted when there
turned out to be a certain synchronicity between the police-brutality
assignment Pittman was given and what happened next. On his free time
over the weekend, Pittman had gone to Boston, intending to stake out
Millgate's mansion in the hope that he would see Millgate leave.
Pittman's plan was to follow Millgate's limousine until he could find a
place that allowed him to approach Millgate with questions. One minute
after Pittman parked on the mansion's tree-lined street, a police car
stopped behind him. One hour later, he was being questioned as a
burglary suspect at police headquarters. Two hours later, he was in a
holding cell, where two prisoners picked a fight with him and beat him
so badly that he needed a thousand dollars' worth of dental work.
Visiting Pittman in the hospital, Burt had shaken his head. "Stubborn."
The wires that secured Pittman's broken jaw had prevented him from
answering.
Pittman finished his second Jack Daniel's and glanced across the
almost-deserted tavern toward the bartender, who still seemed startled
that he'd actually had a legitimate customer. A man carrying a bulging
paper bag came in, looked around the shadowy interior, raised his
eyebrows at the sight of Pittman, got a shrug and a nod from the
bartender, and proceeded toward a room in the back.
Pittman considered ordering another bourbon, then glanced at his watch
and saw that it was almost 1:30 in the afternoon. He'd been sitting
there brooding for longer than he'd realized. He hadn't thought about
Millgate in quite a while-years since well before Jeremy had become ill.
Pittman's jaw had healed. He'd pursued other assignments. Millgate had
managed to make himself invisible again. Out of sight, out of mind. The
only reminder had been periodic twinges in Pittman's jaw during
especially cold weather. Sometimes when he fingered the line where his
jaw had been broken, he would recall how he had tried to investigate the
two prisoners who had beaten him. They'd been admitted to his cell a
half hour after he'd been placed there. The charges against them had
been public drunkenness, but Pittman hadn't smelled any alcohol on their
breath when they had beaten him. Subsequent to the beating, they had
been mistakenly released from jail, a mix-up in paperwork. Their names
had been common, their addresses temporary, and Pittman had never been
able to contact them or investigate their backgrounds to find out if
Millgate had been responsible for the beating.
As he left the murky bar, his head aching from the harsh assault of
afternoon sunlight, Pittman felt searing anger intrude on his cold
despair. He had always resented aristocrats and their supposition that
money and social stature made them the equivalent of royalty. He
resented the disdain with which they felt themselves unaccountable for
their actions. During his peak as a national affairs reporter, his best
stories had been exposes of criminal activity by those in high places,
and Jonathan Millgate would have been the highest target Pittman had
ever brought down.
I should have been more persistent.
Pittman's flare of anger abruptly died. Ahead, at a noisy intersection
where pedestrians were stopped for a red light, he noticed a tall, lanky
boy with long hair, slight shoulders, and narrow hips moving his feet
slightly to the beat of imagined music. The boy looked to be about
fifteen. He wore a rumpled denim jacket that had an emblem of a rock
star. His jeans were faded. His running shoes, high-topped, were dyed
green and had names written on them. From the back, the boy reminded
Pittman so much of Jeremy that he felt as if a hand had squeezed his
heart. Then the boy turned his head to speak to a companion, and of
course, the boy looked nothing at all like Jeremy, whose jaw had not
been as strong as this boy's and whose complexion hadn't been as clear
and whose teeth had needed braces. Imperfect physically, but perfect as
a son. It wasn't just that Jeremy had never gotten into trouble, or
that his grades had been excellent, or that he had been respectful. As
important as these things were, what Pittman missed most about Jeremy
was his captivating personality. The boy had been blessed with a
wonderful sense of humor. He had always been so much fun to be around,
never falling to make Pittman feel that life was better because of his
son.
But not anymore, Pittman thought.
The brief angry fire he'd felt when thinking about Millgate no longer
had significance. That was from another time, another life-before
Jeremy had become ill. Pittman resented what Burt was trying to do. It
was an insult to Jeremy's memory for Burt to assume that an assignment
about Jonathan Millgate could distract Pittman from his grief.
I ought to tell him to stuff it. No. Keep your word. When you end
this, it has to be cleanly. You can't be obligated to anyone.
In the old days, Pittman would have gone to the area, formerly in the
basement, where back issues of the newspaper were stored on microfilm.
The master index would have contained file cards for "Millgate" and
"Grand counselors,' , and from them, Pittman would have learned which
issues and pages of the newspaper to read on microfilm. That section of
the newspaper where the microfilm was kept had been traditionally called
the morgue, and although computer files had replaced microfilm, death
was so much on Pittman's mind that he still thought of himself as
entering a morgue when he sat at his desk, turned on his computer
terminal, and tapped the keys that would give him access to the
newspaper's data files.
Given Millgate's secretive lifestyle, it wasn't surprising that there
wasn't much information: only a few small items since Pittman had
researched Millgate seven years earlier. Millgate and the other four
grand counselors-still retaining immense political power, even though
they no longer had direct ties with the government-had been feted at a
White House dinner, where the President had given Millgate the Medal of
Freedom, America's highest civilian honor. Mill gate had accompanied
the President on Air Force One to an international conference on world
economics in Geneva. Millgate had established an institute for the
testified before a Senate confirmation committee about his high regard
for a Supreme Court nominee, who also happened to be the son of one of
the grand counselors.
The phone rang.
Pittman picked it up. "Obituaries."
A fifty-two-year-old woman had been killed in a fire, he learned. She
was unmarried, without children, unemployed, not a member of any
organization. Aside from her brother, to whom Pittman was speaking,
there weren't any surviving relatives. Thus, the obituary would be
unusually slight, especially because the brother didn't want his name
mentioned for fear people to whom his sister owed money would come
looking for him.
The barrenness of the woman's life made Pittman more despondent. Shaking
his head, dejected, he finished the call, then frowned at his watch. It
was almost three o'clock. The gray haze that customarily surrounded him
seemed to have thickened. The phone rang again. This time, Burt
Forsyth's gravelly voice demanded, "How's the Millgate obit coming?"
"Has he ... ?"
"Still in intensive care."
"Well, there isn't much. I'll have the obit finished before I go home."
"Don't tell me there isn't much," Burt said. "We both know better. I
want this piece to be substantial. Seven years ago, you wouldn't have
given up so easily. Dig. Back then, you kept complaining about how you
couldn't find a way to see Millgate. Well, he's a captive interview
this time. Not to mention, there'll be relatives or somebody waiting at
the hospital to see how he's doing. Talk to them. For Christ sake,
figure out how to get into his room and talk to him."
Pittman stood across from the hospital for quite a while. The building
was soot gray. The mid-April day had been warm, but as the sun
descended behind sky-scrapers, made Pittman cross his arms and hug
himself.
&nbs
p; This was the same hospital where Jeremy had died . Pittman had come to
the corner across from the Emergency entrance, the same corner where he
had often stood late at night after visiting Jeremy. From this corner,
he had been able to see the window of Jeremy's room on the tenth floor.
Gazing up through the darkness for several hours, he had prayed that
Jeremy wouldn't be wakened by the need to vomit because of his
chemotherapy.
Amid the din of traffic, Pittman now heard a siren. An ambulance veered
from the busy street and rushed to a stop beneath the portal at the
Emergency entrance. Attendants leapt out and urgently removed a patient
on a gurney. Pedestrians glanced toward the commotion but kept walking
swiftly onward.
Pittman swallowed, squinted up toward what he still thought of as
Jeremy's window, and turned away. Jonathan Millgate was in that
hospital, in the adult intensive-care ward that was just down the
sixth-floor hallway from the children's intensive-care ward, where
Jeremy had died. Pittman shook his head. He couldn't tolerate going
into the hospital, couldn't make himself go up to that floor, couldn't
bear exposing himself to the torment on the faces of people waiting to
hear about their loved ones. It would be all he could do not to imagine
that he was one of them, not to sit down with them and wait as if for
news of Jeremy.
It would be far too much.
So he went home. Rather than take a taxi, he walked. He needed to fill
the time. As dusk increasingly chilled him, he stopped for several
drinks-to fill the time. The elevator to his third-floor apartment
creaked and wheezed. He locked himself in his apartment, heard laughter
from a television show vibrate through thin walls from the apartment