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Verheek ordered number three. It was one-thirty. “Are you a law student?” he asked the bartender.
“Afraid so.”
“It’s not that bad, is it?”
He was wiping around the peanuts. “I’ve had more fun.”
Verheek longed for the bartenders who served his beer in law school. Those guys knew the art of conversation. Never met a stranger. Talk about anything.
“I’m a lawyer,” Verheek said in desperation.
Oh, hey, wow, this guy’s a lawyer. How rare. Someone special. The kid walked off.
Little son of a bitch. I hope you flunk out. Verheek grabbed his bottle and turned to face the tables. He felt like a grandfather amid the children. Though he hated law school and the memories of it, there had been some long Friday nights in the bars of Georgetown with his pal Callahan. Those were good memories.
“So what kind of law?” The bartender was back. Gavin turned to the bar, and smiled.
“Special counsel, FBI.”
He was still wiping. “So you’re in Washington?”
“Yeah, in town for the game Sunday. I’m a Redskins freak.” He hated the Redskins and every other organized football team. Don’t get the kid started on football. “Where do you go to school?”
“Here. Tulane. I’ll finish in May.”
“Then where?”
“Probably Cinci
“You must be a good student.”
He shrugged it off. “You need a beer?”
“No. Did you have Thomas Callahan?”
“Sure. You know him?”
“I was in law school with him at Georgetown.” Verheek pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to the kid. “I’m Gavin Verheek.” The kid looked at it, then politely laid it next to the ice. The bar was quiet and the kid was tired of chitchat.
“Do you know a student by the name of Darby Shaw?”
The kid glanced at the tables. “No. I haven’t met her, but I know who she is. I think she’s second year.” A long, rather suspicious pause. “Why?”
“We need to talk to her.” We, as in FBI. Not simply he, as in Gavin Verheek. The “we” part sounded much graver. “Does she hang out in here?”
“I’ve seen her a few times. She’s hard to miss.”
“I’ve heard.” Gavin looked at the tables. “Do you think these guys might know her?”
“Doubt it. They’re all first year. Can’t you tell? They’re over there arguing property rights and search and seizure.”
“Yeah, those were the days.” Gavin pulled a dozen cards from his pocket and laid them on the bar. “I’ll be at the Hilton for a few days. If you see her, or hear anything, drop one of these.”
“Sure. There was a cop in last night asking questions. You don’t think she was involved in his death?”
“No, not at all. We just need to talk to her.”
“I’ll keep my eyes open.”
Verheek paid for the beer, thanked the kid again, and was on the sidewalk. He walked three blocks to the Half Shell. It was almost two. He was dead tired, half drunk, and a band cranked up the second he walked through the door. The place was dark, packed, and fifty fraternity joes with their sorority sues were immediately dancing on tables. He weaved through the uprising and found safety in the back near the bar. They were three deep, shoulder to shoulder, and no one moved. He clawed his way forward, got a beer to be cool, and realized again he was by far the oldest one there. He retreated to a dark but crowded corner. It was hopeless. He couldn’t hear himself think, let alone carry on a conversation.
He watched the bartenders—all young, all students. The oldest looked late twenties, and he rang up check after check as if he was closing out. His moves were hurried, as if it was time to go. Gavin studied every move.
He quickly untied his apron, flung it in a corner, ducked under the bar, and was gone. Gavin elbowed through the mob, and caught him as he stepped through the kitchen door. He had an FBI business card ready. “I’m sorry. I’m with the FBI.” He stuck the card in his face. “Your name is?”
The kid froze, and looked wildly at Verheek. “Uh, Fountain. Jeff Fountain.”
“Fine, Jeff. Look, nothing’s wrong, okay? Just a couple of questions.” The kitchen had shut down hours ago, and they were alone. “Just take a second.”
“Well, okay. What’s up?”
“You’re a law student, right?” Please say yes. His friend said most of the bartenders here were law students.
“Yes. At Loyola.”
“Loyola! Where the hell! Yeah, well, that’s what I thought. You’ve heard about Professor Callahan at Tulane. Funeral’s tomorrow.”
“Sure. It’s all over the papers. Most of my friends go to Tulane.”
“Do you know a second-year student there by the name of Darby Shaw? Very attractive female.”
Fountain smiled. “Yeah, she dated a friend of mine last year. She’s in here occasionally.”
“How long ago?”
“It’s been a month or two. What’s wrong?”
“We need to talk to her.” He handed Fountain a stack of cards. “Hang on to these. I’ll be at the Hilton for a few days. If you see her around, or if you hear anything, drop one of these.”
“What might I hear?”
“Something about Callahan. We need to see her real bad, okay?”
“Sure.” He stuck the cards in a pocket.
Verheek thanked him and returned to the revelry. He inched through the mob, listening to the attempts at conversation. A fresh mob was entering, and he wrestled his way out the door. He was too old for this.
Six blocks away, he parked illegally in front of a fraternity house next to the campus. His last stop for the night would be a dark little pool hall, which, at the moment, was not crowded. He paid for beer at the bar, and surveyed the place. There were four pool tables and the action was light. A young man in a T-shirt walked to the bar and ordered another beer. The shirt was green and gray with the words TULANE LAW SCHOOL stamped across the front with what appeared to be an inmate identification number under the words.
Verheek spoke without hesitating. “You a law student?”
The young man glanced at him while pulling money from his jeans. “Afraid so.”
“Did you know Thomas Callahan?”
“Who are you?”
“FBI. Callahan was a friend of mine.”
The student sipped the beer and was suspicious. “I was in his con law class.”
Bingo! So was Darby. Verheek tried to appear uninterested. “Do you know Darby Shaw?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“We need to talk to her. That’s all.”
“Who is we?” The student was even more suspicious. He took a step closer to Gavin as if he wanted some hard answers.
“FBI,” Verheek said nonchalantly.
“You got a badge or something?”
“Sure,” he said as he pulled a card from his pocket. The student read it carefully, then handed it back. “You’re a lawyer, not an agent.”
This was a very valid point, and the lawyer knew he would lose his job if his boss knew he was asking questions and in general impersonating an agent. “Yes, I’m a lawyer. Callahan and I were in law school together.”
“Then why do you want to see Darby Shaw?”
The bartender had eased closer and was eavesdropping.
“Do you know her?”
“I don’t know,” the student said, and it was obvious he did in fact know her but was not about to talk. “Is she in trouble?”
“No. You know her, don’t you?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Look, what’s your name?”
“Show me a badge, and I’ll tell you my name.”
Gavin took a long drink from the bottle and smiled at the bartender. “I need to see her, okay? It’s very important. I’ll be at the Hilton for a few days. If you see her, ask her to call.” He offered the card to the student, who looked at it and walked away.
At three, he unlocked the door to his room, and checked the phone. No messages. Wherever Darby was, she still had not called. Assuming, of course, she was still alive.