Dead Watch

named Johnson Black, who was sitting on a sofa facing a coffee table, a delicate china cup in his hand. Jake saw him a half-dozen times a year at different lobbyist dinners. He was balding, with merry, pink cheeks and half-moon glasses. In his late sixties, he was one of the classic Washington regulars who moved between private practice and federal appointments.
    Black wore a dark suit, as always, but had taken off his brilliant tie, which was draped over a shoulder. He stood up, smiling, to shake hands: “Jake, goddamnit, I couldn’t believe it when Maddy said you were coming over. I told her you were a good guy.”
    “I appreciate that,” Jake said. “How’ve you been, Johnnie? How’s the heart?”
    “Ah, I’m eating nothing but bark and twigs. It’s either that, or they do the Roto-Rooter on me.”
    Madison was watching Jake. “Johnnie says you’re teaching at Georgetown,” she said. “Why’s a professor . . . ?”
    “I’m not a professor. I teach a seminar. I work for the government as a consultant,” Jake said. “I specialize in . . .” He paused, looked at Johnson Black, and said, “I don’t know. What do I specialize in, Johnnie?”
    “Hard to tell,” Black said. “Maybe forensic bureaucracy?”
    “That’s it,” Jake said, turning back to Madison. “Forensic bureaucracy. When something goes wrong, I try to find out what really happened.”
    Madison sat on the couch next to Black. She didn’t smile back, hadn’t smiled yet, and he really wanted to see her smile. Jake took an easy chair, facing them across the coffee table, put his case on the floor by his feet, leaned forward.
    “The president has ordered me to find Senator Bowe. I’m going to start kicking bureaucrats, I’m going to raise hell over at Justice, with the FBI, with Homeland Security, and I’m going to talk to Governor Goodman.”
    “In other words, you’re going to make a big public relations show, because the president is feeling the heat,” Madison said.
    Jake shook his head: “No. No show. That’s an explicit part of my deal—I don’t do public stuff. But I will find your husband. There’s a reason he’s gone.”
    “Because he spoke out. Because he was critical of Arlo Goodman and his thugs, and was tying them to this administration,” Madison said.
    Jake held both hands up, palms toward Madison: “Mrs. Bowe: I heard you on television. I will keep that possibility in mind. But there are other possibilities, and I’m not going to let any of them go.”
    “What other possibilities?”
    “That your husband disappeared for reasons of his own,” Jake said.
    “You can’t believe that,” she said, her back rigid. Her hands twisted in her lap, and he was happy that his neck wasn’t between them.
    “I don’t believe anything in particular, Mrs. Bowe,” Jake said. “But there’s been speculation to that effect. That this is an effort to embarrass Arlo Goodman. That you’re jerking him around. There are radio talk show people saying that your appearance on TV was part of that effort.”
    Her face was intent, earnest: “It was not . . .”
    Jake overrode her: “I’m outlining the possibilities, as I see them. I didn’t come over here to argue with you, or to comfort you. I need to ask some questions and to make a request.”
    She settled back on the couch and crossed her arms over her chest. “What do you want?”
    “Your husband is too important a public figure to disappear on his own,” Jake said. “If he disappeared of his own volition, then either you, or some close friend, knows where he is. I want you to call all of his close friends. Tell them that if they know anything about Lincoln Bowe, I want them to get in touch with me. We are now at the point where somebody’s going to jail, to prison, for involvement with this disappearance. That if this started as a joke, nobody’s laughing anymore.”
    Now Madison leaned forward, her eyes locked on his: “That’s what I want! I want somebody to say that in public. The president. The attorney general. That we’re talking about prison. Or the death penalty. Or something. Finally get some pressure on whoever’s got him. They’ve just been out there playing around . . .”
    “So you’ll make the calls?”
    “Yes—but that won’t help,” she said. “He did not disappear on his own. He is not with a friend. He would have told me. Even more . . .”
    She hesitated, and Jake said, “What?”
    “He spends most of