Dead Watch

moron. You just need somebody to go with you. You need a wheelman, again.”
    He blinked again. “Oh, no. No, no, no . . .”
    “Oh, yes. It’s the only way.”

    They argued, went around and around, and finally she said, “I’m going, and that’s it; I’m going, or you’re not.” Then she called Johnson Black. Black arrived an hour later, took her away.
    Ten minutes later, Jake watched CNN as Madison made her statement from the front porch. She said that there had been an assumption that sexuality was private, but that the FBI were apprised of the situation with Lincoln Bowe, and that it was part of their investigation. That she was distressed that people were pounding on her door, hounding her, and that one certain way of NOT getting any information was to pound on her door.
    She would refuse to answer anyone who came to the door, and the thrill-seeking reporters should be ashamed of themselves. More information would be made public at an early date.
    With a bunch of reporters yelling “When?” at her, she went inside. Then a ranking D.C. cop took the microphone and said that anyone who stepped on Mrs. Bowe’s yard or any of the other yards down the block, without permission, would be arrested for trespassing. That all the TV trucks were a hazard in case of emergency, and they would have to leave the street. That anyone not leaving would be ticketed and the trucks would be towed, and the bill would have to be paid before the trucks were released. That towing a big truck would cost upward of $2,000. He added that once the tow truck was there, as in all police tows, there would be no last-minute decision to leave—if the tow truck showed up, the TV trucks would be towed.
    After a flurry of cell-phone calls, the trucks began leaving. An hour after the porch statement, a reporter from the Post stood alone on the sidewalk, shifting from foot to foot.
    An hour after that, the sidewalk was empty.

18 

    Darrell Goodman stepped into the governor’s office, around the departing maids. The first maid was carrying a silver coffee service, the second a basket of scones, the remnants of an appropriations meeting with the leaders of the statehouse and senate. Darrell hooked one of the scones out of the basket and said to his brother, “Rank has its privileges. Free bakery.”
    Arlo Goodman made a flapping gesture at the door. Darrell closed it, and Arlo made a “What?” gesture with his open hands.
    Darrell held up a finger, said, “I’ve been talking to Patricia, the numbers of the Watchmen are up pretty strong this month. We’re starting a new chapter in D.C.”
    “That’s great,” Arlo said. “There’s a chapter out in California now, I just saw it on the Internet.”
    “Yeah. The leader over there, in D.C., may have been in Syria at the same time you were . . .” He rambled on about D.C. numbers as he opened his briefcase, took out a folded piece of paper, and pushed it at Arlo. Arlo took it, looked at it. A laser printout, a letter:
I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what I was getting into. I was one of the four people who helped take Lincoln Bowe away. The other three are Howard Barber, Donald S. Creasey, and Roald M. Sands. I thought it was a complicated political joke on Arlo Goodman. We were supposed to look like Goodman’s hit men. I didn’t know that they were going to shoot Linc. Now I read in the newspapers that he was still alive when he was killed. I don’t know. He was supposed to commit suicide, not be shot. I don’t know what happened to his head. Howard Barber would know. Howard Barber organized this. He’s responsible. Roald and Don don’t know anything. Now everything is coming apart. I’m so sorry, but I can’t stand the thought of prison. I know what would happen in there.
    —Dan White
    Arlo read it and his eyebrows went up. Darrell bent over the desk and whispered in his brother’s ear, “He committed suicide with his own gun after writing the note. The original is signed with his own pen. The pen’s in his coat pocket. An anonymous call went to the Fairfax cops, and Clayton Bell got another anonymous call, supposedly from a Fairfax cop, and he’s there now. Bell will almost certainly call us. He’ll want some guidance.”
    Arlo nodded and pulled his brother’s head down, whispered back, “Nobody else knows anything?”
    “George was there with me—but next week, I’ll settle that.”
    “He can’t feel it coming,” Arlo whispered. “I don’t want him