prelim questions. The lab people did their job, the press was fed a lean diet and everybody was put on notice not to leave town. It boils down to one dead historian, a missing medal and a suspect-cast of thousands.”
“What about the medal?”
“It belonged to a society called Harsa. It has something to do with the Revolutionary War, and with another society called the Cincinnati.”
“And?”
“And, well, I have to find out a helluva lot more. I put a bulletin out to Interpol on the medal in case they try to fence it overseas.”
“Do you think the medal is what got Tunney killed?”
“As of now that seems to be the scenario, Cal. Professional jewel thieves in the act of stealing the medal, Tunney stumbles onto them, gets killed with the closest thing at hand, Thomas Jefferson’s sword.”
“Thomas Jefferson’s sword?”
Hanrahan nodded. “Excuse me, Cal, but I really need coffee, no matter how bad it is.” He returned carrying a steaming mug. “Sure?”
“More so than ever.” Johnson perched on a corner of Hanrahan’s desk after checking the surface for stains or splinters, touched a thin, gray moustache with themiddle finger of his right hand. “Mac, what about the vice president?”
“What about him?”
“He was there.”
“Right. It seems he and his wife are old friends of the deceased, as Joe Pearl would say. His wife got hysterical, and the veep didn’t look too terrific either.”
“Did you talk to Oxenhauer?”
“Sure. I had an appointment with him this morning but he canceled.”
“Why?”
“Something international, he said.”
“Meaning what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think he was trying to avoid you?”
“I doubt it. But who knows?”
“When are you seeing him?”
“Tomorrow morning at ten.”
Johnson went to a window and looked down to the street. He asked without turning, “Why so interested in interviewing the vice president? You bucking for a White House security job? Maybe Secret Service?”
Hanrahan made a sound of disgust. “You’re right, Cal, this coffee is terrible. Better job? What could be better than this one? It’s like going to heaven every day.”
Johnson nodded, straight-faced. “It looks like rain… Why so much interest in Oxenhauer?”
“Because he told me Tunney said something to him before he died that might be important.”
“What was it?”
“He didn’t tell me.”
“Why not?”
“He wanted to get his wife home. She was in pretty bad shape.”
“Oh.”
“That’s what I said. I’ll see what he has to say in the morning.”
“I can see the papers now, blaming this on the ‘Smithson Bomber.’ What about him? Any possibility that he finally came out of the closet?”
“And killed Tunney?”
Johnson nodded, shrugged.
“I doubt it, but who knows? That’s getting to be my favorite line on this case. Anyway, all we can do is wait for him to make a mistake, stick his head out of his hole. He hasn’t taken credit for this yet.”
“Beef up the search for him, and make a point of it with the press. The media’ll play this to the hilt, turn it into a circus. God, Mac, a leading historian has Thomas Jefferson’s sword rammed into his back in the middle of two hundred people in tuxedoes at the Museum of American History. Imagine what they’ll do with this.”
Johnson cleared his throat and moved to where a color photograph of Hanrahan, his ex-wife, two sons and a daughter stood on the corner of a cabinet. He touched the frame. “Are you over this yet, Mac?”
“Over what? The divorce? Sure.”
“Must have been tough. I mean, having your wife run off with a younger man.” They respected each other enough to talk straight.
“It was. It isn’t anymore.”
“Good. Good for you and good for this case. I’d hate to see you distracted. This is a big one, Mac. Tunney was a good man, I’ve heard of him… but our big problem is
where
he died, and the circumstances. We want to do this right. We’re making