CHAPTER 7
Friday, February 6, 4:00 p.m.
DR. JODY DIMARCO, DEPUTY Secretary of the Treasury for Oversight, had suffered through a long, tiresome week. Hers was a thankless job under the best of circumstances. In the past year, however, with the economy as bad as it was, it had become much worse. Repeatedly being called on the carpet in front of an increasingly aggressive Congress grandstanding for the media was frustrating. As far as DiMarco was concerned, this was a lot of pots calling the kettle black. Adding insult to injury, the real kettle here was DiMarco’s predecessor from the prior administration. DiMarco was still teaching classes and writing her latest book when the economy tanked in 2008.
DiMarco and her devoted husband of twenty-five years, Lawrence DiMarco, were both professors at Harvard Business School when she was asked to join the new administration. From the time of her doctoral thesis on why the financial markets needed to be free of governmental influence, DiMarco had been a champion of hands-off government. The new administration—anything but hands-off—had reached out to DiMarco as a token demonstration of its supposed commitment to open-minded bipartisanship. And maybe as well because the DiMarcos actually paid their taxes.
Truth be told, DiMarco was beginning to have some misgivings about the lack of congressional oversight. Her new position presented an opportunity to rethink her earlier hands-off position.
This morning, however, took the cake. Expecting to be dragged over the coals once again, DiMarco had spent hours preparing for the latest WSOC hearing. She was there, on time, ready to go. Without any notice, Chairman Wells was a no-show. The hearing had to be postponed until next week. What an ass, failing to show up without any explanation. Probably out gallivanting around last night until all hours. Now hung over in bed somewhere.
DiMarco did not care for Wells, not professionally and certainly not personally. She thought Wells was nothing but a typical two-faced politician, looking for scapegoats for Washington’s lack of control of the Wall Street predators who had all but caused the collapse of the economy. DiMarco also thought Wells was a classless embarrassment to her office, but she would never say such a thing out loud. DiMarco was a proper lady, even if Wells was not.
Courtesy of The Financial Times of London, her husband, Lawrence, was at an international conference in London, delivering a paper on the proper role of government in collapsed and recovering financial markets. After her tough week, DiMarco was looking forward to dinner and a quiet evening at home by herself, and a long, relaxing bubble bath.
Her take-out sushi dinner was nice. The steaming bubble bath was even nicer. DiMarco was luxuriating in the water when the telephone rang. “Hello?”
“Hello, dear, how are you?”
“I’m fine, hon, just soaking in the tub. What about you? How are things in London? Pretty late there, isn’t it?”
“Just back from dinner with some of the other speakers. We did it up a bit, a few too many ales, I’m afraid. Not much time to sleep before I have to clean up and head out to Heathrow. I’ll catch a good nap on the flight home. Go back to your soak. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon. Think of something fun we can do together on Sunday.”
“Will do. Safe flight. See you tomorrow. Love you.”
* * *
“MUST BE MY LUCKY day,” the man thought to himself as he returned the gun and suppressor to his shoulder bag and quietly set it on the floor. Only seconds after DiMarco had hung up the phone, the man came up behind her and grabbed her firmly by the throat. She barely managed to get out an exclamatory “What …?” before he pushed her down under the soapy water. It was the last question she ever almost asked. “Next time, do your job,” he said to no one in particular. “I had to pay. Now you have to pay too!”
After she had gone limp, he pulled her out of the water, carried her into the adjoining bedroom, and dropped her down on the bed, face up. He retrieved his bag from the bathroom and returned to the bedroom. He opened it and withdrew his … utensils.
CHAPTER 8
Saturday, February 7, 10:00 a.m.
EYEING BARNET’S NAME IN the telephone’s dialog box, Lotello picked up on the second ring. “Anything useful, J?”
“Zip. You were right. Coroner’s not going to have anything until Monday. Backlog isn’t helping. But the real reason is several tests that have to run their course. And possibly too many weekend plans. However, it sure made all the papers this morning. Including a story by your pal Santana.”
“I’ve seen the papers. What about Wells’s computers and any little black book?”
“You were right again. Ayres is still not rolling over. In the meanwhile, he is still pressing us to share any developments. I told him nothing. I also mentioned that he needed to come in for an interview. He wasn’t happy. Said he first had to speak with Congress’s legal office. Something about congressional privilege. Said he’d know more by the beginning of next week.”
“That’s crap. Not quarreling with you, but I’m losing my patience with Ayres. In particular, I want to find out what he knows about any off-line calendar Wells might have had. Or any little black book. No way Ayres wouldn’t know about that. Whether or not he knows what’s in it.
“We’ll give him through the weekend. If he doesn’t voluntarily come in on Monday, we’ll go to him. Claim obstruction of justice if necessary, even if it isn’t. Let him take that up with Congress’s legal office. I’m gonna get in a little quality time with the kids over the weekend, while I still can. See you Monday, J.”
“Okay.”
Lotello clicked off. I don’t like being stonewalled, Beth. But don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of things.
CHAPTER 9
Saturday, February 7, 10:15 a.m.
“RACHEL SANTANA HERE. You know the drill. Leave a message. I’ll get back to you—or not.”
“I think you might want to get out to the home of Deputy Secretary of the Treasury DiMarco. Right away if you want to be the first one with the story. You won’t be disappointed.” He added DiMarco’s address and hung up.
Things are rolling right along. No reason for me to call the cops on this one. DiMarco’s husband will find the body soon enough.
He sat there in the dark, feeling quite satisfied with how things were progressing.
CHAPTER 10
Saturday, February 7, 5:00 p.m.
LOTELLO AND HIS KIDS were just leaving the movie theater when his cell phone rang. It was Barnet. “What’s up, J?”
“We’ve got another murder.”
“Who’s the vic?”
“Deputy Secretary of the Treasury for Oversight Jody DiMarco. Her husband came home and found her naked on top of their bed. He called 911. Claims he just returned from a business trip to London. He doesn’t know what happened to her. No apparent wounds. No blood. No health problems to speak of. Seemed fine when he talked to her last night from London. The call was transferred to us because the DiMarco crime scene resembled the Wells crime scene.”
“Are you sure the husband’s playing it straight?”
“Seems like it. He’s barely holding it together. If he’s faking, he’s very good. I don’t like any of this, Frank—two high-profile female politicians dead in two days. Coroner’s been alerted. Lab guys are there now. I’ve got DiMarco’s address. Can you meet us there?”
“Not possible. I’m with the kids. I don’t have anyone to watch them. You’ll have to call me back when you have something more.”
There was a pregnant pause. Lotello knew Barnet was not pleased. “You’re sure?”
There was nothing more to say. Lotello clicked off. Not sure I’m gonna be able to do right by this job and the kids.
Madison was in her dad’s face the minute he hung up. “Hey, Dad, what was that? Why were you talking about Charlie and me?”
“It was nothing, Maddie, just some work stuff.”
“Are we still going out to dinner?”
“You bet. Right now.”
CHAPTER 11
NO SOONER WERE THEY back home from dinner and settled in than the phone rang. It was Barnet calling from the DiMarco residence. “Lab guys are just getting started, but DiMarco didn’t die from natural causes. She was sexually assaulted and strangled. Her body was left on the bed, positioned the same as with Wells. I think we may have a serial killer. One who’s targeting women politicians.”
“Who knows about the DiMarco murder so far?”
“We haven’t released any details, but the lab people called it in to their office as soon as they saw the similarities. One thing led to another, and we have a seven thirty all-hands meeting tomorrow morning at the precinct. Worse still, Santana pulled up at DiMarco’s place just as I got there. She doesn’t know any of the details, but she somehow knows DiMarco’s dead. And she can count. She knows it’s two dead female political figures in two days. Where’s Santana getting her information?”
“Beats me. Very strange. Nothing more I can do tonight. I’ll make arrangements for the kids in the morning. See you bright and early. One thing we’ve gotta do is find out how Santana’s getting all her information. And so fucking quickly.”
Lotello’s mind was racing. Two high-profile female politicians assaulted and murdered in two days. No leads. Except possibly for Rachel Santana. And she’s not talking. Yet. We’ll see about that tomorrow. Not good, Beth.
CHAPTER 12
Sunday, February 8, 7:30 a.m.
IT WAS ONE OF those “command” performances. Lotello hated them. They were all sitting around the large conference room at police headquarters. In addition to Lotello and Barnet, Deputy Mayor Colleen Arnest, District Attorney Vincent Reilly, Police Chief Paul Murphy, and Head Coroner Rosemary Ellis.
Several copies of the Sunday morning edition of The Washington Post sat on the conference table. Under the byline of Rachel Santana, the front-page lead story headline read:
SECOND PROMINENT D.C. FEMALE POLITICIAN RAPED AND MURDERED IN TWO DAYS OFFICIALS OFFER UP NO LEADS OR SUSPECTS
Chief Murphy—a D.C. career cop for more than twenty-five years, competent, but also a typical bureaucrat—chaired the meeting. “I want to thank all of you for turning out on such short notice. We’re facing a highly toxic situation: a possible serial killer preying on female members of our political community, raping and killing them.
“From our D.C. mayor up to the White House, the inquiries are mounting. So far, they’re relatively polite, but you know that’s not going to last—especially if we have another … incident.
“We need to be extremely proactive. As of right now, the brass on high has designated the four of us members of a special task force representing our respective offices. I’ve included our lead homicide investigators, Frank Lotello. I’d like to start us off by going around the table for initial thoughts, beginning with Coroner Ellis. Rosemary?”
“Good morning. With two exceptions, I’m afraid I don’t have much to report yet. First, the odds are good that these two crimes were committed by the same person or persons.”
“Persons?” Deputy Mayor Colleen Arnest gasped involuntarily, and, thought Lotello, rather dramatically. “Are you telling us there may be a team of people committing these outrageous acts?”
“No, no, sorry, Colleen,” responded Ellis, “just a manner of speaking. Technically, we don’t yet know these acts were committed by the same person or by one person only.”
People were visibly on edge. District Attorney Vincent Reilly joined in. “Geez, Rosemary, loose lips and all that stuff. Please, no talking like that outside this room.”
“Let me start over. We don’t really have any reason to think there is more than one perpetrator in either of these two cases. And the odds are good that it’s the same single perpetrator.”
“Good? There’s nothing good about any of this,” Chief Murphy interrupted. “The thought of a serial killer on the loose would guarantee the worst conceivable media reaction. Why do you suggest it’s the same perpetrator in both of these cases? And what’s your second point?”
“The virtually identical ceremonial positions of the two bodies. These facts have not been released to the public. There’s no reason to believe anyone other than the killer knows about any of these details. My second point is that we’ve authorized overtime, escalated the priority of the two cases, and hope to have full reports in twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”
Lotello was losing his patience. Another damn bureaucrat. Overtime quote authorized! Twenty-four to forty-eight hours until we have any reports! My kids, who are still grieving the loss of their mother, are with a babysitter. Thanks for nothing.
“Okay, thanks, Rosemary,” said Chief Murphy. “Of course, twenty-four hours would be a lot better than forty-eight. With Rachel Santana’s story already on the street, we need to move as quickly as humanly possible. I’d like us to hear next from Detective Lotello.”
Lotello was not a public speaker. He had no use for theatrics. “I got nothing. We don’t yet know diddly.” What little he knew, he certainly wasn’t going to share with these political clowns. Begrudgingly: “We have a smart-ass reporter from The Post, Rachel Santana, being fed tips from someone. But she’s not talking. We need the source of those tips. Senator Wells’s chief of staff, James Ayres, may also be withholding certain information in his possession that could help us. I tried speaking with Deputy Secretary DiMarco’s husband this morning. He’s sedated and won’t be of any use for at least another day. We need help from the DA’s office right away compelling Santana and Ayres to cough up whatever they have. Whether by means of subpoenas or search warrant.”
“Take it easy, Frank,” District Attorney Reilly responded rather defensively. “We’ll be all over The Post and Ayres before the day is out. But they’re each likely to bring in lawyers to hold us at bay.”
“Sounds like we’ve gone as far as we can this morning,” Chief Murphy jumped back in, attempting to reassert his command over the group. “Until this matter is resolved, we’re going to meet each morning at seven thirty and, starting tomorrow, each afternoon at four o’clock as well. If there’s nothing more now, we’ll be in adjournment. Thanks again to all of you for your participation.”
“Excuse me,” said Deputy Mayor Arnest. “The mayor has asked me to emphasize how important it is that we get to the bottom of this as quickly as possible. Particularly inasmuch as tomorrow the mayor will begin holding daily press conferences until we’ve made an arrest. Thank you.”
Lotello shook his head as everyone filed out of the conference room. Spoken like another classic asshole politician. Only a damn fool like our mayor would start holding daily press conferences before he has the first clue what he should be saying. And not saying. It was all Lotello could do to keep his disgust from showing. He wasn’t sure he had succeeded. Or cared.
* * *
AFTER NEARLY FIFTY YEARS, the pattern was quite well established and pretty much always the same. Seven mornings a week, Eloise Brooks rose about two hours after her husband, veteran Washington, D.C., Superior Court Judge Cyrus Brooks. Around 6:45, she would find him in the same place, sitting deep in thought in front of the computer screen on the desk in his home office. He always stopped what he was doing and attentively acknowledged her presence.
“Morning, love,” he would say. “How are you feeling this morning?”
She approached him, signaling him to stand, accept her hug, and return her affection. She was secure in the knowledge that he enjoyed her warmth and attention, even if he tried not to let it show. “I’m fine, dear,” she answered. “And you? Ready for breakfast?”
Not really a question, but like night followed day, Eloise had no doubt that she knew what was best for her husband. She wished he would put down his work, take her hand, and spend some time with her. Every once in a while, he did. But not often. Certainly not frequently enough for her. She understood that his work was his real mistress, but that didn’t stop her from wishing his priorities
were a little different.
She knew he understood all that. But she also knew his attention had its limits. The computer screen called out to him. He sat back down at his desk. “The usual aches. But I’m good. Give me five minutes and I’ll be there.”
“Five minutes?”
“Five minutes.”
“Okay. I’m putting the eggs on. Five minutes.”
“Five minutes.”
Ten to fifteen minutes later, sheepishly, he walked into the family room.
“You said five minutes. The eggs are hard.”
She knew they both knew what five of her husband’s minutes meant. The eggs were never hard. Still, in their household, that’s just the way the conversation went. Every day. Over and over.
The four of them then sat down together for breakfast: Cyrus, Eloise, Maccabee, their three-year-old British shorthair cat, and Ryder, their almost potty-trained Havanese puppy. Breakfast, the daily newspapers (usually The Washington Post, The Wall Street Journal, and USA Today), a brief exchange of the more interesting current events, chitchat about this and that and what each had on their schedules for the day, a quick constitutional walk for Ryder and Eloise, and then each of them on to the rest of their day.
She handed him the first section of The Post. “Read this story, dear—the one about the back-to-back murders of Senator Jane Wells and Deputy Secretary of the Treasury Jody DiMarco. I knew both of them, although only slightly. Two women political leaders murdered in two days. What do you make of it?”
He skimmed the story. “Nothing much to say. Kind of par for the course these days.” As much as he tried to make light of it, Eloise sensed how troubled Cyrus had become of late with the increasing frequency of these seemingly random acts of violence. This was the reason she had asked him about this story. She had hoped to draw him out.
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