by Lawson, Mike
She wished she could interrogate McGrath and ask him to account for his whereabouts the night Praeter died, but she didn’t have the authority to do that, and unlike his girlfriend, McGrath would be bright enough to know it. But then, sometimes, you get what you wish for.
“I hear you been asking questions about me. Thought maybe I should find out who you are and why you’re asking.”
Emma turned to look at the speaker.
McGrath was a big, good-looking man. He was wearing a Tommy Bahama shirt, tight-fitting blue jeans, and Top-Siders without socks. Emma could smell his aftershave. He was smiling at her and he looked amused, as if he found the idea of a woman investigating him humorous.
Emma stepped off the barstool.
“Well, are you gonna answer me? You been running all over town pokin’ into my private life, and I’d like to know why.”
“Where were you on Monday and Tuesday of this week, Mr. McGrath?”
McGrath laughed; he laughed loud enough that other patrons in the bar looked over at him. Then he leaned down so his eyes were level with Emma’s. “You can kiss my ass, lady. Now, who are you and why are you asking about me?” As McGrath asked the question, he took a step forward so that Emma was forced back against the bar. He outweighed her by over a hundred pounds and had, at one time, been a professional in a sport where the primary objective appeared to be maiming the opposition.
Emma shifted her position slightly, her arms down at her sides, palms facing outward. She was deciding which part of McGrath’s body she was going to strike first. “Step back, McGrath. Get out of my space.”
McGrath looked around the bar, casually, to see if anyone was looking at him and Emma. Several people were.
He held up his hands in a gesture of false surrender, took a step back, and said, “Sure, honey. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Emma felt like hitting him just for calling her honey. “You didn’t scare me,” Emma said. “Now, are you going to answer my question? Where were you on Monday night, the night Richard Praeter died?”
McGrath just smiled, shook his head as if she were nuts, and walked away, down toward the end of the bar where two barmaids were waiting for drink orders. “Ladies,” McGrath said to the barmaids, “you are both lookin’ delectable tonight. Would one of you sweet young things bring me a gin and tonic? Oh, and you see that lady over there, the tall, ornery-looking one? Bring her another glass of wine.”
As Emma walked past McGrath’s table to leave the bar, he winked at her.
37
The morning after returning from Myrtle Beach—grateful that old Ed had managed to land his plane safely the night before—Emma talked again to her source at the NYPD to see if he’d learned anything new regarding Praeter’s death. He hadn’t—and she got the distinct impression that the death of an unpopular rich guy with no political connections wasn’t high on his priority list. She also pestered her friend at Homeland Security, asking him to check airport surveillance cameras to see if McGrath had been in any of New York’s major airports.
“I know he didn’t take a commercial flight using his real name,” Emma said, “but maybe he has a fake ID, and if the TSA could . . .”
Her friend said, “Sorry, Emma. I love you like a sister, but unless this guy’s Al Qaeda there’s no way I can vector people off on that.”
Well, poop.
It was still raining; indeed, it was coming down so hard Emma was afraid it was going to wash away the new topsoil she’d put in. She wasn’t going to get any yard work done today, so she might as well go see Douglas Campbell and find out if he had an alibi for the night Praeter died. But before driving to Chevy Chase, she had a long, leisurely breakfast with Christine.
This delay almost cost Campbell his life.
* * *
Kathy Campbell answered the door holding a glass of what appeared to be orange juice, and Emma’s first thought upon seeing her was: This woman should use sunscreen.
“Doug isn’t here,” she said when Emma asked to speak to her husband.
“Do you know where he is? I called his office and they said he took the day off.”
“Who are you?”
“A federal agent,” Emma said. Emma had—and she knew it—a face and a manner that people tended to believe and were reluctant to challenge. Nonetheless, she took what looked like a badge case out of her pocket and flipped it open, allowing Kathy Campbell the briefest glimpse of a card embossed with a fancy gold seal. The card identified Emma as a retired civil servant who had special privileges at commissaries on military bases.
“You people need to stop hounding Doug,” Kathy Campbell said. “He didn’t have anything to do with Molly Mahoney.”
“I still need to speak with him, Mrs. Campbell. Can you please tell me where he is?”
“He’s with his good buddy Rusty.”
“Rusty McGrath?”
“Yeah. They’re going to a UVA baseball game today. Rusty called him last night and asked him to go, and Doug took a day off work. I mean, really. College baseball. Who gives a shit?”
Maybe she wasn’t drinking pure orange juice. A mimosa or a screwdriver seemed more likely.
“Mrs. Campbell, do you know where your husband was on Monday night of this week? Actually, early Tuesday morning, about one a.m.”
“I guess he was here,” Kathy Campbell said with a shrug. “I drove down to Richmond on Sunday to see my sister and didn’t get back until Tuesday afternoon. But where else would he have been? I mean Doug’s no Rusty McGrath. He sure as hell wasn’t out chasing college girls in Georgetown.”
* * *
Emma had a bad feeling about McGrath inviting Campbell to a baseball game the day after she’d confronted him. Maybe McGrath just wanted to enjoy an afternoon with a good friend from college. Or maybe McGrath wanted to get together with Campbell and talk about them having been subpoenaed by Molly’s lawyer. Maybe—but Emma didn’t think so.
If DeMarco was correct, McGrath had killed Praeter, and after meeting McGrath, Emma now shared DeMarco’s bad vibe about the man. She couldn’t help but think that maybe McGrath was planning to get rid of the only other man who could implicate him in a crime—and he was going to do it today. Campbell was going to have some kind of accident before he left Charlottesville—a fall down a flight of steps where his neck is broken, a car accident where McGrath walks away and Campbell doesn’t. Rusty McGrath was definitely strong enough to break Douglas Campbell’s neck, and if that happened, she would be partially to blame for stirring the pot with McGrath.
When Emma had worked for the DIA, she rarely relied on the gut feelings of her subordinates, usually insisting on hard data to support their conclusions. But she relied very much on her own instincts, and had been right often enough to feel justified in doing so. And right now her instincts were screaming at her: she needed to get Campbell away from McGrath. The problem was that she didn’t know anyone in Charlottesville she could call to assist her. Well, she knew a couple of professors at UVA—but a professor wasn’t the sort of person she needed. She needed a cop.
She thought for a moment then called DeMarco.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“I’m in New York.”
“What are you doing there?”
“I’m, uh, . . .”
“Oh, never mind. Who was that retired cop you spoke to in Charlottesville?”
“A guy named Dave Torey.”
“Do you have his number?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, give it to me.”
DeMarco fumbled with his cell phone, then read off the number. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“I don’t have time to talk right now,” Emma said and hung up.
What the hell was he doing in New York?
* * *
&nb
sp; Emma explained to Torey what was going on with Campbell and McGrath, and told him about Praeter’s death. She concluded with, “I think McGrath might try to kill Campbell. So what I need to know is, do you still have any pull with the Charlottesville PD?”
“Well, I got a lot of pull with one guy. He’s my son. He’s in charge of their SWAT team.”
“Do you think you could get him to find McGrath and Campbell? Campbell’s wife told me they were going to a UVA baseball game.”
“Yeah, if you think this will really stop a murder, I can probably convince my boy to help. He’s got enough clout with the department that if he puts out a BOLO for McGrath, the folks in patrol will start looking for him. But what should he do if he finds them?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Tell him to just watch them and make sure McGrath sees him watching. He’s not going to do anything to Campbell if a cop is looking at him. But I don’t have these guys’ pictures.”
“That’s okay. He can get their photos from the Maryland and South Carolina DMVs.”
“Thanks. I’ll be down there in a couple of hours, maybe quicker if I don’t get caught for speeding.”
“Okay, I’ll call my kid. Call me when you get near town and I’ll meet you someplace.” Torey paused, then added, “You know, this sure as hell beats sitting here on my ass watching TV all day.”
* * *
Dave Torey turned out to be stocky guy in his sixties with a white mustache. What little hair he had left was also white. His son looked just like him, except he didn’t have a mustache; he was losing his hair, however. The good thing about Torey’s son, Steve, was he looked tough and strong—at least as strong as Rusty McGrath.
Emma was sitting in back of a Charlottesville PD patrol car. Steve Torey was driving and his father was riding in the passenger’s seat. Emma didn’t like being in the backseat separated by a screen from the Toreys—and she really didn’t like that there were no handles on the inside of the car to open the back doors. Emma didn’t like not being in control.
“We spotted them when they left the ball game,” Steve Torey said, “and followed them to a bar called O’Grady’s, which is where they are now. I’ve got guy inside the bar watching them—and I can tell you O’Grady isn’t too happy about that, having a uniform cop standing in his doorway. Half the people he serves in that place are underage college kids with fake IDs.”
“We need to get Campbell away from McGrath,” Emma said.
“Well, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to do that,” Steve Torey said.
“How long have they been inside this bar?”
“About an hour,” Steve Torey said.
“Then Campbell’s drunk. And you can . . .”
“I don’t know that he’s drunk,” Steve Torey said.
“Listen to the lady,” Dave Torey said to his son.
“Officer Torey,” Emma said, “you’re going to arrest Campbell for public drunkenness, or whatever the correct legal term is. Later on you can apologize and let him go if he’s not really drunk, but I’m willing to bet they’ve been drinking beer all afternoon at that ballgame and now they’re drinking some more. Campbell’s drunk.”
“I like it,” Dave Torey said. “And this time these assholes aren’t going to a bowl game and the university’s not going to send some lawyer over to get them out of whatever jam they’re in.”
* * *
Steve Torey walked into the bar and nodded to the cop standing by the door. The bar was packed with college kids and between the kids and the jukebox, it was noisy in the place. But the kids all stopped talking when a second cop entered the bar.
Campbell and McGrath were at a table by themselves, about thirty feet from the door. McGrath was drinking a beer; Campbell had a colorless drink in front of him that could have been vodka or gin. When McGrath saw Emma come in behind the cop, he looked in her direction and shook his head. He wasn’t smiling now.
Steve Torey motioned to the other cop and they walked over to the table where McGrath and Campbell were seated. “Would you gentlemen please stand up,” Steve Torey said.
“What?” Campbell said, but he stood up—and almost fell. There was no doubt he was drunk.
McGrath didn’t move. “What’s this all about,” he said.
“Sir, I told you to stand up. I want to see IDs from both of you. Then I want you to go over and put your hands on that wall so I can make sure you’re not carrying weapons.”
“You’re not searching me,” McGrath said. “You don’t have probable cause.”
“Sir,” Steve Torey said, “I suspect you don’t know shit about probable cause. What I do know is that right now you’re resisting a lawful order issued by a police officer. Now, stand up, hand me your wallet, and then go grab the wall.”
McGrath sat for a moment longer, then stood up. Unlike Campbell he didn’t look or sound drunk. Steve Torey examined both men’s IDs, and while he did, Campbell swayed, having a hard time maintaining his balance. Emma thought he looked close to passing out. Then another thought occurred to her: she wondered if McGrath might have spiked his drink so he’d be easier to control.
Torey patted Campbell down first, and while he was doing this, Campbell said, “What the hell’s going on here, Rusty? Why are these guys fucking with us?” McGrath didn’t respond.
When Torey finished with Campbell, he patted down McGrath, taking his time, doing a more thorough search. He noticed a bulge in the back right-hand pocket of McGrath’s jeans. He reached inside the pocket and pulled out a bag of peanuts. The peanuts in the bag were almost pulverized, as if McGrath had sat on them.
“You squashed your peanuts,” Torey said, and tossed the peanuts on the table next to McGrath’s wallet. McGrath still didn’t respond.
“Okay,” Steve Torey said. “Mr. Campbell, you are obviously intoxicated and I’m arresting you for being drunk and disorderly in public.”
“You can’t do that! Can he do that, Rusty?”
“Cuff him,” Torey said to the other cop, and Campbell didn’t resist as handcuffs were placed on him and he was led out of the bar. He was four inches taller than the cop walking beside him.
As the cops were leaving, Emma walked over to McGrath. He was putting his wallet back into his pocket. The peanuts Torey had taken from him were still sitting on the table.
“Where were you last Monday, McGrath?” Emma said.
“Kiss my ass, you bitch.”
* * *
Campbell was sitting in the back of a patrol car, his head lolled back on top of the seat. He’d passed out.
“What am I supposed to do with him?” Steve Torey said, now wishing he’d never got sucked into Emma’s and his father’s plans.
“Just toss him into a cell until he wakes up, then let him go,” Emma said. “McGrath isn’t going to do anything now. In fact, I’m guessing McGrath will head back to Myrtle Beach right away. If he comes by the police station and tries to get you to release Campbell into his custody, tell him Campbell’s going to be held overnight, and then you’re going to personally escort him out of Charlottesville.
“Oh, and do one other thing for me. Ask Campbell to tell you where he was last Monday night at one a.m. I don’t think he’ll tell you anything, but if he does, let me know. And thank you for your help, Officer Torey. I’m convinced you just kept a man from being killed.”
Actually, Emma had no idea if that was true.
38
DeMarco found Emma in her backyard, arms folded across her chest, watching two Hispanic men aerate and reseed a portion of her lawn that apparently didn’t meet her standards. She was wearing a long-sleeved white shirt, jeans, and rubber boots that almost reached her knees. Her jeans were tucked into the boots, and absent a bullwhip, she looked like the overseer of an antebellum plantation watching the cotton being picked. DeMarco
felt sorry for the Hispanics.
Emma had asked him to come to her house, saying she had a few things to tell him. Actually, she hadn’t asked him; she’d ordered him. That was the problem with involving Emma in his cases: she automatically assumed command and pretty much did whatever she wanted.
“What were you doing in New York?” she asked, without taking her eyes off the gardeners.
“Looking into something to get this congressman off Mahoney’s back, like I told you the other day. I also spent the night at my mom’s place since I hadn’t seen her in a while.”
Now Emma looked at him—and she looked skeptical—but she didn’t say anything.
If for no other reason than to change the subject, he asked, “Why did you want Dave Torey’s number yesterday?” and Emma proceeded to tell what she’d learned about Campbell and McGrath and the incident in Charlottesville.
“You had the guy arrested?” DeMarco said, amazed at what she’d done. He was also amazed that she hadn’t bothered to call and tell him —but that’s what happened when you worked with Emma.
“I had to get him away from McGrath.”
“And you seriously thought McGrath was going to kill him?”
“I don’t know. I just . . . I just had this feeling,” Emma said. “I was afraid Campbell was going to have an accident in Charlottesville. He was going to fall down a flight of steps, or get mugged, or get in a car accident where McGrath lived and he died. I think something like that was going to happen.”
“But what made you think that?”
“Because I think McGrath’s a sociopath, and I think he’s getting rid of the people who can put him in jail. I also think he wants them gone before they have to testify at Molly’s trial.”
She told DeMarco that neither Campbell nor McGrath had a solid alibi for the night of Praeter’s death but at the same time she hadn’t been able to find any evidence that they’d been in New York. Emma was silent for a moment, pondering their next step. Until now, her interest in the case had been somewhat halfhearted, but DeMarco could tell that McGrath had gotten her competitive juices flowing.