by Mike Lawson
No way, Carl thought, was Jimmy gonna catch that cab on foot, all the weight he was packing. Carl had to get this son of a bitch to move his truck. He threw open his door, the door banging hard against the side of the FedEx truck, then he pounded on the truck with his fist.
“You black motherfucker!” Carl screamed, “Move this fuckin’ truck!”
“What did you say?” the FedEx driver said, looking at Carl, his eyes going all big.
Oh, shit, Carl thought. He hadn’t meant to say that. And this guy was huge.
“I said, move this truck,” Carl said. “Right now. It’s an emergency.”
“I’ll move this truck when you apologize for disrespectin’ me, you fat, four-eyed . . .”
“Thank you, Andre,” Emma said, and handed the FedEx driver a hundred-dollar bill folded so that he couldn’t see the denomination.
“I can’t take money from you, Emma, everything you’ve done for us. And anyway, I enjoyed it. ’Specially after that bastard started calling me names.”
“It’s not for you,” Emma said. “Buy your wife some flowers. When’s the last time you gave her flowers?”
Sheesh, Andre thought. It’s like all these women took some sorta make-you-feel-guilty class.
Chapter 18
DeMarco met Lydia Morelli in Georgetown, on the walking trail that runs parallel to the C&O Canal. In years past, mules had walked along the banks of the canal towing barges from Washington to ports as far inland as Cumberland, Maryland. The canal still had a number of working locks, and for all DeMarco knew it still served some useful function, but whether it did or not, it was a pleasant place to walk.
Lydia was already there when DeMarco arrived, sitting on a wooden bench and staring vacantly down at the water trickling along the bottom of the canal. She was wearing a camel-hair trench coat over a white cable knit sweater and dark slacks. When she saw DeMarco, she stood up and walked toward him. She looked terrible: puffy, dark bags under her bloodshot eyes, her complexion sallow. It appeared as if she’d spent the night battling the invincible bottle and the bottle, as always, had won.
“Good morning,” DeMarco said, “and thank you for agreeing to see me.”
Lydia just nodded and took a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her coat. Her hands trembled when she lit the cigarette, and when she exhaled the smoke, DeMarco could again smell a slight odor of alcohol on her breath. She wasn’t drunk, maybe she’d only had one drink, but with the exception of Mahoney, DeMarco tended not to have much confidence in people who had bourbon for breakfast. They started to walk down the path, DeMarco feeling hulkish beside her, being so much taller and broader than she was.
“Mrs. Morelli, I need to know—”
But she interrupted him before he could complete the sentence. “I can tell you’re not too sure about me but I can also see you’re starting to have some doubts about Paul. You wouldn’t have asked to see me if that wasn’t the case.”
She may have been an alcoholic but she was intuitive and she wasn’t stupid.
“Maybe,” DeMarco said, “but I need to know more. I need to know who’s been helping your husband and I need to know why, after all this time, you’ve decided to destroy his career.”
“You don’t need to know either of those things,” Lydia said, her voice testy. “They’re irrelevant. The only thing that is relevant is that a corrupt, evil man is going to become president if you don’t do something to stop him.”
DeMarco stopped walking and took hold of her arm and spun her around, gently, to face him. “I don’t believe for one moment that this is about your concern for the country,” he said. “There’s something personal going on here, something between you and him. And you’ve known about the things he’s done—or the things you think he’s done—for years. So why are you doing this now and who’s helping him?”
Lydia shook her head. “I’m not going to give you his name.”
“Why not?”
“Remember when I told you that Paul only married me because of who my father was?”
“Yes.”
“When my father went down in flames . . .”
DeMarco didn’t know what she meant by that.
“. . . Paul was afraid, even as bright as he is, that he would never make it big in politics. But then, because of me, the devil danced in.”
The devil?
Lydia saw the expression on DeMarco’s face. “I didn’t mean that literally, Joe. I’m not a religious fanatic. Nor am I demented.” She paused, then added, “But maybe if I were religious, none of this would have happened.
“But his name isn’t important. And the reason it’s not important is that you’ll never get to Paul through him. He never does anything personally, and you’ll never find a connection between him and Paul. What you need to do is concentrate on the women Paul attacked. That’s your best shot.”
This wasn’t making sense. Why wouldn’t she name this guy? She had said that it was because of her that Paul had met the man, but so what? Was she worried if she named him she’d implicate herself in some way? Maybe Lydia’s motives were self-serving and had nothing to do with her husband.
“Are you afraid of this man, Mrs. Morelli, is that why you won’t tell me his name? Are you afraid he might kill you if he found out?”
Lydia started to shake her head no, but then she said, “Maybe he would kill me. I don’t know. Sometimes monsters eat their young.”
Christ, another cryptic, useless comment. He didn’t know if Lydia Morelli just enjoyed being dramatic, if she was being intentionally evasive—or if she really was insane. But he did know that she was making him angry.
“Goddamnit, I need some help here! I need to know who this guy is to protect myself. And two men have been following me, men who freelance for the CIA, and I need to know why.”
“The CIA?” Lydia said, and then she laughed, although DeMarco didn’t know what he’d said that was funny. “I can assure you he isn’t connected with the CIA,” she said. “So I don’t know who’s following you, Joe, or why.”
Before DeMarco could argue further, she said, “Just focus on Paul. Talk to those women on Terry’s list. Make them admit that Paul attacked them.”
“I did talk to them, Mrs. Morelli, and they claim your husband didn’t do anything to them.”
“They’re lying. Talk to them again. Make them agree to testify against him.”
This was hopeless; the woman had a one-track mind. And she was telling him no more than she’d already told him at the cathedral.
“Mrs. Morelli, you’re asking me to help you destroy one of the most admired politicians in the country—a man I admire—but you have no evidence, you won’t tell me why you hate him, and you won’t tell me who’s helping him. And now I’m in danger. I’m not pursuing this any further.”
“Terry Finley wasn’t afraid,” Lydia said.
Terry Finley was an ambitious megalomaniac with delusions of grandeur, is what DeMarco almost said, but he didn’t. Instead he said, “Well, Terry was a braver man than I am.” And that was probably true as well. “Mrs. Morelli, either you give me some details, or I’m leaving.”
At that moment, two college-aged girls, one blond, one brunette, wearing T-shirts and sweatpants, jogged passed DeMarco and Lydia. Their long hair was tied in ponytails that swished back and forth across their backs in rhythm to their strides, and they were chatting and laughing as they passed, not the least out of breath as they ran. DeMarco imagined that Lydia Morelli had been like those girls at one time—healthy and happy and carefree—but now she walked next to him carrying the grief of her daughter’s death, her hatred for her husband, and secrets she wouldn’t or couldn’t share. He felt sorry for her but it was time for him to go. She wouldn’t help him and he couldn’t help her.
“Goodbye,” DeMarco said. “Call me when you have something to say.” And he turned to leave.
“Wait!” Lydia said.
DeMarco turned back to face her. “What?” he said.
“My husband, he . . . I need a drink.”
The last thing she needed was a drink, but maybe some booze would get her to open up. “There’s a place close to here,” DeMarco said.
They’d just reached the point where the canal intersected Wisconsin Avenue, and there was a set of wooden steps leading up to the street. They ascended the steps and walked half a block to the corner of M Street and Wisconsin Avenue, to a restaurant called Nathan’s. In the evening the bar would be filled with young hustlers trying to score and impress, but at eleven a.m., they had the place to themselves.
The waiter who served them was typical of Georgetown—a college student who considered himself too bright for menial labor. His body language made it clear that their presence was a major inconvenience, and when Lydia ordered a bloody mary, his expression conveyed his youthful disdain for old drunks who couldn’t wait until noon to start destroying their livers.
DeMarco looked nervously over at the door, hoping no one would come in and see him with her. He did not want Paul Morelli to know that he was secretly meeting with his wife. Lydia just sat there, fidgeting, until the waiter finally brought her drink.
“Now talk,” DeMarco said. “Straight answers. No more nonsense about devils and monsters.”
Lydia ignored him. She grasped the glass in both hands and gulped down half her drink, then sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. The alcohol seemed to calm her and some of the tension left her face. She opened her eyes and looked directly into DeMarco’s, and said, “Paul molested my daughter. His stepdaughter.”
DeMarco didn’t know if she was telling the truth, but the image of Paul Morelli forcing himself on a sixteen-year-old girl made him cringe. And Lydia noticed his reaction and she seemed pleased, as if thrilled by the look of revulsion on his face.
“Yes,” she said. “And that’s not all. My daughter didn’t die in a car accident. She committed suicide. She didn’t miss a turn that night. She drove her car at full speed into a bridge abutment. There wasn’t one skid mark. She made no attempt to stop. The bastard killed her.”
DeMarco started to say something, not sure exactly what—to say he was sorry, to ask how she could be certain—but before he could say anything, she said, “So you were right, Joe. This is personal. It’s very personal.” She reached for her drink again but with less urgency than she’d displayed before.
“I don’t think Paul’s ever had an ordinary affair,” she said. “I don’t believe he’s ever snuck off to a motel room with a secretary for a sweaty afternoon between the sheets. Normal men do things like that.
“But my husband doesn’t allow himself to have affairs. He knows such behavior could ruin his career. In fact, he has enormous self-control. He’s a cold, calculating son of a bitch with a heart of stone.” She paused dramatically, then added, “Except when he drinks.”
DeMarco inadvertently glanced down at the half-empty glass in front of her.
“Yes, I know,” Lydia said. “The pot calling the kettle black. But when I drink, the only one I hurt is myself. When Paul drinks, he assaults women.”
“Mrs. Morelli, you’ve already told me this,” DeMarco said. “What I need to know is—”
But Lydia didn’t care that she was repeating herself. “Paul likes backing a frightened woman into a corner,” she said, “and forcing her to submit. He likes to dominate, to . . . to violate. It’s just his little thing, his kink. He’s a sick, twisted shit.”
Realizing she was speaking louder than she intended, she took a breath to calm herself, then stopped to light a cigarette. Her hand was shaking so badly that DeMarco finally took the lighter and lit the cigarette for her.
“Thank you,” she said with a small, embarrassed smile. “I guess I’m not in the best shape, am I?” She took a deep drag on the cigarette and a long ash hung on the end of it for an instant, then crumbled into her lap unnoticed.
“I’ll tell you something else,” Lydia said, “as demeaning as it is for me to admit it. After the first year we were married, my husband and I rarely made love. But on occasion, he’d . . . he’d just . . . I don’t even know how to describe it. He wouldn’t even take off his clothes. He’d push me down on the floor, the bed, wherever, and he’d be angry, brutal. It was like he was trying to punish me. But you know what? I never complained, and I didn’t complain because I’m sick too. I still loved him, in spite of everything I knew he’d done. I loved him until I understood why Kate died.”
“Mrs. Morelli, what makes you think he molested your daughter?”
“Don’t you understand what I’ve been telling you? Who would be a better victim for him than a shy, teenage girl?” she said.
“But how do you know?”
Lydia was wearing a watch on her thin left wrist, one with an expandable metal band. As she talked she twisted the watch band and DeMarco could see the metal digging into her flesh, leaving deep red marks in her skin. He couldn’t tell if she was oblivious to the pain—or if she welcomed it.
“I don’t know when it started. I missed all the symptoms that were so obvious after the fact. Kate had always been a quiet, thoughtful girl, but she became moody. Her grades dropped. She started having screaming tantrums over the smallest problems. I attributed the change to hormones. I was so stupid.
“Oddly enough, it was me she was hostile toward. Around Paul she was always silent, a typical sullen teenager. But with me, she was constantly angry, always lashing out at me. I realized later that she thought I knew what was going on and blamed me for not stopping it. The night she died she became completely hysterical. I had to go out of town unexpectedly. My aunt was sick. Anyway, Kate said she wanted to go with me and I told her no because the next day was a school day. Well, she went absolutely berserk, screaming, crying, carrying on like a two year old. But, God forgive me, I didn’t take her. It wasn’t until after she was gone that I realized that she’d acted that way because she didn’t want me to leave her alone with him.”
This was all just too nebulous, DeMarco thought. “Did your daughter ever tell you directly that your husband was molesting her?” he said.
Lydia’s eyes flashed. “No, goddamn you, she didn’t. But I know! A mother knows!”
She burst into tears and then got up suddenly, knocking her drink off the table, scattering ice cubes across the hardwood floor, and rushed to the restroom. The waiter saw the overturned drink and with a look of disgust came over to clean up the spill.
Smirking, he said, “Are we having a little problem here?”
Irritated at the kid’s undeserved sense of superiority, DeMarco said, “Shut up and mop up the mess. Then bring her another.”
The waiter hesitated a second, thinking about telling DeMarco to go to hell, then realized what a mistake that would be. He was a condescending little shit but he wasn’t stupid.
“Yes, sir,” he said, managing to put a snide twist into the “sir.”
At least now DeMarco understood Lydia’s hatred for her husband, but understanding what motivated her didn’t necessarily make him believe her. Drunks are emotional and irrational. It was possible that she’d become so saturated with the bitterness of a bad marriage and the delusional effects of alcohol that she had misinterpreted words and actions that were completely innocent. Her daughter’s moodiness may have indeed been caused by teenage hormones, and the absence of skid marks at the crash scene could have been completely consistent with the accident. Maybe the girl had been fiddling with the radio or talking on a cell phone. He just couldn’t be sure. And then, of course, there was the fact that he really didn’t want to believe her. He just couldn’t imagine Paul Morelli doing the things she had accused him of.
Ten minutes later Lydia Morelli returned from the restroom. Her eyes were red from crying and her mascara had washed away, making her face look even more haggard and vulnerable.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just . . . I just lose it sometimes.”
“It’s all right,” DeMarco said. “You’re u
nder a lot of stress.”
She studied DeMarco’s face for a moment, and her eyes registered her disappointment. “Yes, I am under a lot of stress—but I can tell you’re not convinced that I’m telling the truth.”
“It’s just that—”
“I have money, Joe,” she said desperately. “I’ll pay you anything you want.”
“Mrs. Morelli, this isn’t about money. The problem is that there’s no way to prove that your husband’s done any of the things you’ve said.”
He had almost said: there’s no way to prove that you’re telling the truth.
Lydia bit her lower lip, struggled to maintain her composure—and failed. “What the hell am I supposed to do?” she said, her voice rising to a shriek. The snotty waiter looked over in annoyance.
When DeMarco didn’t answer, she grabbed his wrist, her fingernails biting into his skin. He thought of a sparrow clinging to a tree branch in a hurricane.
“Tell me. What should I do?” she repeated. “Should I just go to the White House with him, knowing what he did to my daughter?”
“I don’t know what you should do, Mrs. Morelli. Maybe it would be best if you left him.”
He didn’t know what on earth had possessed him to say that but her answer surprised him.
“It wouldn’t be enough,” she said.
DeMarco realized then that she was so warped by hatred that she didn’t consider divorce in terms of her own well-being, but only in terms of the damage it would do to her husband.
“I know him,” she said. “He’d make himself out to be the victim. The public would sympathize with him and before long he’d be on the cover of GQ, the most eligible bachelor in America.”
She searched DeMarco’s face again and when she didn’t find what she was looking for, her features sagged in resignation. “You’re not going to help me,” she said.
“Mrs. Morelli, I need to know the name of the man that’s—”
“Nobody will ever help me,” she said softly, speaking more to herself than DeMarco.