by Mike Lawson
Drummond didn’t say anything for a moment. He just sat looking at DeMarco as if he was trying to measure his mental stability. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “Say what you came to say, bub, but I’m telling you up front that I think you’re a nut. If I didn’t owe Emma, your ass would be out on the street already.”
DeMarco took a seat in the wooden chair in front of Drummond’s desk. He took his time telling what he suspected, making sure Drummond had a clear understanding of all the nuances, of all the things he had learned that had led him to his conclusion. While he was speaking Drummond sat with his hands steepled under his chin, staring at DeMarco, the only indication of his feelings a skeptical droop to his lips.
When DeMarco finished, Drummond leaned back in his chair and placed his thick boxer’s hands behind his crew-cut head. He was completely relaxed—not looking at all like a man who had just been given the conspiracy murder of the decade.
In a voice dripping with sarcasm, he said, “Let me see if I got this straight. Lydia Morelli, who’s blotto ninety percent of the time, convinces you that her husband, God’s gift to America, molested his stepdaughter and drove her to suicide. The fact that the highway patrol ruled Kate Morelli’s death an accident is a small detail which you’ve apparently decided to ignore. Then when Lydia is put in a dry-out clinic, which even you admit is something she needed, you think it’s because she’s threatened, half a year after her daughter’s death, to go to the media and tell them all the nasty things her husband’s done. Oh, and she’s also going to tell some other secret—about this powerful man who’s been helping Morelli his whole career—but you don’t know who this guy is. Have I got it right so far?”
DeMarco felt a flush begin at the base of his neck and work its way toward his forehead, but he only nodded in response to Drummond’s question.
“Let’s see now, where was I? Oh yeah. After Lydia is killed by this little bastard—”
“Isaiah Perry didn’t have a motive for killing anyone, Drummond. He didn’t try to steal a damn thing.”
Ignoring DeMarco, Drummond continued, “You go to see Marcus Perry, a dope-dealing, murdering punk, and he convinces you that his little brother was at Morelli’s house that night because he was delivering the man a gun. Selling him a gun, for Christ’s sake! And according to solid-citizen Marcus, his brother was doing this because nasty ol’ Abe Burrows, who looks like the Pillsbury doughboy, said he’d lose his job if he didn’t.”
“He was an eighteen-year-old kid, Drummond! Burrows intimidated him.”
Drummond continued as if DeMarco hadn’t spoken. “Now when Isaiah Perry gets to the senator’s house, you think that the senator kills him with the gun he was supposedly selling, shoots his wife in the head, then calmly sits there and lets Burrows blow a hole in his arm. Oh, I almost forgot. Burrows deliberately told Perry to bring a small-caliber weapon and it was during a visit Morelli made to a hospital to see a buncha sick kids that he learns enough about anatomy and gunshot wounds in five minutes to keep from blowing his arm off. Now did I miss anything?”
“Yeah. Marcus Perry saw Burrows leave the house.”
“Marcus was the fuckin’ getaway driver, you moron! And why would Burrows be there—so the senator could have a witness who could blackmail him for the rest of his life?”
“No, because Morelli wanted someone to help him handle Isaiah, and because he was afraid he might pass out after he was shot and he wanted someone there to call an ambulance so he wouldn’t bleed to death.”
“Tell me something, DeMarco, since it’s your story: Why did the senator shoot himself?”
“Because he knew if he was shot during this so-called break-in, no one would suspect him of murdering his wife. You people sure as hell didn’t. And he’d be a real American hero—not only did he blow away a bad guy, he was shot while doing it. When the presidency is at stake, Drummond, people are willing to take big risks.”
“You’re a fuckin’ head case,” Drummond said. There was no inflection in his voice; he was merely stating a fact.
“Marcus Perry described Burrows to me. How did he know what Burrows looked like?”
Drummond paused for a moment, smiled, then said, “He saw him on TV, when Morelli left the hospital.”
The bastard had an answer for everything.
“Then how did Isaiah gain access to the senator’s house?” DeMarco persisted. “I know the house has a security system.”
“The senator said they only set the system when they weren’t home. The kid broke the glass in the back door and came in that way.”
“Maybe Burrows broke the glass before he left the house,” DeMarco said.
“Horseshit.”
“Goddamnit, did you people do any kind of investigation? Did you check Isaiah’s hands for gunshot residue to see if he’d really fired a gun? Did you analyze the blood splatter to see if it was consistent with the senator’s story?”
Drummond laughed and said, “Gunshot residue! Blood splatter! You been watchin’ CSI on TV, DeMarco? You think you’re Gris Gussom, or whatever the fuck his name is?”
The fact was that the only thing DeMarco knew about gunshot residue was what he’d seen on television. Ignorance wasn’t an inhibitor, though, and he said, louder than he had intended, “Maybe if you watched TV you’d have some idea of how to investigate a murder.”
Drummond stood up. Pointing a thick finger at DeMarco, he yelled, “You’re out of your fuckin’ mind! Your goddamn murder theory is nothing but conjecture based on the ramblings of a drunk and a low-life criminal who’s related to the kid who got shot!”
While Drummond was yelling, DeMarco had stood, tipping over the chair he had been sitting in, and yelled back. “Don’t any of you idiots find it amazing that this straight-A student, who’s never been in trouble in his life, would try to kill a United States senator?”
They stood there glaring at each other. They had reached the point that men always seem to reach when they can’t agree—screaming at the top of their lungs, stopping just short of beating their paws on their chests. To DeMarco, they were proof of why only women should be heads of state.
After a moment, Drummond closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The effort he exerted to regain his composure was tangible. He reopened his eyes, and said in a neutral, bureaucratic tone, “Mr. DeMarco, exactly what do you expect this department to do?”
“I want you to reopen the investigation into Lydia Morelli’s murder, but this time treat her husband as a suspect.”
Drummond nodded his head and said, “Your expectations will be conveyed to my superiors.”
DeMarco studied the cop’s suddenly impassive face, then said, “You’re not going to do a damn thing, are you?”
Drummond leaned forward, placed his big knuckles on the surface of his desk, and said, “I’m six months short of a full pension. Get the hell outta here and don’t come back.”
Chapter 43
The phone next to the bed jolted him awake. He glanced with one eye at the clock on the bedside table: 7:30 a.m. Inconsiderate bastard. He picked up the receiver and grunted hello.
“DeMarco, you ASSHOLE! You be in the senator’s office at ten sharp. You got that?”
It was Burrows. DeMarco was screwed.
“What’s the problem, Abe?” DeMarco said. He already knew what the problem was.
“You know what the goddamn problem is!” Burrows affirmed.
DeMarco thought of telling Burrows to go to hell but knew he’d eventually have to face the music. And he needed to know what Morelli knew. “I don’t know what you’re so upset about, Abe,” he lied, “but I’ll be there if that’s what the senator wants.”
“You better,” Burrows said. “You ASSHOLE!” he screamed again as he hung up.
DeMarco didn’t have to be clairvoyant to know why Paul Morelli wanted to see him. Detective Drummond, feeling the need to cover his nearly retired ass, had called his boss after DeMarco left. “Hey, you won’t believe it,” Dru
mmond had said to his boss. “This fruitcake just came in with this crazy idea that Morelli popped his wife. What a hoot.” Drummond’s superior would have chuckled in agreement but the word would have gone up the ladder. Eventually, someone trying to wheedle his way into favor had called Morelli and said, “Just wanted you to know, sir. But not to worry, sir. We’re not taking this wacko seriously.”
If the damn Speaker had done what DeMarco had asked, if he had personally talked to the chief of detectives as DeMarco had wanted, this wouldn’t have happened.
He was fucked.
When DeMarco arrived at Morelli’s office in the Russell Building, two fit-looking young men in suits were sitting in the reception area reading magazines. They tensed when DeMarco stepped through the door and watched him as he walked over to the receptionist’s desk to ask for Burrows. DeMarco noted their wary eyes—then saw the flesh-colored devices in their left ears and the almost-invisible white cords running from the earpieces down into the collars of their suit coats. He thought they might be Secret Service agents, but as Morelli wasn’t officially running for president yet, they were more likely plainclothed U.S. Capitol policemen. The Capitol police routinely provide protection for members of the House and Senate, and in this case DeMarco suspected that they may have been worried that someone associated with Isaiah Perry—a young black man who came from a gang-infested neighborhood—might decide to retaliate for Isaiah’s death. Whoever they were, they were a couple of serious-looking bastards.
Burrows came out of his office as soon as the receptionist informed him of DeMarco’s arrival. He looked as he had the last time DeMarco had seen him: baggy pants, a rumpled blue shirt with a tail hanging out, and a badly wrinkled tie. With his frizzy, white man’s Afro and disheveled clothes, he looked like the last clown out of a circus Volkswagen—except for his eyes. Why hadn’t he noticed those eyes before?
When he saw DeMarco, Burrows’s face mottled red and his jaw clenched with suppressed rage. He started to say something to DeMarco, then stopped and turned to the bodyguards. “Check this guy over,” he said. “Make sure he’s not wearing a wire—or a gun.”
Both men immediately got to their feet, and one of them put his hand inside his coat, ready to draw his weapon if necessary.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Abe,” DeMarco said, “I don’t have a—”
“Keep your hands still, sir,” one of the men said to DeMarco.
The other bodyguard ran his hands over every inch of DeMarco’s body, probing at his crotch, running his fingers through his hair. By the time he nodded to Burrows to indicate he was satisfied, DeMarco’s face was crimson with embarrassment.
“Let’s go,” Burrows said to DeMarco. “The senator’s waiting.”
“Mr. Burrows,” one of the bodyguards said, “if you believe this man’s a security risk, we should sit in on your meeting.”
“No, he’s not going to do anything,” Burrows said. “He’s dumb, but he’s not that dumb.”
DeMarco clenched his teeth. He felt like bouncing Burrows off the wall for that last remark, but if he did, the security guys would have him down on the ground and handcuffed in about two seconds. So he controlled his temper and followed Burrows to Morelli’s office, recombing his hair with his fingers as he walked.
Morelli was standing in front of a window offering his profile to DeMarco. He was posed in a campaign-poster shot, the dome of the Capitol forming a perfect backdrop for the perfect candidate. The black sling was gone from his arm and so was the wan, drawn look he had exhibited leaving the hospital. To DeMarco he looked handsome and fit and presidential—and not the least bit grief-stricken.
The only testimony to his wife’s passing was the black armband he wore on the right sleeve of his suit coat. The suit itself was gray with a light blue pinstripe and the maroon handkerchief in the suitcoat pocket matched the color of his tie. As Lydia had said, he’d soon be on the cover of GQ—America’s most eligible bachelor.
The senator turned his head slowly and looked at DeMarco for several seconds without speaking. His dark eyes were unreadable, his face expressionless. Finally, he pointed to a chair in front of his desk and said, “Please take a seat, Joe.”
Turning to Burrows, Morelli said, “Abe, when do I have to be at the White House?”
“Twenty-five minutes, Senator. The car will be out front in fifteen.” Pointing at DeMarco, Burrows added, “I had him checked for wires. He’s clean.”
Morelli acted as though he hadn’t heard Burrows and took a seat behind his desk. Burrows took a position off to DeMarco’s right, leaning against a wall, too agitated to sit.
Morelli waited until silence strained the atmosphere in the room to the point of explosion before finally saying, “Why did you go to the police with that story, Joe?”
DeMarco hesitated. He couldn’t say it was because Mahoney had told him to.
Before Morelli could respond, Burrows launched himself from the wall and screamed into DeMarco’s face, “Listen, you dipshit! We know every word you told that cop. Now answer the senator’s question.”
“Control yourself, Abe,” Morelli said to Burrows. To DeMarco, using the same soft tone he’d used before, he said, “But Abe’s right, Joe. Being evasive isn’t going to help. It’s going to make me angry—and you don’t want to make me angry.”
Burrows’s open rage was less frightening than Morelli’s restrained manner. Abe was a string of firecrackers going off next to DeMarco’s ear; the senator was a grenade—and when it detonated it was going to splatter DeMarco all over the room.
To hell with it, DeMarco thought. “I had information,” he said, “that I felt the police needed to hear. It was my obligation to tell them.”
“I see. So you were just doing your duty,” Morelli said, nodding his head as if DeMarco’s response made sense.
“Duty, my ass,” Burrows said. “This prick is—”
Morelli raised a hand to silence Burrows. “Do you really believe I molested my daughter and killed my wife, Joe? Do you?”
Looking at Morelli, it did seem inconceivable that this handsome, confident, president-to-be could possibly have done anything so horrible.
“I only know what your wife told me, Senator,” DeMarco said.
“And when did you talk to Lydia?”
“The day after I visited your house. She called me.”
“But why would she call you?”
“I don’t know,” DeMarco said. “Maybe because she knew I was an investigator.” There was nothing to be gained by telling Morelli that Lydia had contacted him because she wanted him to pursue Terry Finley’s investigation. All he knew for sure was that the world had been punched inside-out: Morelli had murdered his wife and DeMarco was the one being interrogated.
“And you actually believed her allegations,” Morelli said, shaking his head in disbelief that anyone would be so gullible.
“She was convincing.”
“Joe, you must have known that Lydia had a severe drinking problem.” There was a studio portrait of Lydia and her daughter prominently displayed on the corner of the senator’s desk. He looked over at the photograph and said, “God rest her soul, but she was a very confused person.”
In the photograph, Lydia’s face was turned toward her daughter’s, and a gentle, motherly smile curved her lips. Kate Morelli had her mother’s blue eyes and an impish grin that broke DeMarco’s heart.
“And, Joe,” Morelli continued, “what on earth possessed you to spout all that nonsense about Abe being at my house and that poor boy selling a gun?”
DeMarco was tired of squirming—and he was damn tired of a runt like Burrows screaming in his ear. “Marcus Perry, Isaiah’s brother, told me.” He looked over at Burrows and said, “Marcus was parked outside your house that night, Senator. He was a witness.” DeMarco had told this to Drummond so he wasn’t telling Morelli anything he didn’t already know.
Morelli’s only reaction was a small negative shake of his head as if amused that DeMarc
o would be foolish enough to listen to Marcus Perry, but Burrows said, “Witness, my ass! Marcus Perry is a goddamn drug dealer.” Trying to sound sarcastic, but not quite able to pull it off, Burrows said, “And what else did Marcus tell you, DeMarco?”
When DeMarco ignored Burrows, keeping his eyes focused on Morelli, Burrows said, “Answer my question, goddamnit!”
DeMarco started to get out of his chair—he wasn’t going to put up with any more crap from Burrows—but before he could stand completely, Morelli said, “Abe, go see if the limo’s out front yet.”
DeMarco realized immediately that Morelli wasn’t concerned about what DeMarco might do to Burrows; he just wanted Burrows out of the room, afraid that in his agitated state, his aide would let something slip. Abe was a liability and the senator knew it. DeMarco wondered if Abe knew it.
“But, Senator . . .,” Burrows said.
“Abe, go check on the car. Now, please.”
Morelli waited until Burrows shut the door behind him, then said, “You’ve made some very serious accusations against me without a shred of evidence, Joe, and I’m extremely upset. The police don’t believe you, of course; in fact they’re worried that you’re mentally unstable. I suspect they’ve already notified the Secret Service and the Capitol police.”
Great. Now he was on the Service’s wacko-assassin list. That goddamn Mahoney.
“And I hope you’re not thinking about going to the press with these wild theories of yours.”
DeMarco didn’t say anything but he was wondering if he shouldn’t bring up Charlie Eklund and the fact that Eklund’s people might have seen something the night Lydia died. He finally decided not to. DeMarco didn’t know what Eklund knew, but he did know that Eklund wasn’t an ally. So he just sat there as Morelli continued to threaten him.
“Because if you did go to the press,” Morelli said, “you should know that I’d litigate you into abject poverty. In fact, I imagine I have enough influence in this city to make your life miserable without taking any direct action against you. I don’t have to hire a single lawyer; all I have to do is whisper my displeasure into a few ears.”