House Blood - JD 7

by Mike Lawson

  “I just need to ask you a couple more things about Phil Downing.” He paused to see if she would ask him in, but when she didn’t, he continued. “I was wondering what happened to his records.”

  “His records?”

  “Yeah. He must have had client files, billing records, that sort of thing.”

  “Oh. A couple days after Phil was killed, two guys came to the office. One of them said he represented the Warwick Foundation and had the authority to take Phil’s files.”

  “And you just gave them to him?”

  “Sure. Why not? One of my bosses was dead, the other one was in jail, and I was out of a job. I didn’t give a shit what happened to Phil’s records. The only reason I was even there that morning was to clean out my desk. And I have no idea what happened to all the rest of the crap in the office—the furniture, the phones, the copy machine, or Brian’s files. None of that stuff was my problem at that point.”

  “Was there anyplace other than his office where Phil might have stored an important document?”

  “Hell, I don’t know,” she said. “He probably had a safe deposit box at his bank, but I imagine that’s been cleaned out by now.” She started to swing the door shut, saying as she did, “Now I gotta go. I don’t feel good.”

  “Wait. Just one more thing. Were you able to remember anything else about why Warwick was thinking about dropping Downing and later changed her mind?”

  “No. Now listen to me. I’m hungover, I feel like shit, I’m tired, and I don’t wanna talk anymore.”

  She shut the door in DeMarco’s face.

  DeMarco was surprised to find Doug Vale, of Vale, White, and Cohen, in his office on a Saturday. But maybe that’s why he had such a big, fancy office—because he worked on Saturdays.

  Vale was a good-looking guy in his early forties and was the lobbyist of record for the Warwick Foundation. He was dressed informally: a navy-blue sports jacket, a button-down oxford shirt, designer jeans, and Top-Siders without socks. He was the ultimate preppie, and DeMarco would’ve bet that he’d gone to a fancy boarding school like Choate, followed by one of the Ivy League colleges. He sipped bottled water as he talked to DeMarco.

  DeMarco had gained entry to Vale’s office by saying that he worked for Congress. The lobbyist was naturally surprised when DeMarco said he wanted to talk about Phil Downing, but being a good lobbyist, and thinking DeMarco might have some future potential value, he agreed to talk to him.

  “How’d you end up getting Warwick as a client?” DeMarco asked.

  “You mean other than the fact that Downing was killed?”

  “Yeah,” DeMarco said, “other than that.”

  “I represent a number of nonprofits and charitable organizations, and I met Lizzie Warwick at a function one night. I wasn’t trying to steal her away from Downing—or at least I wasn’t trying very hard—but we got to talking about what I could do for her that Phil couldn’t. I pointed out that Downing was a one-man operation and he had no experience in Congress. I was a congressional aide for five years and several people on my staff have extensive experience on the Hill. I also told her about some things I had done for other clients, and she seemed impressed.

  “The problem with Lizzie, though, is that I don’t think she’s ever fired anyone in her life. She’d consider that sort of thing mean. But she must have passed my name on to Hobson and … Do you know who Hobson is?”

  “I know he works for Lizzie Warwick,” DeMarco said.

  “Actually, he’s the guy who really runs the Warwick Foundation. I heard he was an officer in the army, and he’s probably had a lot of experience firing people. Anyway, he called and we chatted, and I got the impression that he’d never given a lot of thought to what Downing did and whether he was worth the money Lizzie was paying him. He called back a couple of days later and said Lizzie was going to hire me, but then, about a week after that, he called again and said she’d decided to stick with Downing. And then Downing was killed and I got the job.”

  “What made her change her mind about not firing Downing?”

  “I have no idea. You’ll have to ask her.”

  As DeMarco was leaving, Vale said, “What exactly do you do in the House, Mr. DeMarco? When you called and said you wanted to talk to me, I looked at a House directory, but I couldn’t find your name on anyone’s staff.”

  “Mr. Vale, I don’t work for any specific member. I have an office in the basement of the Capitol, next to the janitors. Believe me when I tell you that I’m not a man with a lot of influence.”

  DeMarco called Kincaid’s detective, Colin Gordon, and he too was in his office. What the hell was wrong with these people? Was the economy so bad that no one took the weekend off anymore? When he arrived at Gordon’s office it was almost one P.M., and Gordon was eating a Reuben sandwich the size of a brick, reminding DeMarco that he’d skipped breakfast and was starving.

  DeMarco told the detective he wanted to talk about the conference call that Phil Downing was supposed to have participated in the night he died. “What I’m curious about,” DeMarco said, “is why this call was scheduled for so late—and just when Kincaid happened to be in his office making his own call to Hong Kong.”

  “Did you read the trial transcript?” Gordon asked.

  “I sorta skimmed it,” DeMarco admitted.

  “Well, if you’d read it, you would have seen that the conference call was between Hobson and … You know who Hobson is, don’t you?” His tone implied that maybe if DeMarco had done his homework he wouldn’t be bugging him.

  “Sure. He manages things for Lizzie Warwick.”

  “That’s right. He keeps the foundation’s books, gets supplies to the places she goes, hires people, handles her security, travel arrangements, things like that. I got the impression that Lizzie Warwick’s completely consumed by the work in the field while Hobson takes care of everything else. Anyway, the call was between Hobson—who lives in Philadelphia—Phil Downing here in D.C., and Stephen Linger, chief of staff to Congressman Edward Talbot.”

  “What was the conference call about?” DeMarco asked.

  “Some foreign aid bill. That’s all I remember. The number of the bill is in the transcript. Anyway, Hobson, to make Lizzie Warwick happy, wanted to schmooze with Linger about the bill because Congressman Talbot was going to vote against it. And, naturally, Hobson wanted the foundation’s lobbyist in on the call and he wanted Downing in his office in Washington so Downing could refer to data related to the bill.”

  “But why was the conference call held so late at night?”

  “There’s no big conspiracy here, DeMarco. Downing was killed in August. What does Congress do in August?”

  DeMarco felt like saying, Congress doesn’t do anything regardless of the month of the year, but he knew what Gordon was getting at. “Congress is in recess.”

  “That’s right. And since Congressman Talbot is from California, he and his chief of staff were back home. The time of the conference call was set for nine forty-five East Coast time to suit Linger’s schedule, but it would have only been six forty-five in California. Not that late, in other words. The night Downing was killed, Hobson initiated the conference call about nine-forty from his office in Philly and tried to get ­Downing on the line, but Downing didn’t answer his phone. So Hobson got Linger on the line, called Downing again, but again, Downing didn’t answer the phone. Hobson was positive Downing had to be in his office because the conference call with Linger was a semi–big deal, and when he couldn’t reach Downing, he called the security guard, asked him to check on Downing, and the guard finds him dead. End of story.”

  “How did Hobson know the security guard’s number?”

  Gordon frowned. Apparently that wasn’t a question that had occurred to him. Then he just shook his head as if it didn’t matter and said, “I don’t know. Maybe he looked it
up. All I know is this conspiracy theory you’re trying to develop—that the phone call was set up to get Downing in the office the same time as Kincaid—would have to include the willing participation of a man who works for a highly respected member of Congress.”

  DeMarco thought the phrase highly respected member of Congress was an oxymoron, but didn’t say so.

  Gordon took another bite of his sandwich; DeMarco noticed the man had a mouth that looked like the entry to the Holland Tunnel. After he swallowed, Gordon said, “And then, of course, you have the issue of motive. Why would the Warwick Foundation or Bill Hobson or Congressman Ed Talbot want to kill Phil Downing?”

  “I don’t know,” DeMarco said, “but why would Hobson and ­Downing want to talk to Linger when Congress wasn’t in session?”

  “Because the bill was going to be voted on in the House as soon as the next session started,” Gordon said. “All this information was either in the trial transcript or in the deposition Kincaid’s lawyer took from Linger.”

  DeMarco sat there for a moment trying to come up with another astute question to ask—and finally one occurred to him.

  “Where did you buy that sandwich?”

  The deli was a block from Gordon’s office. DeMarco ordered a Reuben, a side of potato salad, and a glass of milk. As he waited impatiently for his sandwich, he thought about his discussion with the detective.

  Unlike Gordon, DeMarco didn’t immediately exclude the possibility that a congressman or his chief of staff could be involved in a criminal conspiracy with the Warwick Foundation. He had worked in Congress a long time and knew its members were capable of any crime, including murder. His long association with John Mahoney had strongly reinforced this opinion.

  So let’s run with that, he said to himself. Downing’s about to get fired but then he discovers some nasty secret that will cause Congressman Talbot or his chief of staff major problems if the secret is revealed. But what could the secret possibly be? Well, Clive Standish said that a lot of money provided to charities never reached the intended victims. So maybe Talbot had helped steer federal funds to Warwick and Hobson siphoned off some of the money and gave a kickback to Talbot—and Downing somehow discovered this. Then, to keep from going to the hoosegow, Talbot or Linger conspire with Hobson, develop the bright idea for the conference call and the plan to frame Brian Kincaid for Downing’s murder, and then hire a professional killer to whack Downing.

  Hmm. Maybe—but pretty damn unlikely.

  To go any further with this far-fetched notion, DeMarco would have to find out if Congress actually had provided any funds to Warwick and if Talbot had been involved—and this, in turn, meant one hell of a lot of work for DeMarco. The Government Accountability Office—which employs over three thousand people—can’t figure out where all the government’s money goes. DeMarco’s chances of success working on his own were practically nil.

  About the time his Reuben arrived, DeMarco decided that rather than spend the next decade trying to follow a murky congressional money trail, he’d try instead to find some rational explanation for why Lizzie Warwick was going to dump Phil Downing and later changed her mind. Unfortunately, the only people who could tell him what he needed to know were Lizzie Warwick, who was in Africa, or Bill Hobson, who was in Philly—and DeMarco definitely wasn’t flying to Africa to talk to Lizzie.

  He finished his lunch, called directory assistance, got a number for the Warwick Foundation, and called the number. No one answered. It appeared that at least one person on the eastern seaboard didn’t work the weekend—and for this he was extremely grateful. He’d done enough work on a day that was supposed to be his day off and he was going home to enjoy what remained of his Saturday.

  One more day in prison wouldn’t matter that much to Brian Kincaid.

  15

  Bill Hobson read the report provided by the private detective that Kelly had forced him to hire, and listened to the wiretap tapes of DeMarco’s phone calls. Goddamnit, now he was going to have to call Kelly and Nelson, which he hated to do. It wasn’t just that they scared him, although they did. It was their lack of respect that bothered him. He’d been a full bird colonel in the United States Army, and those two thugs had never risen beyond the rank of sergeant.

  When Hobson called, Kelly was hand-sanding a beautiful piece of maple that had been drying in a kiln for months.

  When he and Nelson bought their place in Montana, the first thing they did was demolish the house that already existed on the land. What they wanted was the land and the view, not the house. Then they worked with an architect to design a new house—a classic log house—and hired a contractor who had a reputation for charging too much but finishing on time. And he did both those things: he charged them too much and he completed the work on schedule. They had the contractor do most of the work—the painting, the plumbing and wiring, installation of hardwood and slate tile floors—but they saved a lot of the work for themselves. They both liked to work with their hands and they needed something to do between missions.

  They did the landscaping together, avoiding grass and any other plants requiring extensive maintenance. Nelson even bought a small John Deere dozer to move the dirt around because he loved operating the thing. He also built the rock wall bordering the driveway and was now working on building a fire pit and installing a flagstone patio.

  Nelson liked working with stone and cement. Kelly liked working with wood. He’d built the mantel for the fireplace and bookshelves for the den, and was currently replicating a maple dining room table he saw in a shop in Missoula selling for almost four grand. A couple more days of sanding and he’d be ready to apply the varnish. But then Hobson called.

  Nelson was sitting on a chaise longue on the half-finished patio drinking a beer. He was wearing only shorts and steel-toed work boots, and his broad chest was covered with powdery white dust and sweat. He had made good progress on installing the flagstones.

  Kelly pulled over a deck chair and took a seat next to him. The day was clear, with not a cloud in the sky and the Bitterroot Mountains looked close enough to touch. Nelson offered him the beer bottle and Kelly took a sip and handed it back.

  “Hobson just called,” Kelly said. “We may have a problem.”

  “Aw, shit,” Nelson said. “Are we gonna have to leave?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s possible Fiona will want a meeting.”

  “What’s going on?”

  Kelly told him. This lawyer, DeMarco, after meeting with Kincaid in prison, was talking to other people: Downing’s ex-girlfriend, the lobbyist who replaced Downing, and the detective Kincaid hired after he was convicted.

  “And he seems to be working with a woman who lives in McLean, Virginia, a gal named Emma something,” Kelly said, “but Unger—”

  “Who’s Unger?” Nelson said.

  “The detective keeping tabs on DeMarco. Remember I told ­Hobson to hire him when we were in Nairobi.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Nelson said.

  “Anyway, Unger hasn’t been able to get a handle on the woman, which is odd. He has a contact who works for the D.C. Metro police and the guy can normally get into any database, but the only thing he could find out is that she’s retired civil service. Anyway, whoever she is, she seems to be spurring DeMarco on.”

  “Spurring him on to do what?”

  “To clear Kincaid.”

  “Ah, goddamnit. Do we—”

  Kelly held up a hand. “Relax. As near as I can tell, DeMarco hasn’t found anything new—except maybe one thing. Downing’s secretary apparently told DeMarco that Downing was about to lose his job as Warwick’s lobbyist, and then a week later something changed and he kept the account.”

  “Son of a bitch!” Nelson said.

  “Yeah, I know, that doesn’t sound good. But based on the recording, it’s pretty clear DeMarco doesn’t know what Downing did
to keep his job, which means that he really doesn’t know anything, and that means we really don’t have a problem.”

  “Well maybe you don’t think it’s a problem, but I’ll bet you my left nut that Fiona will think it’s a great, big fuckin’ problem. I’m never gonna get this patio finished.”

  Kelly went back into the house and called Fiona and told her about DeMarco and the phone call that Unger had recorded. Naturally, she was pissed—but being pissed was a chronic condition for Fiona.

  She concluded the call with, “Keep that detective on DeMarco. I want to think this over and talk with Orson.”

  “And we need to get more information on this woman who called DeMarco,” Kelly said.

  “I know. I’ll get my headhunters working on that.”

  16

  Having spent his Saturday working, DeMarco decided to devote Sunday to nothing but leisure. He slept in late, had brunch in Georgetown and read the Washington Post and then, because it was such a beautiful June day—warm but not muggy—he went to a driving range and hit a couple buckets of balls. When he returned home, he thought about mowing his lawn but again convinced himself that the grass wasn’t really that high. He took a shower, put on shorts, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes without socks, and went out to the small patio in his backyard and lifted the lid on the Weber. He was going to barbecue a great big rib eye for dinner.

  The Weber used propane, not charcoal, which DeMarco liked because charcoal was a pain in the ass. He’d heard barbecue fanatics claim that propane didn’t give food the flavor of a good charcoal fire, but he always figured that was a load of crap and the people who believed this—people like Emma—were culinary snobs with no common sense.

  The last time he’d used the grill had been a month ago when he’d cooked some salmon, and the grill was encrusted with burnt salmon skin and various other nasty, greasy things. So he took out his wire barbecue brush and scraped it a few times across the grill. Good enough. He had this theory: any nasty germs clinging to the rusty metal of the grill would be incinerated as soon as the barbecue got hot and, therefore, he was safe. He had no idea if his theory dovetailed with medical science; all he knew for sure was that he’d never become ill after using his barbecue.