House Odds (29 page)

Somehow all this had become DeMarco’s problem.

“Well,” he said, “the first thing I’m going to do is try to get Big Bob Fairchild’s hooks out of your ass. I’ve got a guy—you know, that computer guy I’ve used in the past—and he’s finally back in town. I’m going to get him digging into Fairchild’s past, trying to come up with something to use against him.”

“Good,” Mahoney said. “What else?”

Good?
Only Mahoney would consider it good that DeMarco was trying to find a way to blackmail a member of Congress.

“I got the name of Ted Allen’s boss and I’m trying to come up with some way to use that to our advantage.”

“Shit, I thought you would have done that by now,” Mahoney whined. “And what about those guys, Campbell and the other one?”

“McGrath,” DeMarco said. “But I don’t see how they’re going to help since we know they didn’t have anything to do with Molly. I mean, Caine can still trot McGrath and Campbell out during Molly’s trial to confuse things, but with the evidence that Kiser has, I don’t think it’s going to work.”

Mahoney’s Machiavellian mind groped desperately for a solution. “Yeah, but if you can prove that Campbell and McGrath did something illegal then maybe you can trade them to Kiser for Molly.”

“The problem with that,” DeMarco countered, “is that Kay Kiser, who’s a whole lot smarter than I am, has been trying to get these guys for years. So I kind of doubt, in the time remaining before Molly’s trial, that I’m going to do better than Kiser. And with Praeter dead, it’s going to be even harder to pin something on them.”

This was not what the bear wanted to hear. It stood up on its hind legs and roared.

41

DeMarco wished that he were a billionaire media mogul. If he were, he’d not only be rich but he’d have thousands of sneaky journalists at his disposal—including the type willing to hack into computers and wiretap phones—and they would help him dig up the dirt on Big Bob Fairchild. And that’s what DeMarco needed: dirt. Since Fairchild had something sharp to hold over Mahoney’s head, DeMarco needed something equally lethal to dangle over Fairchild’s greasy scalp to balance the scales.

Unfortunately, he was not a media mogul and he didn’t employ any sneaky journalists—but he did have Neil, who had finally returned from his second honeymoon. Neil was a fat man who wore his thinning blond hair in a short ponytail and typically dressed in Hawaiian shirts, shorts, and sandals. As DeMarco talked to him, Neal sat in a chair designed to accommodate his substantial girth, slurping a fruit smoothie. He looked tanned, relaxed and sexually sated—all by-products of his belated honeymoon.

Normally, DeMarco would have been jealous of Neil, but he was actually feeling somewhat sated himself, thanks to Tina, Alice’s lovely friend. And he’d been invited to dinner at Tina’s house so he could be introduced to her twin daughters—an occasion that smacked of feminine manipulation and made him somewhat apprehensive. The good news, however, was that the daughters were supposed to leave right after dinner to attend a concert, leaving DeMarco and their mother time to themselves. But that was later—and right now he needed to focus on the problems caused by Mahoney’s middle daughter.

“There’s probably not much point looking for funny-money stuff,” DeMarco said to Neil. “Not with his wife.”

What DeMarco meant was that Fairchild’s wife was so damn rich that Neil probably wouldn’t find evidence of illegal kickbacks, or outright bribes, or illicit campaign contributions.

“Maybe I can tie him to his nephew’s problems, you know, Little Bob’s connections to that lobbyist Mayfield,” Neil suggested.

“I don’t think so,” DeMarco said. “Mahoney has had the president’s special prosecutor digging into that for months. So look for the usual stuff. Affairs. Twisted perversions. Illegitimate children. Maybe he e-mailed pictures of his dick to a bunch of women like that yahoo from New York. All I know is that right now Big Bob comes across as a sanctimonious paragon of virtue—family values and all that crap—so you just
know
there’s gotta be something sordid he’s been hiding for years.”

“This could get expensive,” Neil said. Then he smiled. Neil’s retail rate was extremely dear.

But DeMarco said, “Don’t worry about the money.”

When Mahoney set up DeMarco’s position those many years ago, he had to provide the operating funds that DeMarco needed to ply his trade. And Mahoney, being an expert at diverting the government’s money to causes of his own choosing, had no problem at all supplying the small amounts that DeMarco needed. Imagine the federal budget as the planet Jupiter; by comparison, DeMarco’s budget was the size of a chickpea and the amount he would pay Neil, a sesame seed. This meant that Neil’s bill, no matter how large and outrageous it might be, would be virtually invisible to those organizations tasked with monitoring how the taxpayers’ dollars are squandered. So when DeMarco said don’t worry about the money, this time he meant it.

“Then I’ll begin my endeavors immediately,” Neil said, rubbing his chubby hands together, already thinking of ingenious ways to pad his bill.

“Good. Call me as soon as you’ve got something.”

“If I can’t get a hold of you, do you want me to pass on whatever I get to Emma?” Neil said.

“Definitely not,” DeMarco said. Then realizing how that sounded, he added, “Uh, she’s real busy right now. Her yard work, you know.”

DeMarco was starting to feel like Richard Nixon trying to hold down the lid on Watergate—and he just knew that at some point his own John Dean was going to come along and spill the beans to Emma.

42

DeMarco dialed the next number in the yellow pages.

He had just finished calling five dental offices near his house in Georgetown, asking if any of the dentists could see him immediately. None could. One of the receptionists had actually laughed out loud. He was beginning to believe that everyone in the dental profession was a direct descendant of the guys who ran the Spanish Inquisition. He dialed the sixth number, going immediately into his desperate spiel. To his surprise, the woman said: “Ooh, you poor thing.” She sounded like somebody’s sweet grandmother and acted as if she actually cared. Then she said, “And you’re lucky, too. The doctor just had a cancellation. So if you can get here in the next ten minutes . . .”

“I’m on my way!” DeMarco cried.

* * *

DeMarco’s John Dean turned out to be Neil.

He was backing his car out of the driveway when Emma pulled up in her Mercedes. He got out of his car to see what she wanted, and saw her coming toward him, taking long aggressive strides, lips set in a tight line, hands clenched into fists. He immediately envisioned a terrified gopher looking up and seeing an eagle dropping from the sky, talons extended—and he was the gopher, not the eagle.

“I want to know what the hell’s going on, and I want to know now!” Emma said.

“What?” DeMarco said, trying to look innocent, knowing that too many years of working for Mahoney made that impossible.

“I called Neil today to see what you had him doing,” Emma said. “I thought he’d be trying to find out how the money got into Molly Mahoney’s bank account. And that’s when I learned that you have him trying to get something on Robert Fairchild and that he’s not doing anything related to Molly. So do not give me that ‘
What?
’ crap. You tell me what’s going on.”

DeMarco considered his options—and then he gave it all up. He told her everything.

When he finished, Emma just stared at him for what seemed a lifetime, her blue eyes colder than an arctic winter. “So all the time that I’ve been running around trying to clear Molly’s name, you knew she was guilty and didn’t tell me. I could just . . .”

“Emma, I didn’t know she was guilty when this all started, then . . .”

Emma raised a hand to stop him. “No! I don’t want to hear whatever excuse you’re about to make up for lying to me.”

“I wasn’t going to make up an excuse,” DeMarco said. He would have, but he couldn’t think of one. “I was going to say that this thing has become a whole lot more complicated than Molly just taking a guilty plea.”

“No, it’s not. She’s guilty. She should go to jail.”

“It’s not that simple, Emma. Ted Allen will have her killed if he thinks she’ll testify against him. Then you have both Ted and Fairchild blackmailing Mahoney. I mean . . .”

“What do Campbell and McGrath have to do with Molly?” she said.

“Nothing,” DeMarco said. “Molly got the insider trading idea when she heard that phone call of Campbell’s, but other than that, there’s no link between Molly and those guys. But I know that Campbell and his friends have been making money illegally for years and I’m about ninety percent sure that McGrath is a murderer. He killed Praeter and you know he tried to kill Campbell in Charlottesville.”

Her voice dripping sarcasm, Emma said, “And that’s why you’re still investigating Campbell and McGrath, because you want to bring them to justice for all the crimes they’ve committed.”

“No,” DeMarco said, “but if I can prove they’ve done something criminal then maybe I’ll have something Molly’s lawyers can use to get her a better deal with the SEC.”

Emma just shook her head in disgust.

“Come on, Emma,” DeMarco said. “Molly’s the lesser of two evils. You must see that.”

“The lesser of two evils,” Emma repeated. “I
despise
that saying. The lesser of two evils is still evil.”

Emma turned her back on him and walked away—and he wondered if he’d ever see her again.

* * *

By the time DeMarco arrived at the dentist’s office, thirty minutes late—naturally, he hit every red light on the way there—the sweet grandmother he’d spoken to had morphed into a nagging hag, lecturing him on the inconsiderate behavior of people who make appointments and fail to keep them. And, no, the doctor did not have another opening on his schedule.

This was turning out to be a really shitty day.

43

Casey Maynard shut off the engine and looked around. It was two a.m. and he didn’t see anyone on the street or any lights on in nearby homes. He stepped out of his pickup and stretched—it had been a long drive—and looked around again. Nobody.

He got down on one knee with some effort. He was a shaggy haired, bearded man, six foot four, two hundred and seventy pounds. A lot of the weight was fat. He reached under the driver’s seat and pulled out the Glock. He’d bought the Glock from a dealer in Virginia on his way up from South Carolina. The dealer had told him that the weapon was untraceable but Maynard didn’t care if it was or not. After he finished the job he’d toss the gun in the first river he came to.

He looked around one more time; he was in no hurry. There were only a few cars parked on the street—in this kind of neighborhood people parked in their garages—but none of the cars had anybody in them nor did any of the vehicles look like something a cop would drive. The problem was there were shadows everywhere—pockets of darkness where somebody could hide. But why would someone be hiding? He shoved the Glock into the back of his jeans.

He reached into the pickup again and took a plastic bag off the passenger seat. Inside the bag was a penlight he could hold in his mouth, a roll of duct tape, a glass cutter, a pair of leather gloves, and a black ski mask. He put on the gloves and the ski mask and left everything else inside the bag.

He walked slowly around to the back of the house. There was a swimming pool and a barbecue big enough to roast a side of beef—and the sliding glass door he’d been told about. With his penlight, he could see the little latch you pulled up to open the door. He put a piece of duct tape on the glass so the glass wouldn’t fall down and shatter when he cut it, then took the glass cutter out of the plastic bag.

“Freeze! Put your hands on top of your head. If you make any kind of move, I’ll blow your ass to kingdom come.”

Aw, shit.

* * *

Maynard was sitting on the parking strip in front of the house, next to his pickup. His hands were secured with plastic zip ties.

Standing behind him were two guys in their thirties, both of them wearing jeans, black T-shirts, and low-topped black boots. They also had black and green camo paint smeared on their hands and faces.
Military
was Maynard’s first impression. They looked more like soldiers than cops: hard muscles, flat stomachs, short hair. Not an ounce of fat on either of them.

“I wanna lawyer,” Maynard said. That was the third time he’d said that. This time he got a response.

“Shut up,” one of the guys said.

He’d been expecting that five minutes after they collared him, a squad car would show up and haul him off to the nearest jail, but he’d been sitting on the curb almost twenty minutes.

“I want you guys to tell me what’s going on,” he said. He was starting to get a little scared.

“If you say another word, I’m going to take that duct tape you brought with you and tape your mouth shut.”

Man, there was something wrong here.

* * *

Ten minutes later, a Mercedes drove up and double-parked next to his pickup. A woman—a slim, older gal with short blonde hair—stepped from the vehicle. She spoke to the two young guys quietly—he couldn’t hear what she said—then walked over to him and said, “Who hired you?”