House Odds (38 page)

“Yeah?”

“Well, I set up Google Alert to let me know if she popped up in the news and I saw this morning that she’s dead.”

“What happened? Did she have a heart attack?” The woman had been overweight but she’d seemed healthy to DeMarco.

“She was shot. It happened the night before last, but nothing was posted online until today.”

“Shot? What the hell happened? Was it a robbery?”

“The article didn’t say. All it said was that whoever did it didn’t break into her trailer and most likely talked his way in, and they’re giving folks the usual warnings about being careful about opening your door to strangers.”

DeMarco remembered that when he visited Melinda, she opened her door without asking who was there. And he could picture her clearly: her broad, cheerful face, her cobalt-blue toenails. What he couldn’t do was picture her dead. He supposed some random lunatic could have killed her, some wacko targeting women who lived alone in trailer parks, but it was also possible that she was killed because of what he’d learned about her and Bob Fairchild. This, of course, made Fairchild the obvious suspect but it was hard to imagine him killing the woman. You didn’t kill people like Melinda Stowe—you bribed them, you intimidated them, you discredited them—but you didn’t kill them unless you were a total fool.

But he couldn’t deal with Melinda Stowe right now.

He had to get to Douglas Campbell’s house.

* * *

“Son, could you help an old fella out?” The voice had a strong southwestern accent, what DeMarco thought of as a Texas twang.

He turned and saw a man in his sixties or seventies coming toward him, walking with a cane. His first thought was that the old guy was a hard-looking bastard even with the cane.

“What do you need?” DeMarco said.

The man continued to walk toward DeMarco. When he was about a foot away, he pointed with his cane and said, “That’s my car over there and . . .”

DeMarco turned to look where the man was pointing, and when he did, he felt something jam into his rib cage.

“Son,” the man said softly, “that’s a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver you’re feelin’. It’s loaded with hollow points, and it’ll make a real mess out of your insides if I shoot you.”

“My wallet’s in my back pocket,” DeMarco said. He couldn’t believe it. He was being robbed by a senior citizen.

“I don’t want your money, son,” the man said. “What you’re gonna do is walk, real slow, over to my car. We’re gonna take a ride together, have a little talk, that’s all. I’m gonna let you drive.”

“Talk about what?”

“Don’t worry about that right now. But you got my word, son. If you talk to me, answer all my questions, I’ll let you go. I got no reason to hurt you.”

Bullshit
.

“Now, let’s go. Mosey on over to the car. And not too fast. I’m not as quick as I used to be.”

DeMarco hesitated for a moment, and the man prodded him with the gun barrel. He looked around. Not a neighbor in sight. He stepped off the curb and started toward the car across the street.

The old man stepped off the curb after him and the tip of his cane slipped, just a bit, not enough to make the man fall, but enough to make him stagger and momentarily lose his balance. It all happened very fast after that: the man stumbled and DeMarco pivoted and hit him in the throat with his elbow which caused the older man to fall to the ground. As he was falling, he fired the gun, the bullet missing DeMarco by inches, passing under his left arm, and hitting the driver’s side window of the old man’s car. Before he could fire again, DeMarco was on top of him, grabbing the wrist of the hand holding the gun, then ripping the gun out of his hand—something that wasn’t all that hard to do considering the man was over sixty, walked with a cane, and was practically choking to death.

While waiting for the cops to arrive, DeMarco called Delray and told him they’d have to postpone the meeting with Campbell until tomorrow.

58

Delray was annoyed. He had tickets for the Phillies, a seat right behind home plate, but he was going to miss the game because DeMarco had delayed the job on Campbell. He was going to take out his annoyance on Douglas Campbell.

He glanced at his watch. Noon. “Let’s go,” he said to Billy. They exited the car and rang the Campbells’ front doorbell. No one answered. Delray knew Campbell was home because he’d seen the guy just an hour ago and knew he hadn’t left, so he and Billy walked around the house and into the backyard.

Campbell and his wife were sitting in Adirondack chairs, near a gigantic barbecue, drinking from tall glasses—and arguing about something. Delray could hear the woman bitching about them never going anywhere fun and how she was sick of it. The couple didn’t see him and Billy until they were practically standing next to them.

The woman saw them first. “Who are you?” she said. When Delray didn’t answer, he could see the fear grow in her eyes. She looked over at her husband and said, “Doug!” Just “Doug,” but like
Doug! Do something!

Delray glanced over at the barbecue. They were cooking steaks, big thick ones, and the idiot had the heat up way too high. That was okay, though; a hot grill could be useful.

He took off his sunglasses so the Campbells could see his eye. He knew the effect his eye had on people, particularly people like this, people who thought they were immune from violence. And that wasn’t the only reason he took off the glasses. They were Ray-Bans with special lenses and he didn’t want to get them broken.

Campbell got up from his chair with some effort. He was wearing shorts—his legs pasty white—and a baby-blue T-shirt that exposed the underside of his flabby gut. “What I can do for you, gentlemen?” he said, trying to sound confident.

Gentlemen.
Like he could bullshit his way out of this, acting polite.

Delray and Billy both ignored him. Billy smiled at Kathy Campbell, not his friendly good-old-boy smile but his see-what-a-fuckin’-lunatic-I-am smile. Delray walked over to the barbecue and picked up the barbecue tongs. He liked the heft of them in his hand.

“I asked what you men wanted,” Campbell said, this time trying to put some authority into his voice.

Delray pivoted on his right foot and backhanded Campbell across the face with the barbecue tongs. Slashed him a good one.

Campbell cried out in pain and stumbled backward, tripping over the chair where he’d been sitting. His wife spilled her drink and leapt to her feet, mouth wide open, eyes the size of walnuts.

“Take the bitch in the house and do her,” Delray said to Billy.

The woman sucked in air to scream, but Billy, who was amazingly fast for a guy his size, clamped his hand over her mouth and began to drag her toward the house.

Campbell was still on the ground, but now on his knees and trying to get back up onto his feet. Tears were leaking from his eyes. Before he could stand, Delray kicked him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him.

Delray looked over his shoulder to make sure the woman was under control then reached down and grabbed the back of Campbell’s shirt, and, with one hand, dragged the two hundred and seventy pound man over to the edge of the swimming pool. He started to kneel down next to Campbell, but then realized he was going to get the knees of his pants wet and dirty. He kicked Campbell again to immobilize him, and went over to the chair where Campbell’s wife had been sitting, took the cushion off the chair, and tossed it near the pool. That was better.

Kneeling down on the cushion, he grabbed Campbell by his belt, pulled him forward until his head was over the edge of the pool, then pushed his head under the water. Campbell’s legs started to kick and he tried to get his head out of the water, but Delray was too strong.

After about forty-five seconds, after all the air was gone from Campbell’s lungs and he started to ingest water, Delray let Campbell raise his head. He allowed him enough time to cough and hack a bit, then said, “You owe my boss half a million dollars. He wants it back.”

“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re making a mis—”

Delray pushed Campbell’s head under the water again.

Man, those steaks smell good. Gonna have to go for a steak after this.

He pulled Campbell’s head out of the pool a second time and again had to wait for Campbell to stop gagging. He hoped the fat fool didn’t have a heart attack.

“My partner’s in there raping your skinny bitch of a wife,” he said, “and then I’m gonna have my turn, and then I’m gonna start cuttin’ parts off your body until we reach an understanding. Now, what are you gonna do about the half million?”

“I swear to you . . .” Campbell said.

“Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Campbell and Delray both turned toward the man who had yelled. It was DeMarco.

“Help!” Campbell screamed.

“Oh, shit,” Delray said, trying to put a little panic into his voice, and let go of Campbell. He had to get past DeMarco to get out of the backyard. “Billy!” Delray yelled, “Get out of the house!”

DeMarco stepped to one side to allow Delray to get by him, making no attempt to stop him, and Delray smiled slightly—then lowered his shoulder like a running back, hit DeMarco square in the chest, and knocked him into an azalea bush. He chuckled as he moved toward his car.

By the time Delray reached the front yard, Billy was coming out the front door. They walked casually to their car.

“You didn’t hurt the broad, did you?” Delray asked.

“Nah. Just ripped her clothes a little and told her all the nasty stuff I was gonna do to her. She’s got a pretty nice rack on her, I mean for a gal her age.”

“I’m hungry,” Delray said. “Let’s go get us a steak.”

59

“Thank God you got here when you did,” Campbell said.

That was about the third or fourth time he’d said that, and DeMarco still didn’t say anything to acknowledge his gratitude. He knew the man was going to be much less grateful in a few minutes.

They were sitting at the Campbells’ kitchen table. Kathy Campbell was wearing a bathrobe to cover her torn blouse, Campbell was holding an icepack to his face, and DeMarco was rubbing his chest where Delray had smacked into him. The son of a bitch had knocked him ass over teakettle, and his chest hurt, his back hurt, and his pants were a mess. There’d been no reason for the bastard to do that.

It took a while for Kathy Campbell to stop crying and when she finally did, she wanted to call the police. “You don’t want to do that, Mrs. Campbell,” DeMarco said.

“Why not? That man was going to
rape
me. And look at Doug’s face!”

“You need to know what’s going on before you talk to the cops. And the cops aren’t going to be able to help you, anyway.”

“I don’t understand,” she said. Turning to her husband, she said, “What’s he talking about, Doug?”

Campbell ignored his wife. He rose from the table, took a bottle of gin out of a cupboard, and poured three fingers into a glass. When he didn’t pour a drink for his wife, she gave him a dirty look and a sarcastic “Thank you, Doug,” then got up and poured her own.

Campbell swallowed half the drink before he sat back down at the table. His thin blond hair was plastered over his scalp and his T-shirt was still wet. The one-inch-wide welt on the left side of his face was bright red and that side of his face was beginning to swell. Delray really enjoyed his work.

“The men that attacked you and your wife, Mr. Campbell, work for a crime syndicate.”

“A crime syndicate?” Kathy Campbell said.

“Mafia. Mob. Whatever you wanna call ’em.”

“But why the did they come here?” Doug Campbell said.

“The half million that Molly Mahoney is accused of investing in that insider-trader scheme, the money that’s been frozen by the government? Well, that was Mob money.”

“But what hell does that have to do with me?” Campbell said.

“They think you’re the one who lost their money,” DeMarco said.

“But I’m not!” Campbell shrieked.

“Campbell, I need to talk to you privately.”

* * *

Kathy Campbell wasn’t too happy to be excluded from the discussion, but Campbell told her to shut up—which caused her to start crying again—and then he grabbed the gin bottle and led DeMarco outside onto the patio. Campbell noticed his steaks were still on the grill, now looking like two hockey pucks. “Shit,” he said, and turned off the barbecue.

“So what the hell’s going on? Why do those guys think . . .”

“First,” DeMarco said, “I want to apologize for your wife getting roughed up. I didn’t think they’d do something like that.”

“What! You knew they were coming?”

“Well, not them specifically, but I knew somebody would be coming to see you.”

“I don’t understand. How did you know . . .”

“Campbell, those two guys work for a murderous lunatic up in Philly. And the money that was frozen by the SEC when Molly was arrested? Well, the money belonged to that lunatic, and what I did was tell him that you were Molly’s partner and it was your fault his money was confiscated.”