House Revenge (15 page)

They decided to go back to their apartment and take a nap until six and then head on over to the Park Plaza.

“Pray to God,” Ray said, “that son of a bitch goes someplace tonight where we can get him.”

21

Adele Tomlin's place on Cape Cod was near the town of Truro. It was on the waterfront, nestled among sandy dunes covered with beach heather, and it overlooked the bay in the direction of Boston. The siding was painted white, it had hurricane shutters and a weathered cedar shake roof with two chimneys, and DeMarco figured the house was about three thousand square feet—a rich man's definition of a “cottage.” It probably cost two or three million. DeMarco could imagine himself sitting inside in the winter, snug and warm in front of a roaring fire, sipping brandy while reading a book, as a cold wind blew off the Atlantic. Since he'd never be able to afford a place like this all he could do was imagine.

DeMarco walked up to the door, rang the bell, and a moment later a squat Hispanic woman wearing a white apron over a T-shirt and shorts opened the door. “Yes?” she said, sounding irritated that her work had been interrupted.

“I'm here to see Ms. Tomlin. My name's Joe DeMarco, and I work for Congressman John Mahoney.”

“You wait here. I'll see if she wants to talk to you.”

Nobody, it seemed, was impressed by politicians these days, not even domestic help.

The surly Hispanic maid, housekeeper, cook, whatever she was, led DeMarco through the house and to a large gray-painted deck in back. The deck was about a thousand square feet and there was a long staircase going from it down to the beach. Adele was on a lounge chair, under a beach umbrella to keep the sun from damaging her fair skin. Next to the lounge chair was a glass half filled with ice cubes and what looked like club soda. Adele was wearing large sunglasses and a small white bikini, and DeMarco thought she was a gorgeous-looking woman at the age of forty-two.

“Pull over one of those chairs,” she said, pointing to a pair of faded green Adirondack chairs on the other side of the deck. DeMarco did.

“Sonya said John sent you here.”

“He didn't send me but I work for him,” DeMarco said.

“And how is the old lecher doing?”

Being on Boston's A-list while she was married to Callahan, and Callahan being a Mahoney contributor, Adele had probably encountered Mahoney several times at fund-raisers and parties. Considering the way she looked, she no doubt had firsthand experience with his lecherousness.

“Still lecherous,” DeMarco said, and Adele laughed.

“I always get a kick out of him. So why are you here, Joe?”

“Did you see the press conference Mahoney held regarding your ex-husband's development on Delaney Street?”

“No, I didn't see it. I don't watch the news all that much.”

“Well, let me tell you about a lady named Elinore Dobbs and what your ex did to her.”

DeMarco recounted the tale of Callahan's attempts to drive Elinore out of her apartment, her tumble down a flight of stairs, and her current medical condition. While he was talking Adele polished off the drink on the table next to her.

“My God! That's just awful,” Adele said when DeMarco finished speaking—although the way she said it, she didn't sound as if she thought it was
that
awful. DeMarco got the impression that Adele would have a hard time imagining herself in Elinore's situation and that empathy was a rare emotion for her. He was also willing to bet that if she'd still been married to Callahan, she would have defended the things he did to get Elinore out of her building.

“But I don't understand why you're here, Joe,” she said. “Is there something you expect me to do for that poor woman?”

“No. I'm here because I heard that Sean really took advantage of you when you divorced, and—”

“Took advantage of me! That son of a bitch bushwhacked me. He started seeing that little tramp a year before we split up, making all these trips to Georgia on some deal he claimed he was working on. Well, during that year, in addition to screwing Miss Georgia, he screwed me, too. He started moving money around, burying it in places I couldn't get to, and his lawyer rolled right over the idiot I hired. I was lucky to come away with anything.”

DeMarco didn't bother to point out that he'd learned from Carl Rosenberg that she'd ended up with eight figures. Instead he said, “Well, you're a beautiful woman and I think he was a fool to divorce you.” He figured flattery couldn't hurt.

“But you still haven't said why you're here, Joe. What exactly do you want from me?”

Considering her attitude toward Callahan, DeMarco figured there was no point beating around the bush. “To be completely frank, Adele, I'm hoping you can help me figure out some way to screw Sean for what he did to Elinore Dobbs.”

Adele just sat for a moment looking at him, then she laughed. The idea of getting back at her ex-husband clearly had some appeal. ­DeMarco also got the impression that Adele was a bit drunk and that the drink on the table next to her wasn't club soda. She turned her head and yelled, “Sonya!”

The stocky maid came out of the house, a frown on her wide brown face, and said, “Yes, ma'am?”

“Make me another vodka tonic and make one for Joe, too.” After the maid departed, Adele said, “Well, I'd love to help you, Joe. I really would, after what that bastard did to me, but I don't see how I can.”

“Maybe you can't,” DeMarco said. “But what I'd like to do is find some way to stop his project on Delaney Street. According to Carl Rosenberg . . .”

“He's such a lovely man,” Adele said, “and Sean treated him so shabbily.”

“Yes, he did. Anyway, Carl said Sean is most likely leveraged to the hilt, and if there were some way to shut down the work on Delaney Square for a long time or get his investors to call in their loans, he'd take a bath. But I don't know how to make that happen. So I was hoping maybe you'd know something else I could use to cause your ex some pain.”

At that moment, the maid came back bearing the vodka tonics. Adele started to say something, then instead took a couple sips of her drink, and DeMarco got the impression she was trying to make up her mind about something.

“Did you look into where Sean got the investment money for Delaney Square?” she finally said.

“No,” DeMarco said. “Should I?”

Adele hesitated again. “About eight years ago, Sean and I took a vacation to celebrate our wedding anniversary. We stayed at a resort in Los Cabos, near the Sea of Cortez. It was an absolutely gorgeous place, and the service there was just incredible.

“While we were there we met a marvelous Mexican couple, Javier and Danielle Castro. Danielle is the same age as me, and very beautiful. Javier is about ten years older than Sean and so handsome, like a telenovela star. And he has the most marvelous manners, courtly I guess you'd say. When you talk to him, he makes you feel like you're the most important person in the universe, unlike Sean, who didn't even listen half the time when I was talking. I just love him and Danielle.”

“Okay,” DeMarco said, wondering where she was going with this.

“Well, we noticed right away that Javier had his own security team, like a politician might have. You know, hard-looking guys in suits with those ear things who talk into microphones on their wrists. Like the Secret Service.”

And DeMarco thought:
Oh-oh
.
But now he could see where this was going.

“We didn't think too much about his security,” Adele said. “It was Mexico and with all the drug violence and kidnappings and such, we figured a lot of wealthy Mexicans hired private security. Anyway, we became quite good friends in the ten days we were there. Sean and Javier played golf together and went fishing, while Danielle and I shopped and went horseback riding. It was actually very comforting having Javier's security people with us while we shopped. I certainly felt safer with them around. The men, of course, discussed business, Sean telling Javier about projects he was working on at the time.

“When we asked Javier what he did for a living, he said he was involved in a number of businesses. Telecommunications, a large cement plant in Mexico, real estate, and so forth. One night while we were having drinks, Sean started talking to Javier about a project that was just in the preliminary planning stage. It was Delaney Square. At that point, Sean was still looking into financing for the project and had an architect working on some sketches, and Javier said he might be interested in investing.

“Three months later, after Javier did whatever due diligence investors do, he invested with Sean. Back then, we still talked about his business, but I don't know how much of a stake Javier has in the project. I do know that Sean was impressed and grateful. But Sean had done his due diligence on Javier, too, and he learned that Javier wasn't your ordinary investor. He was the leader of one of the largest drug cartels in Mexico.”

“Whoa!” DeMarco said—although that's what he'd been expecting to hear.

“Yes. Whoa. What Sean learned—I don't know who his sources were—was that at the time we met Javier and Danielle, Javier was slowly backing away from the cartel, turning it over to a cousin of his, and by the time Sean and I divorced, he was supposedly out of the drug business entirely. Now he's just another successful Mexican businessman.”

“Are you saying that Javier is laundering drug money through Sean's development?” DeMarco said.

Adele shrugged. “I'm not sure that he's
laundering
anything. I know he didn't send boxes filled with cash to Sean. And when I asked Sean basically the same question—back then I didn't want my husband to go to jail for being involved with a drug dealer—he said the money was clean as far as he knew and that it came from a consortium in the Caymans, like a venture capital company or real estate investment company. But I don't know if the money was clean or dirty. I just know that it originated from a guy who used to sell drugs for a living.”

“Huh,” DeMarco said. He sipped his drink, mulling over everything she'd told him. He had an idea for how he might use what she'd told him, but he wasn't sure he wanted to go there. As for Adele, she just sat there looking pleased with herself.

“Do you still keep in touch with Danielle?” DeMarco asked.

“Oh, yes. And with Javier. Javier, unlike Sean Callahan, is the type who will never divorce his wife. I enjoy their company very much, and right after my divorce Danielle knew I was feeling low and invited me to their place in Mexico City. They have a gorgeous home there, and I stayed for a week and had a marvelous time. I go shopping with Danielle when she comes to New York, which she does several times a year. Her daughter is a student at Columbia. The girl's beautiful enough to be an actress but she wants to direct movies and write screenplays. Anyway, the Castros have an apartment in the city and when Danielle comes to see her, sometimes I'll meet her.”

“Does Javier come with his wife when she comes to see their daughter?” DeMarco asked.

“No. Or I should say, the times I've met her in New York, she always came by herself and he stayed in Mexico. Why are you asking?”

“Just curious,” DeMarco said, but he was wondering if Javier Castro was afraid to travel to the United States. He may not have been in the drug business now, but that didn't mean all his past sins had been forgotten by the DEA.

Adele, now a bit tipsy from the alcohol she'd consumed, and maybe wanting to prove to herself how desirable she still was, asked if ­DeMarco would like to stay for dinner—and he got the impression that if he did, Adele would be the dessert. But as lovely as she was, he didn't really want anything to do with the woman. Trying to sound regretful that he couldn't stay, he said that lecherous slave driver, ­Mahoney, was forcing him to meet with someone later, but the next time he was on the Cape . . .

22

By the time DeMarco returned to Boston from Cape Cod it was about eight p.m.—which was perfect timing—but he had a long night ahead of him. He stopped in front of the hotel entrance, stepped out of his car, and looked around casually for the McNultys. This time he was hoping he would see them, and he immediately saw the same dusty blue Corolla they'd used the last time they tailed him, but the McNultys weren't in the car. Then he spotted them. They were standing in a doorway on Arlington, about half a block from their car drinking something out of king-sized cups—and they were watching him.

The valet came out to take DeMarco's car but he told the valet to leave the car parked where it was, saying he'd be right back down. DeMarco knew the McNultys had seen him but he lingered outside a little longer, pretending to ask the doorman for directions he didn't need, and the doorman helpfully pointed down the street.

When the McNultys saw DeMarco pull up in front of the hotel, Roy said, “I hope he's not in for the night.” He was just dying to try out his new fish bat on DeMarco's skull.

“No, look,” Ray said. “The valet's not moving his car. And he just asked for directions. He's going someplace. Come on. Let's get in the car. And pray to Jesus he goes someplace where we can get him.” When he said this, Roy made the sign of the cross. Ray just shook his head.

Back in his room, DeMarco quickly changed into his ninja outfit—the all-black clothes he'd purchased at JCPenney earlier in the day. He put the pocketknife in one pocket of his new jeans and several zip ties in another. He then shoved the big baking potato into a sock and gave the bed a couple of hard whacks. It would do. He hoped.

The biggest problem was that he didn't know what sort of weapons the McNultys might be carrying. He didn't think they'd have guns because he didn't think they would take the risk of being caught with a firearm in their possession, which would automatically land them in jail. On the other hand, the McNultys were idiots. All he knew was they would be armed in some way: knives, saps, brass knuckles, a chunk of lead pipe. If he was wrong about them not having guns, he was going to feel pretty stupid bringing a potato to a gunfight.

Before he left the hotel, he peeked through a window to see where the McNultys were, and saw them sitting in their car. He wondered how many parking tickets they'd been issued while they parked there waiting for him. He suspected that two men about to serve a decade in prison weren't all that concerned about parking tickets.

DeMarco walked out of the hotel, tipped the valet who held the door open for him, and got into his car. He had to time this just right. He wanted it to be light enough outside that they could easily follow him—and at eight p.m. it was—but he wanted to reach the abandoned fruit stand in Rhode Island when it was dark.

Traffic leaving Boston was heavy and DeMarco did everything he could not to lose the McNultys: he stopped at every orange light, signaled long before every turn, and when the McNultys were stopped by a red light, DeMarco crept along like an octogenarian on the way to church to give them time to catch up. As he and the McNultys crossed the border separating Rhode Island from Massachusetts, he smiled. The McNultys had now violated the judge's order not to leave the state.

“Where the hell's he going?” Roy said.

“It looks like Providence,” Ray said. “It's a good thing we filled the tank earlier.”

“You think he's going to see Soriano?”

“How the hell would I know?”

When DeMarco turned off 295, heading in the direction of Chepachet, Roy said, “Now what's he doing? He's heading into the fuckin' sticks.”

“This could be good,” Ray said. “Wherever he's going, there'll be less people around than if he's in Providence or Boston.”

They drove in silence for a while before Roy said, “I've been thinking about that thing with Doreen, that power of attorney thing to let her run the bar while we're inside.”

“Yeah?” Ray said.

“What if we just transferred the title to her?”

“Why in the hell would we do that?”

“What if the judge gives us a fine and we get forced to sell the bar to pay the fine? What if there's some law out there that says guys in jail can't have a liquor license? What if the cops ever find Canyon, and they make him tell that we paid him to help with the old broad? She could sue us and maybe take the bar.”

“Huh,” Ray said. His younger brother was actually making sense for once. “You think we could trust Doreen that much? If we transferred the title to her, she could sell the place and take the money and run.”

“Doreen knows if she did that we'd track her down and beat her ugly hide. Plus, Doreen's like us. She doesn't know anyplace but Boston, and her mom still lives here. But I'll tell you one thing we'll make clear to her. She better not change the name of the bar.”

The sun had disappeared from the sky but DeMarco could see the headlights of the McNultys' car behind him. When he was about a mile from the abandoned fruit stand, he asked himself:
Are you sure you want to do this?

There were three potential problems with his plan, the first and biggest of those being that the McNultys might have guns. The second problem was not knowing for sure what the McNultys would do when they came to the fork in the road behind the fruit stand. If they didn't behave as he expected them to, he might also end up dead because he didn't think he could fight them both at the same time and win. The third thing was that he might be overestimating his ability to take them even if he was fighting them one at a time. He was strong enough and motivated enough to beat them, but they were a couple of guys used to brawling, and he wasn't.

So should he head back to Boston or do what he'd planned? Screw it. He was going to do what he'd planned. If he didn't, they'd just come after him again, and in some spot where he wouldn't have the advantage. Plus, the simple truth was he was looking forward to fighting them. He was going to get even with them for the beating they gave him.

When DeMarco reached the fruit stand, he stopped the car, and then started moving quickly. He pulled on the lever under the dashboard that released the hood latch, grabbed his potato-filled sock, and got out of the car. He went immediately to the front of the car and raised the hood, then stood to the side of the car where he'd be visible to approaching vehicles. He was ready to run—and the car containing the McNultys was coming toward him rapidly.

“Look!” Roy said. “His car broke down!”

“We got the fucker,” Ray said. “There's no one within miles of this place.”

Ray stepped on the gas.

Both McNultys were grinning, looking like feral dogs when they did.

DeMarco saw the car coming toward him accelerate, and when it was about a hundred yards away, he ran. It would take him only seconds to reach the back of the fruit stand. And in the dark, with the black clothes he was wearing, he'd barely be visible; he'd be like a moving shadow.

“Son of a bitch! He saw us,” Roy said.

“We'll get him,” Ray said, and slammed on the brakes. The Corolla skidded to a stop, almost hitting the rear bumper of DeMarco's rental car. They grabbed the fish bats and took off in the direction DeMarco had taken. Running with the small clubs in their hands, wearing shorts and high-top tennis shoes without socks, the McNultys looked like a couple of cavemen chasing down a meal.

When they reached the back of the fruit stand, they stopped. “Shit, where'd he go?” Ray said. “He couldn't have gone far, not unless he's some kind of goddamn Olympic sprinter. He's hiding close by.”

“Yeah, but it's so fuckin' dark out here,” Roy said, “he's going to be hard to spot. I wonder if Doreen has a flashlight in her car.”

“We don't have time to get a flashlight. If he's got a cell phone, he's probably calling the cops. We need to find him fast.”

Ray pointed to his left. “See that little shed up there?”

“Yeah,” Roy said. He could just make out the shape of the shed in the darkness.

“He either went that way,” Ray said, then pointed to his right. “Or he went that way, into those trees. I'll look in the shed. That's most likely where he is, either in it or hiding behind it. You go see if you can spot him in the trees.”

“I don't think we should split up,” Roy said.

“If we don't split up, and if I'm wrong about him being behind the shed, he's going to go through those trees and circle back to the road, and then he'll start running down the road, hoping a car will spot him. And like I told you, if he's got a phone, he'll call the cops. The good news is way the fuck out here in the middle of nowhere it'll take the cops a while to get here. But we gotta move.

“If you spot him, yell, then start beating on him, and I'll be there in two minutes to help. If I spot him, I'll do the same thing. But if you find him, don't go killing him all by yourself. I want some of him, too.”

“Okay,” Roy said. With the fish bat held in his big right hand, he started jogging toward the orchard. He was really worried about the darkness, thinking he could run right past the guy and not see him. They really should have looked for a flashlight in Doreen's car, but knowing Doreen, if she had one, the batteries would be dead.

DeMarco watched the brothers as they stood behind the fruit stand, and saw one of them raise a hand and point at the toolshed, then point in the other direction, toward the orchard. He couldn't see their features in the darkness; all he could see were the shapes of their short, muscular bodies. What were they going to do? Both go the same way or split up? He smiled when he saw one man run toward the toolshed and the other start jogging toward the orchard—the direction DeMarco had taken.

DeMarco was standing behind the pile of apple crates he'd constructed near the edge of the trail leading into the orchard. He figured the man coming toward him would either walk past the crates, in which case he'd step out and hit him from behind with his potato-filled sock, or he'd look to see if DeMarco was hiding behind the stack of crates. And if he did that, as soon as his head appeared, DeMarco would swing his homemade sap.

He could hear the man approach the apple crates, and then heard him stop. The guy was trying to decide if he should keep going or see if ­DeMarco was hiding behind the crates. The sock was ready in ­DeMarco's hand—and when Roy McNulty took a peek to see if ­DeMarco was there, DeMarco swung the sock as hard as he could. He put every ounce of strength he had into that swing; he hit Roy McNulty hard enough that he turned his baking potato into a mashed potato. The reason he'd filled the sock with a potato as opposed to pennies or a rock was that he didn't want to kill the McNultys; he just wanted to hurt them badly.

But as hard as he swung, the thickheaded son of a bitch didn't go down. He was clearly stunned, but still standing. So DeMarco dropped the sock and hit him with a right-hand uppercut—right on the point of his chin—and this time he went down. Roy McNulty was unconscious. DeMarco quickly flipped him over onto his stomach, then used a zip tie to bind his hands behind his back. He used a second zip
tie to bind his feet. It had taken him less than a minute to deal with one McNulty—and now it was time to deal with the other one.

DeMarco started to pick up the rake handle he'd placed behind the crates earlier in the day to use for a weapon, then noticed the small club that Roy McNulty had been carrying in his hand: a little bat about twelve inches long, like a cop's nightstick. He'd known the McNultys would be armed, and he bet that Ray McNulty had an identical bat. Unlike with DeMarco's potato-filled sock, if the McNultys had started whaling on him with the little bats they would have killed him, which was most certainly their intention. DeMarco thought about it for a moment, then decided to use Roy's bat instead of the rake handle. If he used a weapon belonging to one of his attackers, that would add to the impression that he hadn't known in advance that he'd be attacked. He hoped.

He stepped out from behind the pile of apple crates. Due to the darkness, he couldn't see Ray McNulty, but suspected he was near the toolshed. But DeMarco didn't have any intention of sneaking around and hunting for Ray. Instead he yelled, “McNulty! ­McNulty! I just killed your brother.” He paused, then said, “I slit his fuckin' throat.”

Sound carried well out there in the country with no cars passing by or any other urban noises. DeMarco heard Ray yell, “You motherfucker, I'm gonna kill you.” Unlike DeMarco, who was dressed in black, Ray McNulty was wearing a white T-shirt, and although DeMarco couldn't see his features clearly, he could see his blocky form running rapidly toward him—and that's what he wanted: Ray's head filled with rage and the desire for revenge and not thinking about anything else.

DeMarco didn't run toward Ray. He just waited where he was, holding the fish bat in his right hand. He didn't realize it, but he was smiling.

DeMarco had thought that Ray would stop a few feet away—but he didn't. Ray believed that DeMarco had killed his brother, and the
only
thing he was thinking about was killing DeMarco. He ran toward DeMarco at full speed, no hesitation at all, the fish bat in his right hand, raised in the air, ready to bring it down on DeMarco's skull. Ray didn't notice that DeMarco was armed with the same weapon.

DeMarco waited until Ray was about ten yards from him and unable to stop his forward motion—and he threw the fish bat directly at Ray's head. And just like when he'd brought the potato sap down on Roy's head, he threw the bat as hard as he could—and he didn't miss. The short club pinwheeled in the air and the blunt end of the bat hit Ray right between his eyes.

Ray staggered backward from the blow and before he could react, DeMarco was on him. His first punch broke Ray's nose—and then DeMarco just kept throwing punches. Right, left, right, left—until he beat Ray to the ground, where he continued to hit him until he wasn't moving.