House Rivals (7 page)

“What do you want to do?”

“I'm still thinking Murdock may be our best option. In fact, I think he's our only option.”

“You want Murdock to . . .” Bill wasn't even going to say the word
kill
out loud. “You want him to take care of both Johnson and DeMarco?”

“Hell, no. If Johnson has an accident that's one thing. If something happens to
both
her and DeMarco . . . I don't even want to go down that path.”

“But if something happens to her, even if it's ruled an accident, then DeMarco might keep digging anyway.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Should we tell Curtis about DeMarco?”

“Not yet. He'd go ape shit if he knew a guy working for Mahoney was out here talking to Johnson. We need to come up with an answer before we talk to Curtis.”

9

DeMarco called Sarah and suggested they meet for breakfast.

“I don't usually eat breakfast,” she said.

“Well, I do. And pick a place that makes a real breakfast, not some coffee shop or a McDonald's.”

He met her at a Denny's on Seventh Street and ordered French toast, sausage links, and eggs over easy. She had a coffee.

“Like I told you last night,” DeMarco said, “Curtis probably has somebody working for him that's his go-to guy for payoffs. I mean, if you're right about Curtis.”

“What do you mean,
if
I'm right?” she said, her eyes bugging out of her head. “I thought you read my blog.”

“I read enough to know that you don't have any evidence that Curtis did anything illegal. On top of that, your blog's so damn convoluted and wordy, nobody can read it without going into a coma. Your granddad said you have money. Maybe you should hire a writer to turn your research into a book or a magazine article.”

Then he immediately wished he hadn't said that. He could tell he'd hurt her feelings.

“I mean you have a lot of data and a lot of good arguments,” DeMarco said, trying to sound soothing. “I'm just saying a pro could make it more . . . more accessible. But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. Can you think of anyone who's taken a bribe that might be feeling some remorse, some guilt. Or maybe somebody who's now pissed at Curtis for whatever reason.”

“I've been thinking about that ever since you called last night. I need to go back through parts of my blog again and look at my raw notes.”

“Okay, do that. In the meantime, I think you should hire some security. A couple big guys licensed to carry.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Sarah, people have threatened to kill you twice. You've been assaulted. You need to take the threats seriously.”

“Yeah, I know,” she said—but DeMarco could tell she wasn't going to do anything. Like most twenty-two-year-olds, she thought she was immortal and invincible.

“How did you get into all this stuff with Curtis in the first place?” he asked.

“It started out when I got interested in fracking and all the damage that it was doing to the environment. I went to a couple of rallies, met some activists, and joined up with a group in Billings for a while. Then one night, my group went to a public hearing in Bismarck and . . . You remember what I told you last night about Stevens?”

“The farmer with the easement?”

“Yeah. We figured that Stevens was going to speak out in favor of the bill to increase inspections on blowout preventers, but instead he talked about how the existing requirements were good enough. But you could tell he didn't really believe what he was saying—I mean, the guy just
looked
ashamed—and one of the people I was with said it was obvious that Curtis had gotten to Stevens—bribed him or blackmailed him or something—but that we'd never be able to prove it. But I decided to see if I could.

“I knew if Curtis had given Stevens cash or transferred money to an offshore account I wouldn't be able to find out, but in Stevens's case it was easy because everything was a matter of public record. What I mean is, Stevens filed a lawsuit against the farmer who withdrew the easement and later, Stevens dropped the lawsuit, so it was easy to connect the dots.”

DeMarco almost said: Well, you found some dots, but I'm not sure you really connected anything—but decided to keep his mouth shut.

“The next thing that happened,” Sarah said, “was a circuit court judge named Hardy ruled in favor of something that benefited Curtis in a big way. You don't need to know all the details, and since you don't know anything about how they process natural gas you wouldn't understand anyway, but this judge's ruling didn't make sense. It was just absurd. Well, I found out that Hardy was running for reelection that year and about eighty percent of his campaign contributions were coming from Curtis and guys who worked for Curtis and companies Curtis owns.”

DeMarco shrugged. “Yeah, well. You know.”

“What the hell does that mean? That
yeah, well, you know
?”

DeMarco always told people that the United States of America has the best government that money can buy—and he was serious. And that's what he told Sarah. “Sarah, that's politics in this country. People and companies contribute to guys who see things their way. It's not a conspiracy. It's not illegal. It's just the way things are.”

“That doesn't make it right.”

“I'm not saying it's right. I'm just saying that Curtis didn't do anything illegal by supporting this judge for reelection.”

It looked for a minute like Sarah was going to erupt like Vesuvius, then she took a breath. “Anyway, you asked how I got started. That was the beginning. After that, I just started digging into anything that favored Curtis. Bills in the legislature, court cases, lawsuits. I filed FOIA requests. I looked at key people to see if they benefited in some way. I looked at property records to see if they bought a second home and at building permits to see if they were remodeling their houses. I talked to their neighbors and their political opponents.” She took a breath and said, “I'm a hell of a researcher, Mr. DeMarco. I may not be a writer but I work hard and I know how to dig to find things out.”

And DeMarco believed that: that Sarah Johnson was a hell of a researcher. But she didn't seem to be able to grasp the fact that just because a politician benefited at the same time Curtis benefited that that wasn't prima facie evidence of bribery. Rather than argue with her, he said, “Okay. So go back over your blog and your notes and think about who might give us a lead on the person Curtis is using to fix things around here.”

“I will,” she said and stood up. “But then what? What do I do when I've got some names?”

“Then we go lean on these people and try to convince them to talk to you. I'm not much of a researcher but I'm pretty good at leaning on folks.”

“You'll go with me? Seriously?”

“Yeah. For a while. I mean, I have a job in D.C. I need to get back to, but I'll give this a few more days.”

Sarah marched out of the restaurant like a woman on a mission from God.

Actually, the only job DeMarco had back in Washington was doing whatever Mahoney told him to do and, for the present, Mahoney wanted him right where he was. DeMarco just wanted to get back home to see if Ralph had annihilated the rodents.

DeMarco finished his breakfast, then decided to call Ralph and ask how things were progressing.

“Things are going good,” Ralph said cheerfully. He was a cheerful killer. “They already ate two boxes of the d-CON, so when I drop by your place tomorrow, I should find some bodies inside the house.”

“You mean
outside
the house,” DeMarco said.

“Uh, yeah, that's what I mean,” Ralph said.

As he walked to his car, DeMarco thought about calling Mahoney to let him know what was going on, but then he couldn't help but notice that it was a lovely spring morning. There had to be a public golf course somewhere in Bismarck. He'd go rent some clubs and play a round—then call Mahoney. Nothing was going to change in four or five hours—except maybe the weather, which might preclude playing golf. He wished he'd brought his golf shoes with him.

“Maybe we're overthinking this thing,” Marjorie said to Bill. She'd just come back into the office after another cigarette. Bill couldn't recall her ever smoking this much before; she must have gone through a pack since she'd arrived at the office.

“If something happens to Johnson,” Marjorie said, “it'll end with her. Like we've tried to tell Curtis a million times, she doesn't have any proof that we or Curtis or anybody else has done anything illegal. She's just got a lot of conjecture and coincidence.”

“Conjecture that's dead spot-on,” Bill said.

“But it's
conjecture,
Bill. It isn't proof. If she's gone, this DeMarco character will go home. He doesn't have contacts here. He doesn't know how things work out here. But the main thing is, he can't be as screwy as Sarah Johnson. He won't spend the rest of his life investigating all the crap she's written about.”

“I'm still not sure we should use Murdock. There has to be some other—”

“You know, I think it would be best if it looked like a home invasion or robbery or a rape.”

“What?”

“I mean if she's just shot or something,” Marjorie said, “the cops might think she was killed for some reason connected to all her political bullshit, and they might think that Curtis was involved. So you see what I mean? We shouldn't make it look like she was, you know,
assassinated
.”

Bill was speechless. You look at Marjorie—cute, bubbly, bouncy little Marjorie—and you think: Soccer Mom of the Year. You'd never imagine that a woman who looked like her could be so cold-blooded. But there'd been plenty of times in the years they'd worked together when Bill had seen how she reacted to anyone trying to stop her from doing what she wanted—and although she didn't resort to murder—she could be downright brutal. Sometimes, she just scared the shit out of him.

“You know if DeMarco comes up with our names,” Bill said, “we could end up being suspects.”

“Which means we need to move fast, before he gets our names. You need to contact Murdock today.”

“Why don't you contact him? I contacted him last time.”

“And then what, Bill? I'm supposed to sit in a steam room naked with Murdock?”

“Maybe he has some other procedure for when he meets with female clients.”

“Quit being childish. You're the one he knows. And what about my kids? I can't just go taking off for Denver.”

“Yeah, well . . .”

“Hey, we're in this together, no matter who talks to him.”

“Not exactly. I'm the guy who Murdock will give up if he's caught.”

“And then you'd give me up,” Marjorie said. “And don't tell me you wouldn't. We're in this together.”

Bill didn't normally drink at eleven in the morning, but today was different. After Marjorie nagged him for half an hour—God, the woman could nag; he felt sorry for her husband—he finally agreed to call Murdock and that's what he was going to do. But he needed a drink first.

He didn't want to call Murdock. At the same time, he didn't want to lose everything he had. He liked his life the way it was, and he knew Curtis would fire him and Marjorie if they didn't solve the Johnson problem. Or maybe, knowing Marjorie, she'd blame their failure all on him and only he'd get fired—and no one was going to pay him what Curtis paid him. He didn't want to lose his job.

When Murdock had taken care of Wainwright, the swing judge in South Dakota six years ago, that hadn't really weighed on Bill's conscience all that much. He'd been scared, of course—he'd been scared for three months—that he might be arrested as an accomplice to murder and end up in prison for the rest of his life, but he hadn't really felt all that guilty. For one thing, the judge had been a disagreeable old fart. But Johnson . . . She was different. She was a young woman, practically a girl.

He knocked back a shot of Wild Turkey, then ordered another. Finally, he called Murdock from a pay phone in the bar. Murdock didn't answer the call and no way in hell was Bill going to leave a message.

He called again one hour—and two more shots—later. Murdock still didn't answer. Bill finally decided he needed to leave a message and stopped at a Best Buy and bought a prepaid phone using cash and giving a phony name. He called Murdock a third time and when Murdock still didn't answer, he left a message: “We met before, six years ago. You did some work for me. Please call me at 701-220-1048. It's urgent and I'll, uh, compensate you accordingly.”

While he was eating some lunch to soak up the booze, Murdock called him. “This is the guy you called,” Murdock said.

“Thanks for calling back. I need you to—”

“Stop. I don't do business over the phone. You remember where we met last time?”

“Yeah.”

“Meet me there again.”

Bill tried to figure out how long it would take him to get to Denver. “I'll be there some time late tonight,” he said.

“Make it tomorrow morning. Ten a.m.,” Murdock said. “And bring the down payment with you.” Before Bill could tell him again that the matter was urgent, Murdock hung up.

DeMarco was on the eighth hole at a golf course called Hawktree, five miles north of Bismarck. Hawktree was an unexpected jewel, like an oasis in the desert: lush, emerald-green fairways and black sand bunkers surrounded by rugged, rolling hills covered with rust-colored, long-stemmed native grasses. He'd never played on a course in the middle of a prairie and he could imagine a million buffalo traveling over the fairways before they became fairways.

He'd just landed about fifty yards from the pin after making one of the best six iron shots he'd ever made. It was a shame there'd been no one with him to see it. He was just coming forward with his pitching iron when his cell phone went off like a burglar alarm and the ball went skittering off the end of his club and landed smack-dab in the middle of a sand trap.

“Fuck!” he cried. He took the phone out of his pocket. As he might have guessed, it was Sarah Johnson—a woman perfectly suited to screwing up what he was sure would have been a perfect shot.

“Yeah, Sarah, what can I do for you?”

“I've got four names. They're located in—”

“Just tell me when I get there. I can be at your place in a couple hours. Your grandfather gave me the address.”

“Two hours!” she shrieked. “Where are you? What are you doing?”

“I'm just busy. I'll see you in two hours.” He hung up before she could tell him to make it sooner.