Dead Man’s List
Mike Lawson

To Gail—for everything—forever.

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Praise

Also by Mike Lawson

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue

“Carl, goddamnit, don’t bruise his neck!”

“I’m trying not to, but he’s a strong little bastard.”

“Shit, you’re twice his size. Grab him by the hair, not the neck.”

“That did it,” Carl said after a minute. “I just saw a buncha bubbles come out.”

“Yeah, well, hold him there a while. I don’t want what happened in that movie.”

“Movie?”

“You know, the one with what’s-her-name, where she boils the rabbit.”

“Oh, yeah. But what’s that—”

“At the end there, don’t you remember? When Douglas gets her in the tub? Bubbles comin’ outta her mouth, eyes wide open, then like five minutes later the bitch pops up and tries to stab him.”

“I don’t remember that part,” Carl said. “I remember the rabbit but…”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Jimmy said. “Just hold him there.”

“You got his keys?” Carl said.

“Yeah, I got the keys,” Jimmy said. “What do you think I’m jigglin’ here?”

Jimmy opened the door which led into the kitchen of the house. “Now where’s his office, den, whatever?” He started through the kitchen but stopped when he heard the refrigerator door open. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Gettin’ a Coke,” Carl said. “I’m thirsty.”

“Are you nuts?”

“I’m wearin’ gloves. What’s the big deal?”

Jimmy just shook his head. Carl, sometimes he just didn’t know.

Two minutes later, they were standing in front of the safe. It had been behind a picture, a sailing scene.

“Why do they always put it behind a picture?” Carl said. “I mean, you know where it’s gonna be.”

“They put it behind a picture because it’d look pretty fuckin’ ugly, just sittin’ there in the middle of the wall,” Jimmy said.

“Oh.”

Jimmy spun the lock on the safe.

“How the hell did Eddie get the combination, anyway?” Carl said.

“He said something about a locksmith the guy used.”

Jimmy swung open the door to the safe. Inside it were a bunch of little notebooks, the covers doodled on, the pages all ragged. Jimmy took out the notebooks, several at a time, and tossed them into his shoulder bag. Carl had said that the shoulder bag looked like a faggy purse, which it sort of did, but it was better than carrying around a shopping bag.

At the back of the safe was a wad of cash bound with a rubber band. Jimmy flipped through it. Maybe five grand. The guy’s disaster money. He handed the cash to Carl and looked back into the safe. The only thing remaining, lying flat on the bottom, was a clear plastic sheet with little pockets containing coins. Jimmy didn’t know anything about old coins but he figured these must be worth something or the guy wouldn’t have put them in his safe—but he didn’t touch the coin holder.

“That’s it,” he said, but then he noticed something under the coin holder. He lifted up the plastic and saw a flash drive for a computer. “Damn,” he muttered, “almost missed that.” He put the flash drive into his bag.

“Gimme the money.” Carl handed him the cash and Jimmy tossed it back into the safe and closed and locked the door. Eddie had said not to take any money, or anything else but the stuff he’d told them. And if that’s what Eddie said…

“Now let’s find his laptop,” Jimmy said. “And any more of these flash thingamajigs.”

Carl finished the Coke he was drinking, made a small burp, and put the soda can in Jimmy’s man-purse.

“Okey-dokey,” Carl said.

Chapter 1

Mahoney was reclining near the pool, a big blue beach umbrella shading his head. His meaty right hand was wrapped around a frosted glass containing equal parts vodka and tomato juice. Clenched in his left hand, in the V created by two thick fingers, was a cigar. He wore white swim trunks with a red stripe down the side, and partially covering his broad chest and substantial gut, was an unbuttoned aloha shirt patterned with red hibiscuses. His hair was white and full, his legs were white, thick, and hairless, and his large bare feet were pale.

DeMarco thought he looked like a beluga whale that had crashed a luau.

“It’s about time you got here,” Mahoney said.

This complaint was typical of Mahoney. There he was—lying under an umbrella, drinking, doing nothing—while DeMarco had been forced to drive seventy miles in heavy traffic because his boss hadn’t wanted to talk over the phone. Or maybe Mahoney just didn’t want to hold the phone as this could have interrupted his drinking and smoking.

Nor did Mahoney offer DeMarco a seat or a drink. This breach of etiquette could have occurred because Mahoney was oblivious to the creature comforts of his subordinates—or it could have been because DeMarco looked impervious to such ailments as dehydration and heat stroke. DeMarco’s forefathers were Italian and his features reflected his heritage. He was five foot eleven, with heavy shoulders and strong arms. He combed his dark hair straight back, and the first strands of gray were just beginning to appear at the temples. He had a handsome face, but a hard one, and if Francis Ford Coppola had been casting extras for Godfather IV, he would have hired DeMarco on the spot.

So DeMarco stood there in front of Mahoney’s lounge chair, squinting into the midday sun. It was the first of September and the temperature was in the low eighties. As he waited for Mahoney to tell him why he’d been summoned, he glanced up at the large house in the background. DeMarco didn’t know who had loaned his boss the use of the mansion with its pool and its magnificent view of Chesapeake Bay, but he suspected it was someone trying to curry his favor. DeMarco wondered if that same person had loaned Mahoney the woman he could see in the window.

The woman—lithe and tanned—was in her thirties and she was walking back and forth in front of a large picture window, talking on a cell phone. The only thing she was wearing was a black bikini bottom the size of a stripper’s g-string. Her bare breasts, from a distance of fifty yards, were flawless.

Mahoney swiveled his thick neck to see what DeMarco was looking at.

“Yeah, she’s a character,” he said. “And in case you’re havin’ impure thoughts, she’s not with me. She’s the girlfriend of the guy who owns the house.”

Impure thoughts—a Catholic sinner’s expression—and DeMarco bet that Mahoney had been confessing to that particular transgression from the time he was a pudgy altar boy. But was he lying about the woman? DeMarco didn’t know. He doubted if God knew. And the fact that Mahoney could lie so nimbly was not surprising: he was a politician. John Fitzpatrick Mahoney was the Speaker of the United States House of Representatives, third in line for the Oval Office if both the president and vice president were unable to serve. A truly terrifying thought in DeMarco’s opinion.

“Hey! Stop looking at her tits and pay attention,” Mahoney said.

DeMarco reluctantly shifted his gaze back to Mahoney’s blue eyes—the red-veined eyes of a dedicated drinker.

“There’s a guy,” Mahoney said, “an old buddy of mine, an ex-congressman from Virginia. His name’s Dick Finley and he retired about ten years ago. Anyway, a week ago his son died in some kinda weird accident and Dick wants somebody to look into it.”

“Does he need a lawyer?” DeMarco asked. “I mean is he planning to sue somebody?”

DeMarco had asked the question not because he cared about the answer but because he had just looked up at the mansion again—and he wanted to keep looking. The young woman was still on the phone, but this time she saw DeMarco staring at her. She turned to face him so he was treated to a full-frontal view, and then she smiled and wiggled her fingers at him. She was so firm nothing else wiggled. He bet Mahoney was lying.

Mahoney snorted in response to DeMarco’s question. “If he needed a lawyer, Joe, I wouldn’t have given him your name.”

DeMarco was offended though he knew he had no right to be. He had a law degree—had even passed the Virginia bar—but he had never practiced law. He was too busy doing other unsavory things on Mahoney’s behalf.

“It sounds like what he needs,” Mahoney said, “is somebody to turn over a few rocks and see what crawls out.”

There you go, DeMarco thought. That was his job description: rock flipper and bug crusher. Not very flattering but accurate enough.

Chapter 2

Retired congressman Richard Finley lived in Colonial Beach, Virginia, not far from the Chesapeake Bay mansion where DeMarco had met Mahoney.

Finley answered the doorbell wearing a sun-faded red golf shirt, khaki pants, and scuffed Top-Siders. He was short, in his eighties, bald and tanned, and had the kind of neat round head and small-featured face that looked good without hair on top. He smiled at DeMarco when DeMarco introduced himself but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. Finley’s eyes looked hollow and haunted, as if he’d been punched in the gut by fate one too many times.

He led DeMarco onto a deck that looked out over the beach, said how much he appreciated DeMarco coming, and asked if he wanted a beer. As Finley was popping the tops on two Coronas, DeMarco commented on the view.

Finley glanced over his shoulder at the water as if he’d forgotten it was there. “Yeah,” he said, “I bought this place for my wife and kids to come in the summer. And for my grandkids if I ever had any, which I never did. Now my family’s all dead so I guess I’ll just donate the place to some charity when I’m gone.”

DeMarco almost screamed: No! Give it to me! But instead he nodded his head solemnly.

“My wife, breast cancer killed her, and my other boy, he died in Vietnam—God curse John Kennedy for that. And now my youngest son is dead. We had Terry when I was forty-one. I never thought for a minute that I’d outlive him.”

“I’m sorry,” DeMarco said.

“But with my wife and my oldest boy, at least I knew why they died. With Terry, I don’t know what happened. And that’s why I called John, to see if he knew somebody who could…I don’t know, poke into things.”

Dick Finley explained that his son, Terry, had been a reporter for the Washington Post and two days ago his body had been found in Lake Anna where Terry had a home.

“They said he’d been out in his kayak and had fallen overboard and drowned. But the story doesn’t make sense.”

“You don’t think he drowned?” DeMarco said.

“He drowned,” Dick Finley said. “The autopsy was definitive on that. And the water they found in his lungs came from the lake.”

“Then I don’t understand,” DeMarco said.

“It’s a long commute from D.C. to Lake Anna, and Terry was a workaholic. The day he died, I know he left the Post about eight, so he wouldn’t have gotten to the lake until at least nine-thirty. So why would a guy go kayaking at nine-thirty, ten o’clock at night? I asked the police that, and they said there was a full moon that night, but I still don’t buy it. And the other thing is, Terry got that kayak five, six years ago. He was always getting interested in some new thing—biking, kayaking, rock climbing—and then after a couple of months he’d lose interest. The only thing he cared about was work. What I’m saying is, I don’t think Terry’d been in that boat in two or three years, maybe longer.”

“But his body was found in the lake, near the kayak,” DeMarco said.

“Yeah, but there’s other stuff. Like Terry’s laptop is missing. That laptop was always with him. If he wasn’t carrying the thing, it was close by—in his car, on his desk, wherever he was. I asked the sheriff where his computer was, and at first he said he didn’t know. Two days later he calls back and says that Terry had filed a report with the D.C. cops before his death saying it had been stolen.”

“And you don’t think it was?”

“No. I talked to Terry the day he died, that morning. If his laptop had been stolen, he would have told me. He’d have been going nuts to find it. And the sheriff said that Terry reported the theft over the phone, not in person. So who knows who really filed the report?”

“I see,” DeMarco said.

“And that’s not all,” Finley said. “Terry was working on something, something he said was going to win him a Pulitzer. He wouldn’t tell me what, but he said when he filed his story the dome was gonna come off the Capitol. Now to tell you the truth, I didn’t think too much of that. Terry was always working on some story he said was gonna be big, but usually wasn’t. But then he goes and dies, and now I don’t know. You want another beer?”

While Finley was getting his beer, DeMarco looked down at the beach and noticed a pudgy, middle-aged man walking a small dog. He watched as the guy tossed a stick of driftwood into the water. The stick looked heavy and was as long as the dog, but the dog—poor, dumb creature that it was—charged into the water after it. A wave crashed into the animal and it disappeared for a moment, then it reappeared with the stick in its mouth. The dog fought its way back to the beach and brought the stick to the man, who immediately tossed it again, farther out this time. DeMarco felt like going down to the beach and throwing the stick into the water and making the pudgy guy go fetch it.

After Finley handed him his beer, DeMarco said, “Do you think there might be something in your son’s house that would give me an idea of what he was working on?”

“Maybe you can find something, but I looked a couple days ago,” Finley said. “I went all through his desk, even looked in his safe to see if he’d put something there, but all that was in the safe was some cash and some old coins he’d collected.” Finley smiled then, but it was a sad smile. “The coins were like the kayak,” he said. “Terry bought ‘em ten years ago and probably hadn’t looked at ‘em since then. But if you want to look in his house, I’ll give you the keys.”

“That’d be good,” DeMarco said. “I’ll take a look later if I think I need to.”

“I did find one thing that I can’t explain,” Finley said, and he reached into his shirt pocket and carefully removed a wrinkled piece of paper and handed it to DeMarco. The paper was water-damaged and torn. It was a cocktail napkin from a place called Sam and Harry’s, a bar in D.C. that DeMarco went to quite often.

“That was in Terry’s wallet,” Finley said. “His wallet was in his pants when he died and it got wet, of course. All the cash and credit card slips were all stuck together and I tore that when I tried to separate it from the other stuff. That’s all of it I could salvage.”

DeMarco studied what was written on the napkin for a moment but could make no sense of it. “You think what’s written here might be related to whatever he was working on?” he said.

“I don’t know,” Finley said. “It looks like he was just doodling on that napkin—Terry was a real doodler—but I don’t think he would have put it in his wallet if it wasn’t important. Look, the only thing I know for sure is that he didn’t fall out of a damn kayak at ten o’clock at night.”

Chapter 3

“Old man Finley’s a good guy,” the sheriff said. “I liked him when he was in Congress and I still like him. But he’s wrong about Terry. There wasn’t anything suspicious about his death.”

The Louisa County sheriff was in his forties, well-muscled and tanned, and on the credenza behind his desk was a picture of him and a boys’ baseball team. Two of the kids in the picture were clutching a good-sized trophy. DeMarco hoped the sheriff was as good a cop as he was a coach.

“We didn’t find any signs of a struggle,” the sheriff said. “His house wasn’t ransacked and he definitely drowned in the lake. The lake’s got some kind of algae in it which is pretty distinctive, and the medical examiner found it in his lungs.”

“You don’t think it’s strange that he was kayaking in the dark?” DeMarco said.

“It wasn’t that dark. There was a full moon that night and the lights from other houses on the lake would have provided more light. But there’s something else, something we didn’t tell Mr. Finley.”

“What’s that?”

“Terry’s blood alcohol level was .18 at the time of his death. We think he had a few drinks after work, came home with a pretty good buzz on, and decided to go for a little moonlight paddle. Drunks have bad judgment. And their coordination and sense of balance aren’t too good either. Have you ever been in a kayak, Mr. DeMarco?”

“No. Been in a canoe, but not a kayak.”

“Well, sometime you oughta try to get in one. What I’m saying is, the toughest part of kayaking is getting in and out of the damn boat without tipping it over, and if you don’t believe me, try it. Then try it again after four drinks.”

DeMarco called the Washington Post and spent five frustrating minutes navigating his way through a particularly annoying voice mail system before he was finally connected to Reggie Harmon’s phone.

“Reggie, my man,” DeMarco said, “I’m in the mood to buy you a big salad for lunch.”

“A salad?” Reggie said, as if he couldn’t imagine consuming something so horrible.

“That’s right, Reginald. A two-olive salad with martini dressing. Onions if you prefer.”

“Ah, that kinda salad. Well, veggies are one of your four basic food groups, aren’t they?”

“Yes, they are, my friend. Plus vodka’s usually made from potatoes. Carbohydrates, you know. And if you have a twist in your second martini, you’ll ward off scurvy.”

“Where and when, son? A man my age can’t afford to ignore his health.”

“The Monocle. As soon as you can get there.”

DeMarco hung up the phone. He should have been ashamed of himself, appealing to the late-morning cravings of an alcoholic to get information—but he wasn’t.

DeMarco had called Reggie from his office, a small windowless room in the subbasement of the Capitol that seemed to have been designed to induce claustrophobia. He spent as little time there as possible, and the décor—or the lack of it—reflected this. The only furniture in the room was his desk, two wooden chairs, and a battered, four-drawer file cabinet. The file cabinet was a totally unnecessary item because DeMarco didn’t believe in keeping written records; they could subpoena him, but not his files. At one point he’d had a couple of pictures on one wall that had been given to him by his ex-wife, but since they had reminded him of her unfaithful nature every time he looked at them, he’d finally taken them down. The pathetic part was that the bare space on the wall where the pictures had been still reminded him of her.

The Monocle Bar and Grill was located near Union Station, less than a fifteen-minute walk from the Capitol. DeMarco locked his office door and walked up the steps to the main floor of the building, to the rotunda, the space directly beneath the dome. He saw a page he knew leading a tour group: a smart-assed, jug-eared little bastard named Mullen. Pages had the professional longevity of butterflies, here one summer and gone the next, so DeMarco rarely knew their names—but he knew Mullen’s. He had walked out of his office one day and saw Mullen smooching a girl page out in the hall, next to his door. Instead of acting embarrassed as he should have, Mullen had the balls to offer DeMarco fifty bucks for the use of his office. The kid would probably be president one day.

To reach the Monocle, DeMarco walked down First Street, past the Supreme Court. He looked up, as he always did, at the words EQUAL JUSTICE UNDER LAW carved into the stone above the building’s sixteen massive marble columns. The high court was one of the few institutions in Washington that DeMarco still had any faith in, and he had this faith for a simple reason: the nine people who worked there had nothing more to gain. They were at the pinnacle of their profession, they had the job for life, and they didn’t have to please anybody to keep the job. Those, he believed, were circumstances that tended to produce honest if not always wise decisions. But he was probably wrong about that too.

As DeMarco stepped inside the Monocle, the maître d’ glanced over at him to see if his attire was appropriate, nodded curtly, then returned to his reservation list. The Monocle was a bit pretentious but then this was understandable: its clientele tended to be the legislative branch of government as opposed to the electorate, and the walls of the bar were covered with photographs of drinking politicians. It seemed like Mahoney was in half the pictures.

DeMarco saw Reggie Harmon sitting at the end of the bar, the only customer at eleven in the morning, his first martini half-gone. Reggie was sixty and he looked like a vampire that had been caught in a sunbeam. He had a pale sunken-cheeked face and dyed black hair plastered to a long, narrow skull. His shirt was two sizes too large around the collar and his thin fingers poked beyond the cuffs like claws.

As DeMarco sat down on the stool next to him, Reggie slowly swiveled his head in DeMarco’s direction. His eyes were so red that DeMarco wondered if any of the reporter’s blood reached his brain. Exposing too many nicotine-stained teeth in the grimace he called a smile, Reggie said, “What do you call a hundred lawyers buried in a landfill?”

“A good start. Reggie, that’s the third time you’ve told me that stupid joke. You need to get some new material.”

“Well, you could still laugh, just to be polite,” Reggie said.

DeMarco just shook his head then pointed at Reggie’s drink and held up two fingers for the bartender’s benefit.

“What do you know about Terry Finley?” DeMarco asked.

Reggie drained his first martini. “The kid that drowned?” he said.

“Yeah, the kid that drowned.” Finley had been forty-two when he died.

Reggie shrugged, then reached for the full glass the bartender had just placed at his elbow. He swallowed a third of the drink before saying, “What do I know about him? Well, he worked the political beat, of course.”

“Why ‘of course’?”

“The only reason he got the job was because his dad was a congressman. The schemers in charge figured a kid whose dad worked on the Hill would give the paper an edge.”

“Did it?”

“No. Terry was an annoying, ambitious little shit, one of those guys who always thought he was gonna be the next Bobby Woodward, but he never tried to use his old man to get there.”

“Was he any good?”

Reggie swallowed the remainder of his second martini; as an afterthought he reached for the olives from his first martini. At the rate Reggie drank, DeMarco was thinking that they should just hook up an IV bag to his arm.

“Only in his dreams,” Reggie said. “A couple years ago he got everyone all excited when he said he’d discovered that this colonel over at the Pentagon was an al-Qaeda mole. The basis for his conclusion was that the guy—the Pentagon guy—was always meeting this dishy, Arabic-looking gal in these seedy hotel bars. Turned out the guy was just boffing the lady, who happened to be Egyptian, but was no more into Islam than the Pope. That was Terry: seeing a spy ring instead of two people fuckin’.”

“Huh,” DeMarco said. “Was he working on anything important before he died?”

“Maybe. I heard him and his editor going at it one day. Frank was trying to get Terry’s ass up to the Hill to write about some political squabble, and Terry kept telling him that he didn’t have time. He said he was working on the biggest thing since Clinton got a blow job.”

“But you don’t know what the story was about?”

“No. All I heard was Terry say that if Frank knew who his source was, he wouldn’t be giving him chickenshit assignments.”

“Shit. So now I have talk to this Frank guy to find out what Terry was working on.”

“Well, unless you got a hotline to hell, you can forget that.”

“What?”

“Frank’s dead.”

“Dead? When did he die?”

“A week ago, about two days after Terry.”

“Jesus,” DeMarco said. “Was there anything mysterious about the way he died?”

Reggie took his time finishing his last drink as DeMarco waited impatiently for his answer. Finally, he said, “Frank was sixty-three years old. He was five-seven, weighed two-fifty, and smoked unfiltered Camels. He thought high cholesterol was the name of a racehorse. The only mystery is that Frank didn’t have a coronary when he was forty-three.”

Chapter 4

“Are you feeling lucky, punk?” DeMarco muttered, his lips twisted into an Eastwood snarl—then he fired the gun, a .357 magnum.

“Stop doing that,” Emma said.

DeMarco ignored her and looked at the man-shaped paper target. There were five holes in it, and although no hole was closer than six inches to any other hole, all of his shots had hit the punk.

“Well, pilgrim, what do you think of that,” he said to Emma, switching from Eastwood to Wayne.

“I think you’re jerking the trigger instead of squeezing it,” Emma said.

“Let’s try the Glock now,” DeMarco said. “I’m gonna use the two-handed, cop’s grip this time.”

“I give up,” Emma said.

Emma was tall and slim. She wore her hair short, and it was colored a blondish shade with some gray mixed in. Her profile was regal, like a Norse queen on a coin, and her eyes were light blue, cool, and cynical. She was at least ten years older than DeMarco, maybe fifteen, but in such good shape that she would have run him into the ground had he ever been dumb enough to challenge her to a race. She was wearing jeans, a long-sleeved navy-blue pullover, and black Reeboks. Clipped to her belt was a holster and in the holster was an automatic with a worn grip.

DeMarco had decided it was time to learn something about firearms. He was a firm believer in gun control—meaning that the only people who should be allowed to have guns were cops and soldiers, and himself, of course, if he thought he ever needed one—but a few months ago he came close to being killed because he didn’t know where the safety was on a weapon. So though he had no immediate plans to buy a gun, and hoped sincerely that he would never need one in the future, he figured a little basic education couldn’t hurt. And there was another thing: he thought it’d be kinda fun to shoot a few guns, which it was.

So under Emma’s less than patient tutelage, he fired three weapons that day: a 9mm Glock; a .22 automatic that Emma said was the firearm often preferred by professional killers; and the .357 magnum. He had wanted to shoot the Glock and the .357 because those were the guns they always mentioned in the movies.

DeMarco put a fresh target on the target-hanger, sent it down-range twenty yards, and picked up the Glock. He liked the way it felt. He spread his legs in what he considered to be a shooter’s stance, gripped the gun in both hands, said “Freeze, asshole”—and pulled the trigger six times. When he finished there were six holes in the target, three of them bunched fairly close together in the paper guy’s left shoulder. Other than the fact that he’d been aiming for the heart, not bad, he thought. Emma thought differently.

“Joe,” she said, “if you’re ever attacked, and if you have a choice between a bat and a gun, use the bat.”

“Well, let’s see you do better,” DeMarco said.

Now why in the hell had he said that? It must have been all the gun smoke in the air, the fumes short-circuiting those brain cells that caused him to actually think before speaking.

Emma was now retired but she had worked for the DIA—the Defense Intelligence Agency. She was, however, a person who rarely, and then only reluctantly, talked about her past, and consequently DeMarco had no idea what she had done for the military for almost thirty years. He did know that by the end of her career she’d been a senior player in the intelligence community in Washington, and that early in her career she’d been some sort of spy. And there was one other thing he knew—he knew that she could shoot a gun.

She hit a button that pushed DeMarco’s target ten yards farther away, pulled the automatic from the holster on her hip, and then, without appearing to take aim, she fired. BAMBAMBAMBAMBAM. Five shots fired so rapidly it was hard to distinguish one from the other. When the smoke cleared, DeMarco looked at the target.

The paper man had a two-inch-diameter hole where his nose had once been.

Emma’s reward for instructing DeMarco was dinner at a place of her choosing, and she surprised him by selecting a mid-priced restaurant in Alexandria that specialized in soft-shelled crab. She may have chosen the place because of the way they were dressed but DeMarco suspected that she was being kind to his wallet. Emma was rich; DeMarco wasn’t. As they waited for their dinners, Emma sipped a glass of white wine and looked at the ragged, water-damaged napkin that Dick Finley had taken from his son’s wallet.

“So what do you think?” DeMarco asked.

“I would guess that these are people’s names followed by a year, but who the people are and what the dates signify…well, your guess is as good as mine. As for the numbers, they look like a D.C. phone number minus the last three digits.”

“Yeah, I figured that. How ‘bout the ‘egg’?”

Emma shrugged. “Maybe part of a shopping list, but I doubt it. He would have written ‘eggs,’ not ‘egg.’ And it looks like there’s some word that comes after ‘egg,’ but I can’t even make out the first letter.”

“That’s the best you can do? I thought in your old job you decoded encrypted messages.”

“Not me,” Emma said. “The people who do that sort of thing have PhDs and use really big computers. I did other stuff.” This last statement was followed by an enigmatic smile. Emma had a really good enigmatic smile.

“Great,” DeMarco said. “So that’s it? You don’t have any bright ideas about what I should do next?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” she said.

“Emma,” DeMarco whined, “why can’t he just fax me the damn information? We’re dealing with names on a cocktail napkin, for Christ’s sake, not plans for a missile defense system.”

“Fax you! You must be joking,” Emma said. “Neil’s so paranoid he never puts anything sensitive into a computer connected to the net, he doesn’t even own a cell phone, and he never, ever sends information out on lines that can be tapped.”

It was for this reason that Emma and DeMarco, the day after their session at the shooting range, were now sitting in a room on the Washington side of the Potomac River within sight of the Pentagon. Neil was an associate of Emma’s from her days at the DIA and he called himself an “information broker”—which really meant that he hacked and bugged and spied, then sold whatever he acquired to the highest bidder. DeMarco had always found it disconcerting that a man with Neil’s skills should have an office so close to the Pentagon.

Neil sat behind a cluttered desk in a chair engineered for his girth. He was in his early fifties and growing bald on top, but he gathered his remaining gray-blond hair into a thin ponytail that hung down from the back of his head like the tail on a well-fed rodent. As usual, he was dressed in a loose-fitting Hawaiian shirt, baggy shorts, and sandals. DeMarco had no idea what Neil wore when the temperature dropped, but as he rarely left his office, the issue was academic.

“Emma, you look lovely as always,” Neil said.

“Thank you,” Emma said. “And you look as if you’ve lost some weight.”

DeMarco looked over at Emma to see if she was serious. Neil was the size of the Chrysler Building; if he lost a hundred pounds it wouldn’t be apparent.

Neil, however, was pleased by the compliment. He beamed a smile at Emma and said, “Thank you for noticing.”

DeMarco cleared his throat.

“Yes, Joe,” Emma said, “we’ll get to it in a minute. You know, it wouldn’t hurt you to develop a few social skills, such as the ability to make small talk for more than sixty seconds.”

“It’s all right, Emma,” Neil said. “I need to get going. Cindy and I are going dancing tonight.”

Cindy was Neil’s wife—and the fact that Neil had a wife and DeMarco did not was proof of God’s dark sense of humor. But Neil dancing? The image that came to mind was the hippo in Fantasia, not Travolta in Pulp Fiction.

“Well, good for you,” Emma said. “Maybe if Joe took his girlfriends dancing he might be able to keep one.”

Neil smirked at Emma’s comment then pulled an unlabeled manila file folder out of a stack of identical folders sitting on one corner of his desk. DeMarco didn’t know how he knew which folder to select, but knowing how Neil liked to show off, he wouldn’t have been surprised if the files were marked like a crooked deck of cards.

“To begin,” Neil said. “We have five names, five apparent dates, and a partial phone number. The phone number I’m still working on. I’ve checked Finley’s home and cell phone records but he didn’t call anyone with a number matching the seven numbers on the napkin. He may have called the number from a public phone, in which case I can’t tell who he called. So, since there are three missing digits from the phone number, and therefore a thousand possible phone number combinations, what I’m doing now is cross-checking those combinations against existing phone numbers to see if I can find anyone connected with what else I’ve learned. Which brings me to the names on the list. The obvious thing to do was to see if there was any common factor linking them. And there was.” He paused, then said: “The common factor is Paul Morelli.”

“Paul Morelli?” DeMarco said. “Do you mean Senator Paul Morelli?”

Senator Paul Morelli was, according to every political pundit on the planet, the man most likely to be the Democratic candidate for president in the next election.

“I do,” Neil said. “In 1992, Marshall Bachaud was the district attorney of the fair isle of Manhattan. In January of that year, he was in a car accident which kept him hospitalized for twenty-six weeks and required three surgeries to rebuild various parts of his anatomy. Over the protests of many, the governor of New York appointed a young assistant DA named Paul Morelli as the acting district attorney until such time as Bachaud could resume his duties. As acting DA, young Morelli became a visible public figure.

“In 1996,” Neil continued, “Morelli became the Democratic candidate for mayor of New York City. His opponent was a popular fellow with a good record named Walter Frey. Frey was the New York State attorney general at the time, and four months prior to the election he was accused of throwing a major case involving a company in Albany. Emails between Frey and the company were discovered, the emails indicating that Frey had been providing helpful information to the defendant’s attorneys. Then, and although unrelated to the case, it was also discovered that Frey was having an affair with a young lady who worked for him. Frey eventually admitted to the affair but he claimed, and looked quite stupid doing so, that the young lady had been hired by someone to seduce him. And if you look at photos of Walter Frey, it is hard to imagine why the woman would have succumbed to his charms. Ironically, the affair damaged him more politically than the case-fixing accusations because Frey had always been such a big family values guy.”

“Was he ever convicted of a crime?” DeMarco asked.

“No,” Neil said. “The evidence was circumstantial at best, but it didn’t matter because his reputation was destroyed by the press. And Paul Morelli became mayor.”

Neil licked a fat finger and flipped to a new page in the file. “Now to Mr. Reams. In 2001, while still mayor, Paul Morelli decided to run for the Senate. Polls showed that he was the people’s choice but the Democratic old guard in New York wanted David Reams. Reams was well-connected, came from money, and had served in the House. The thinking was that Morelli was young and his time would come, and that Reams had more experience and connections in D.C.”

“Oh, I remember this,” Emma said.

“Yes,” Neil said. “One fine day, the police burst into a motel room on Staten Island and find Reams in bed with a sixteen-year-old boy. Reams claimed that he had no idea who the boy was or how he had ended up in the motel room. He said he must have been drugged and demanded that his blood be tested, which it was, and the results came back negative for narcotics. Reams was convicted because of the boy’s age and served ten months. And Paul Morelli was elected to the Senate.”

“What about Tyler and Davenport,” DeMarco said. “What happened to those guys?”

“Those guys are women,” Neil said.

Chapter 5

According to Neil, J. Tyler was Janet Tyler. Tyler had worked briefly for Paul Morelli when he was mayor of New York, which Neil discovered by searching W-2 forms provided by the city to its employees in 1999. M. Davenport was Marcia Davenport, an interior decorator who had apparently helped the Morellis decorate their Georgetown home when Morelli moved to Washington to begin his first term in the Senate. Neil’s file on Davenport contained a copy of a check signed by Paul Morelli’s wife and a billing statement pilfered from Davenport’s home computer showing that she’d charged the Morellis $365 for her services.

But that was it. There were no news articles or police reports or any other public documentation on either woman to explain why they were on Terry Finley’s list.

Since Davenport lived in Washington, D.C., and Tyler lived in New York, DeMarco decided to begin with Davenport. She was thirty-six years old, had been married briefly, but was now divorced. She had no children and lived in a condo on Connecticut Avenue not too far from the National Zoo. Riggs National Bank held the mortgage on her condo, her credit rating was excellent, and according to her tax return, she made seventy-two thousand dollars last year.

The concept of privacy evaporated when people like Neil booted up their computers.

The woman who came to the door was quite attractive in DeMarco’s opinion. Blond hair; large, warm brown eyes; and a slight overbite that DeMarco thought was sexy as hell. She was small, no more than five foot four, but had a lush figure: relatively large breasts, a small waist, and a nicely rounded backside. She was wearing a white blouse and jeans, and she was barefoot—one of the advantages of working out of one’s own home. A pair of reading glasses was stuck on top of her head and she was holding a piece of cloth in one hand, some sort of fabric sample, DeMarco guessed.

“Ms. Davenport, my name’s Joe DeMarco. I work for Congress and I was wondering if I could speak to you.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’m really busy right now. So if you’re conducting a poll or something…”

“I’m not a pollster. I need to talk to you about Senator Morelli.”

At the mention of Morelli’s name, Davenport inhaled sharply, her lips closed in a tight line, and the sexy overbite disappeared. DeMarco couldn’t immediately categorize the look on the woman’s face. Fear? Anxiety? Maybe anger. Whatever emotions she was feeling, fond memories of Paul Morelli were not included.

“What’s this about?” Davenport said. She was crushing the fabric sample, but might not have realized it.

“May I come inside?” DeMarco asked.

“No. And I want to know why you’re here.”

That was a hard question for DeMarco to answer. He didn’t want to tell her that he was there because her name had been found on a napkin in a dead man’s wallet.

“I just want to know about your experience working for Senator Morelli,” DeMarco said.

“Why?”

“I can’t tell you that. It’s a government matter relating to an investigation in progress.”

For a minute, DeMarco thought that Davenport was going to refuse to say anything but then she said, “I never worked for the senator. I worked for his wife, and I only consulted with her twice.” She hesitated a second, then added, “Things just didn’t work out.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means she didn’t like my design ideas. Now I have to go,” Davenport said and closed the door.

DeMarco arrived at the Starbucks on Pennsylvania Avenue at exactly 2 p.m. and was relieved when the Speaker’s limo arrived only five minutes later. It wasn’t unusual for Mahoney to keep him waiting forty minutes—or to forget their meetings altogether.

He had called Mahoney right after meeting with Marcia Davenport and convinced his boss to meet with him before he left town. Mahoney was on his way to San Francisco to give a lecture at some convention, meaning that he’d adlib a twenty-minute speech, pocket ten thousand dollars, then spend the rest of his time in California touring Napa Valley wineries. And it didn’t appear that he would be touring alone. When the Speaker’s driver opened the rear door of the limo, DeMarco caught a brief glimpse of a shapely leg encased in black hose.

DeMarco had decided it was time to get Mahoney’s advice. The connection between Terry Finley and Paul Morelli made him nervous. Morelli was not only a man in the political stratosphere, he was also a member of Mahoney’s party. DeMarco, therefore, thought it prudent to let Mahoney know what he had learned before proceeding any further.

Mahoney ambled from the limo to the outside table where DeMarco waited. DeMarco was sitting outside because he knew that Mahoney would want to smoke, and would whine if he couldn’t. He sat down heavily and reached across the table to take one of the two paper cups of coffee that DeMarco had purchased. He took a sip of the coffee, winced at the taste, and then dipped into his pocket for his flask, the small silver one embossed with the Marine Corps seal. The seal on the flask matched a tattoo on his right forearm, and when he spoke to veterans’ groups his sleeves were always rolled up. He smacked his lips in satisfaction at his laced coffee and looked a question at DeMarco.

“Dick Finley thinks his son may have been killed,” DeMarco said. If you didn’t start out with a headline, you lost Mahoney’s attention rapidly. DeMarco then told Mahoney about the napkin that had been found in Terry Finley’s wallet and all the other suspicions Dick Finley had about his son’s death.

When he told Mahoney what Neil had learned about the three men on Finley’s list, Mahoney looked at his watch, then over at the limo, and then he said something that surprised DeMarco. “Shit, everybody knows about that stuff. Before Morelli was elected to the Senate, there was an article in the Times, or maybe it was in one of them tight-assed New York magazines. Anyway, the article said how Morelli was so fuckin’ lucky that he oughta be buyin’ lotto tickets instead of workin’.”

“Maybe it wasn’t luck,” DeMarco said.

Mahoney snorted; not an attractive sound. “A guy gets in a wreck; another guy gets caught dippin’ his wick into a secretary; and a third guy is nabbed for porkin’ teenage boys. There’s an old saying, son: Never attribute to malice something that can be explained by stupidity.”

“Good point,” DeMarco said, but he was also rather annoyed that Neil hadn’t told him that everything he’d learned had been written up in a magazine.

“So you think I should drop this?” DeMarco said. “I can take it further, talk to some of these men, go up to New York and see this lady, but…”

“No, I’ll tell you what I want you to do. I want you to go see Paul Morelli.”

“You’re kidding,” DeMarco said.

“No. I may owe Dick Finley—he was a big help to me when I first came to this town—but I owe it to the country to let Paul know what’s going on.” Mahoney finished his coffee and said, “Morelli’s the best thing to happen to the party since FDR—or me—and he’s gonna be the next president of the United States. He’s a good guy—maybe a great guy—so he needs to know that some reporter was trying to dig up dirt on him. And if Terry Finley really was killed, which I doubt, he needs to know that too. So I want you to go talk to him and tell him what you’ve learned. I’ll call him and get you in. Now I got a plane to catch.”

Chapter 6

DeMarco’s illusions had been mangled so often by politicians that he thought he should qualify for handicapped parking—but he had to admit that he was pretty impressed with Paul Morelli.

Morelli hailed from a blue-collar family, the youngest of five children. He attended college on a poor-boy scholarship and according to legend, obtained his law degree studying twelve hours a day and doing charitable work in the time remaining. He apparently never slept. Ambitious, brilliant, and charismatic, he took to politics as baby eagles take to the air and became one of the youngest occupants of Gracie Mansion. And as mayor of New York, he was a grand success: crime dipped; no ugly scandals marred his term; labor unions refrained from untimely, crippling strikes. Then off to the Senate he flew, and the Senate, all the commentators concurred, was but a pit stop on his race to the Oval Office.

Certainly the way he looked wasn’t a hindrance. He was a youthful forty-seven, his hair was a curly black crown streaked with just the right amount of gray, and he had a profile that plastic surgeons could use for a template. He was also tall and perfectly proportioned, and if he tired of politics he could model swimwear. But even his critics had to admit that he was more than a pretty face. He was a dazzling strategist, the consummate negotiator, and one of the most eloquent speakers to ever choke a microphone. And the things he spoke of, the causes he championed, the battles he fought were always so…right. The last Democrat with such magnetism had been a man named Kennedy.

When DeMarco rang his doorbell that evening, Morelli answered the door himself. He was dressed casually: an NYU sweatshirt, softlooking beige slacks, and loafers. The sleeves of the sweatshirt were pulled up on his forearms, exposing strong wrists matted with coarse, dark hair. DeMarco felt stiff and overdressed in his suit and tie.

Morelli led DeMarco to a comfortable den, commenting on the warm autumn weather as they walked. Already in the den was a man that Morelli introduced as his chief of staff, Abe Burrows. Burrows sat in one of the two chairs in front of Morelli’s desk and had a stack of paper in his lap that was six inches high. He nodded at DeMarco but didn’t rise to shake his hand.

Unlike Paul Morelli, Burrows wasn’t physically impressive. He was short and overweight, his gut spilling softly over his belt. He had fleshy lips, a lumpy potato of a nose, and thin sandy hair that was styled in a curly Afro in a vain attempt to disguise the fact that he was going bald.

“Abe and I were just going over a few things,” Morelli said with a tired smile. “There just isn’t enough time during the day and I’m going out of town tomorrow.”

Morelli pointed DeMarco to the chair next to Burrows then took a seat in the high-backed chair behind his desk. Even dressed in a sweatshirt, Morelli looked like a man who belonged behind a big desk, giving orders, and DeMarco couldn’t help but feel inadequate. Here was a guy just a few years older than him, yet while Joe DeMarco was a GS-13 in a dead-end job, Paul Morelli was going to be running for president.

“Would you like a cup of coffee, Joe?” Morelli said, and when DeMarco said yes, Morelli glanced over at Burrows. Burrows frowned at being drafted as DeMarco’s waiter, but put the stack of papers aside and left to get the coffee.

“John Mahoney asked me to see you tonight, Joe, but he wasn’t too clear on why. Do you work for John?”

“No, sir, not directly,” DeMarco lied. “I’m just a lawyer who does odd jobs for Congress.” To deflect Morelli from asking more questions about who employed him and what he did, DeMarco said, “By the way, sir, my godfather’s done some work for you.”

“Your godfather?”

“Yes, sir. Harry Foster.”

“Well, I’ll be darned,” Morelli said. “Harry’s a good man; I’ve known him for years.” Then Morelli asked DeMarco a question that he thought was odd: “Are you and Harry close, Joe?”

“Uh, no, sir, not anymore. We were when I was a kid, but since I live here now and Harry lives in New York…”

“I understand,” Morelli said. At that moment Burrows returned with coffee for DeMarco and the senator. Morelli thanked Burrows, took a sip from his cup, then said, “So, Joe, what can I do for you?”

“Mr. Mahoney got a call from an old friend, an ex-congressman named Dick Finley who retired about ten years ago. Finley’s son just died and the police ruled the death as accidental, but Finley thinks his son may have been killed because of something he was working on.”

“What did his son do?” Morelli asked.

“He was a reporter. He worked for the Washington Post.”

“Oh, that guy,” Burrows said.

“You knew him, Abe?” Morelli said.

“Yeah, I knew him,” Burrows said, then made a face that led DeMarco to conclude that Burrows wasn’t a Terry Finley fan.

“What makes Mr. Finley think his son was killed?” Morelli said.

DeMarco told him.

“Hmm. Sounds rather speculative. But then, I imagine Mr. Finley is quite distraught by his son’s death. I assume he’s also a rather elderly gentleman.”

“Yes, sir,” DeMarco said, but he was thinking that Morelli was very good. Without having said anything negative, he’d just implied that Dick Finley was not only out of his mind with grief but possibly senile.

“At any rate,” Morelli said, “what does this have to do with me, Joe?” Before DeMarco could answer the question, the door to the den swung open and the senator’s wife entered the room.

DeMarco had seen newspaper photos of Lydia Morelli posing at the senator’s side at various Washington galas, but the photos hadn’t captured her frailty. She was petite, no more than five-two, and painfully thin. DeMarco had read that she was five or six years older than her husband, but in the same room with him, their age difference appeared closer to a decade. Nonetheless, she was still an attractive woman with large, blue-gray eyes and blond hair cut in a style that framed good cheekbones. Unlike the senator, she wasn’t dressed casually. She was wearing a beige-colored pantsuit, a pink blouse with a wide collar, and high-heeled shoes.

Lydia’s eyes widened momentarily in surprise when she saw DeMarco sitting in the den but she recovered quickly, smiled at him, and said to her husband, “I’m sorry, Paul. I didn’t know you had company.”

“Hi,” Morelli said to his wife. “Where’ve you been?”

Morelli had asked the question casually but DeMarco noticed a slight edge to his tone, as if he was annoyed that his wife had gone out or that she hadn’t told him where she was going.

“Oh, I had dinner with an old sorority sister,” Lydia said. She then raised her right fist into the air in a halfhearted manner, muttered “Go Alpha Pi,” and walked over to an armoire on the far side of the room. When she opened the armoire, DeMarco could see that it was actually a liquor cabinet filled with bottles of booze, glasses, and decanters. “I’ll be out of your way in just a shake,” Lydia said, her back to the men as she looked into the cabinet. “I just want to make myself a drink to take into the tub.”

DeMarco could see that the senator was somewhat embarrassed by his wife’s behavior. When she had said “sister,” she’d slurred the word slightly, and he noticed that as she walked toward the liquor cabinet she’d moved carefully, as if she was making an effort to maintain her balance. She’d obviously had several drinks with her sorority pal and was a bit tipsy.

Bottles in the cabinet clanked together loudly as Lydia searched for the one she wanted. A bottle of scotch clutched firmly by the neck, she turned and smiled at DeMarco again. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to this handsome gentleman, Paul?” she said.

“Oh, of course,” Morelli said. “Joe, this is my wife Lydia. Lydia, this is Joe DeMarco. Joe’s an investigator for the House.”

“Really,” Lydia said. “Like a private eye?”

Burrows laughed, probably thinking that Lydia was making a joke, and she immediately shot him a look that wiped the smile off his face. DeMarco had noticed that she’d ignored Burrows when she entered the room, and judging by her reaction to his comment, it was apparent she didn’t like the man.

Feeling the need to respond, DeMarco said, “No, ma’am. I’m just a lawyer. I’m…” Then he stopped. He didn’t think he should be discussing the reason for his visit with the senator’s wife, and Paul Morelli, immediately sensing DeMarco’s discomfort, said, “Joe’s just looking into a matter concerning a reporter, Lydia. Nothing significant.”

Lydia arched an eyebrow and said, “Well, it would have been much more interesting if he’d been a hardboiled private eye. He looks like one.”

“Lydia,” Morelli said, his impatience evident, “we need to…”

“Oh, all right. I’m out of here. I’ll let you boys get back to whatever you’re doing.” As she passed through the doorway, her right hip bumped the door frame slightly, and she muttered, “Oops.”

Morelli stared at the open door for a moment, then looked at DeMarco and said, “I assume you know what happened to our daughter, our Kate. It’s had horrible impact on us, particularly on Lydia. We’re both still recovering.”

Again, DeMarco couldn’t help but be impressed with Morelli’s diplomacy. Without saying anything derogatory, he’d just explained why his wife might have had a couple of drinks too many and had acted a bit silly in front of a complete stranger.

“Yes, sir,” DeMarco said, “and I’m sorry for your loss.”

DeMarco knew that Kate Morelli had actually been Paul Morelli’s stepdaughter—Lydia’s daughter from her first marriage—and that Paul had adopted her when she was less than two. She had been sixteen years old when she died in an automobile accident six months ago. DeMarco remembered a newspaper picture of the senator at his daughter’s funeral, supporting his wife, tears streaming down his handsome face. The photo had been a portrait of the perfect family with the center gouged out.

Morelli shook his head, as if scattering memories he didn’t want to recall, and said, “Where were we, Joe?” Then answering his own question, he said, “Oh, yes. You were about to tell me what Terry Finley’s death has to do with me.”

DeMarco started to tell him about the three men on Finley’s list—Bachaud, Frey, and Reams—and when he did, Abe Burrows erupted.

“Not this bullshit again,” Burrows said. “You know, DeMarco, this stuff with those three guys happened anywhere from five to fourteen years ago. Fourteen years! But people still keep talking about it. These men, they all did something dumb, but just because their mistakes helped Paul’s career there’s always some asshole implying that Paul caused their problems. And the Republican Party…Those bastards have spent thousands, maybe millions, investigating these three incidents, coincidences, whatever the hell they are—and they spent the money because they were hoping to find something to pin on the senator. Like maybe he paid that little faggot to climb into bed with Reams.”

“Abe,” Morelli said, apparently not happy with his aide’s choice of words.

“Well, it’s such horseshit!” Burrows said. “And I’ll tell you something else. I hate to speak ill of the dead, but Terry Finley…He was like one of those snappy little dogs you see. You know, those mutts about six inches high that are always straining against the leash, trying to get at you like they’re pit bulls. That was Finley. He was always searching for the next big scandal, the next Watergate, the next Lewinsky—and he never found it. He worked at the Post fifteen years, and like you just heard, people like the senator didn’t even know he existed.”

“I can’t confirm Abe’s impression of Terry Finley,” Morelli said to DeMarco, “but I have to agree with him about one thing: these allegations that I engineered the tragedies that befell those men is a subject that’s not only baseless but one that’s been completely discredited.”

DeMarco had the impression that this was the way the two men worked together: Burrows was the one who made the violent, emotional frontal attack while Morelli came across as being cool and reasonable. Or maybe he was cool and reasonable.

“There were two other names on the list, Senator,” DeMarco said. “Two women. A Marcia Davenport and a Janet Tyler.”

“Who?” Morelli said. “Do you recognize those names, Abe?”

“No,” Burrows said.

“Davenport is an interior decorator. You or your wife apparently consulted with her regarding this house when you first moved to Washington.”

“Is that right?” Morelli said. Then he snapped his fingers, “Wait a minute. A small, blond woman?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Right. I remember her now. She came to the house a couple of times, but as I recall, she and Lydia weren’t able to work together. But that’s all I remember. I don’t think I even spoke to the woman.”

That pretty much matched what Marcia Davenport had told DeMarco.

“And the other woman?” Morelli said. “What was her name again?”

“Janet Tyler. She worked on your staff when you were the mayor.”

“Well, shit,” Burrows said. “The entire New York city government was part of the senator’s staff back then.”

“So you don’t remember her either, Abe?” Morelli said.

“No,” Burrows said.

“Joe, I’ll tell you what,” Morelli said. “Why don’t you stop by my office tomorrow and Abe’ll see what we have in our files on the Tyler woman. I mean, I’m just as curious as you are as to why her name would be linked to mine.”

“Aw, come on, Paul,” Burrows said. “This guy Finley, he’s got a bug up his ass about his kid’s death, but it doesn’t have anything to do with us.”

“Richard Finley was a distinguished member of Congress, Abe,” Morelli said, “and his son died tragically. If we can do something to help make sense of what happened, I want to help.”

DeMarco had to admit: he was pretty impressed with Paul Morelli.

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