by Mike Lawson
“But how do you know he works for Sebastian Spear?” Emma asked.
Neil said he saw Orlov—minus the showgirl—the next day at one of the booths in the convention hall, bugging a vendor with questions the vendor wasn’t smart enough to answer. Neil sidled over near him to see his badge. Attendees were given badges after they paid their fee so they could wander the convention hall; the badge had the person’s name on it as well as a company name if he or she was representing a company. Orlov’s badge said his name was Nick Fox and he worked for Spear Industries.
“For Christ’s sake, Neil,” Emma said. “Why didn’t you report this to someone?”
“Report what to who?” Neil said.
“Don’t be obtuse. If you knew the man was a Russian who’d been engaged in cyber operations against the United States, you should have told the FBI.”
“Emma, I don’t talk to the FBI. You know that. Plus, for all I knew, he could have been a defector like Dmitri and the FBI already knew about him. Maybe that’s why he felt safe going to the convention.”
Emma felt like smacking Neil on the back of his ponytailed head, but decided to drop the subject—for now. She needed to focus on freeing DeMarco. “We’ll get back to Orlov later,” she said. “Right now, I want you to concentrate on the Capitol cops.”
“Okay. I’ll start on it first thing in the morning.”
“No. You’ll start tonight. I’ll come back here tomorrow morning, and by then I expect some answers.”
Neil put his head down on his desk and groaned.
19
DeMarco was starting to realize that the worst things about prison—provided that Lazlo continued to be his bodyguard—were going to be boredom, lack of privacy, the constant background noise, and, of course, the food. And DeMarco’s lawyer had told him he was going to be in the jail for at least a year before he went to trial.
“A year?” DeMarco had said.
“And if necessary I’ll delay the trial even longer,” his lawyer had said. Seeing the expression on DeMarco’s face, she added, “Emma and I need all the time we can get to prove you’re innocent. If we fail, the year you spend in this jail is going to seem like summer camp in the Poconos compared with the federal prison where you’ll spend the rest of your life.”
His lawyer was not an uplifting person.
After breakfast, he took a shower as Lazlo stood nearby—looking for threats and not at DeMarco’s nubile form—and the experience was no worse than showering in a high school locker room. Nobody was being sodomized; no one was jerking off; no one’s blood was running down the shower drain. Entertainment was provided by two guys who were going on and on about a woman named Chantelle, whom they’d both been married to and who they agreed was a stone-cold, avaricious, lying, cheating bitch with the body of a Playboy centerfold.
After the shower, Lazlo escorted DeMarco to the jail library. He needed something to occupy his mind other than wondering what Emma could be doing to save him. On the way to the library, Lazlo walked slightly behind him, his massive head swiveling, assessing potential risks. The men they encountered on the way stepped aside for Lazlo and didn’t make eye contact—with one exception. They met a black guy in a hallway who was just as big as Lazlo, and he and Lazlo eye-fucked each other for a moment, then they both nodded, and the black guy went on his way. The experience made DeMarco think of two bull elephants meeting on a jungle path and silently agreeing that they’d do battle some other day.
DeMarco returned to his cell with four novels. Lazlo told the guard—he didn’t ask him—to lock DeMarco’s cell, and DeMarco spent the afternoon taking a nap he didn’t need and reading a novel about an alcoholic English girl who spent her days looking out the window of a train.
He walked to the cafeteria for dinner, feeling lethargic after having done nothing but lie on his back most of the day. Tomorrow he’d start doing push-ups; that’s what guys in prison movies did. Lazlo, a man of few words—or no words—said nothing as they walked. They’d just joined the serving line when a fight involving a long-haired white guy who looked like a Hell’s Angels prototype and a tall, lanky Hispanic guy started at the other end of the cafeteria. Another couple of guys joined the fight, prisoners formed a cheering ring around the combatants, and guards surged toward the mayhem—and DeMarco heard Lazlo say, “Watch your ass.”
Four stocky, heavily tattooed Hispanic guys were running toward him and Lazlo as everyone else headed toward the fight. All four had knives in their hands—real knives, not homemade prison shanks—and the knives had serrated four- or five-inch blades. Three of the men went for Lazlo. He hit one with a massive fist, probably breaking every bone in the man’s face, but one of the other little guys jabbed him in the side. Lazlo backhanded the man who’d stabbed him, knocking him onto his back, but as he did so the third guy came at him from the other side and stabbed him in the stomach. And that was the last thing DeMarco saw regarding Lazlo because by then he was fighting for his own life.
While his three buddies were attempting to take out DeMarco’s oversize bodyguard, the fourth attacker came at DeMarco. So DeMarco took the tray he was holding and swatted the man hard in the face just as he was jabbing his knife at DeMarco’s heart. Fortunately, DeMarco’s arms were longer than his opponent’s, and the blade didn’t touch DeMarco’s chest. The man staggered backward, blood pouring from his broken nose, but he recovered quickly.
The man was incredibly fast, like a good featherweight boxer. He feinted to his left, and DeMarco swung the tray at the point where he’d expected the man’s face to be—and hit nothing but air as the guy came under his arm and thrust the knife. DeMarco had just enough time to twist sideways, and the blade, instead of piercing his stomach, penetrated his side, just above his waist.
And then it was over. A guard came up behind DeMarco’s attacker and hit him in the head with a baton. Two of Lazlo’s attackers were now on the ground, and both appeared to be unconscious, but the third man was circling Lazlo, still jabbing at him with his knife, when he was hit with Taser darts. He dropped the knife, danced for a moment like a spastic puppet as the current surged through him, and collapsed to the ground. Lazlo dropped to a sitting position on the floor, his back against the serving counter. DeMarco didn’t know how many times Lazlo had been stabbed, but the lower half of his shirt—front and back—was soaked with blood. DeMarco stood there breathing heavily, holding his hand over the bleeding wound in his side.
He figured the whole attack had taken less than a minute, and it was just dumb luck that guards coming into the cafeteria to help break up the fight at the other end of the room had seen Lazlo and him being swarmed by knife-wielding assassins.
20
Mahoney heard about the attack on DeMarco via CNN. Some weasel guard at the jail had leaked the story.
“The alleged killer of Congressman Lyle Canton, Joseph DeMarco, was stabbed yesterday at the Alexandria city jail by another inmate,” the newscaster said. “He’s expected to survive but—”
Mahoney shut off the television and yelled to his secretary, “Mavis, get me that asshole sheriff who runs the Alexandria jail on the phone right now.”
Mahoney was in a horrible mood because he was being hounded relentlessly by the media. It had been leaked to the press by unnamed sources—meaning the FBI—that Mahoney frequently met with DeMarco and might be DeMarco’s boss. Furthermore, Mahoney had been questioned by the FBI. The reporters didn’t mind spreading speculation and rumors, but they did do their best to find a few facts. They spoke to DeMarco’s neighbors in Georgetown and people who occupied offices on the same floor of the Capitol, trying to find out exactly what DeMarco did and what his connection to Mahoney might be—and learned nothing. Those they talked to all basically said that DeMarco was a nice guy but they had no idea what he did or whom he worked for.
So every time Mahoney stepped outside his office, some reporter would thrust a microphone into his face: “Would the Congressman care to comment on his relationship to J
oe DeMarco?” No, the Congressman wouldn’t care to comment, and you can shove that microphone up your narrow ass.
All Mahoney’s refusal to comment did was whip the media into a feeding frenzy, and every time he turned on CNN there was some self-proclaimed expert talking about Mahoney’s hostile relationship with Lyle Canton. Clip after clip was played showing Mahoney and Canton calling each other names. As for DeMarco, he was discussed mostly in the form of questions as opposed to declarative sentences: Who is Joe DeMarco? What exactly does he do at the Capitol? Why is it that he’s a lawyer but has never practiced law and isn’t employed by a specific politician or organization in the legislative branch? Why has he been seen so often meeting with John Mahoney when he’s not a member of Mahoney’s staff? How did a man whose father worked for the Italian mob get a job inside the Capitol?
As a result of all these unanswered questions—and in the absence of any facts—DeMarco morphed into a political bogeyman, the Phantom of the Capitol. Comparisons were made to people like G. Gordon Liddy and the Watergate burglars who went around doing shady deeds for dirty politicians. With all the imaginary dots connecting Mahoney to DeMarco, the newscasters wondered aloud if it was possible—even though there was no evidence showing this to be the case—that DeMarco could have been acting on John Mahoney’s behalf when he killed Canton. The word allegedly was used a lot.
When Bob Anderson—the man Mahoney had ordered to make sure that DeMarco stayed safe in prison—came on the line, Mahoney unleashed all the pent-up anger he was feeling toward the media onto the sheriff. He screamed, “What did I fuckin’ tell you was going to happen to you if anything happened to DeMarco?”
“Congressman, I—”
“What the hell happened?”
Sheriff Anderson explained that in addition to telling his guards to look out for DeMarco, he’d assigned one of the biggest, meanest, most lethal cons in the jail to be DeMarco’s personal bodyguard, figuring no one would go near DeMarco with this guy watching over him.
“So what happened?” Mahoney screamed again.
Anderson said that for reasons he didn’t understand, MS-13 had staged a coordinated, well-planned-out attack on DeMarco. “They started a fight in part of the cafeteria, and while the guards were trying to break up the fight, four guys attacked DeMarco and his bodyguard. And they had knives, combat knives like Navy SEALs use. I don’t know how they got those into the prison.” He quickly added, “But, by God, I’m gonna find out.”
“What DeMarco’s condition?” Mahoney asked.
“He’s okay. He got a slice on his left side, but no organs were hit, and he didn’t bleed all that much. The doc put a few staples in him, gave him some painkillers, and he’s back in his cell. And there’s a guard standing outside his cell. But Lazlo isn’t doing too well.”
“Who’s Lazlo?”
“The inmate I had protecting DeMarco. He’s in the hospital, knife wounds in one kidney and his liver. They think he’s going to make it, but—”
“I don’t give a shit about him,” Mahoney said. “Why did these MS-13 guys attack DeMarco?”
“I don’t know. He wasn’t in the jail long enough to piss them off, and as near as I can tell, he never had any contact with them.”
“Well, did you ask them why they did it?” Mahoney said.
“One of them is in a coma, and one’s larynx was crushed and he can’t speak. The other two guys won’t say a thing. MS-13 guys never talk.”
“So drag ‘em into a room and beat the truth out of them.”
“I’m going to pretend you never said that, Congressman.”
Mahoney took a breath. “What are you going to do to protect DeMarco from now on?”
“I’m going to keep him in his cell twenty-four hours a day, and I’ll have a guard standing outside his cell. I’ll have his meals brought to him so he won’t have to go to the cafeteria. Other than that—”
“I’m telling you, Sheriff, if anything else happens to him, I’m not only going to get you fired, I’m going to destroy your life. You got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mahoney slammed down the phone and then wondered: Why in the hell would a bunch of gangbangers try to kill DeMarco? Since he couldn’t think of a reason, he called Emma.
21
Emma woke up at six and went for a three-mile run. She liked to run along the Potomac, but this morning she ran through the neighborhood where she lived, which happened to be McLean, Virginia, the same wealthy Washington suburb where Jean (Mitchell) Canton, Lyle Canton, and Sebastian Spear had been raised and where Spear still lived.
She jogged past Spear’s residence, slowing her pace slightly. For the home of a billionaire, it wasn’t all that impressive. It wasn’t a castle. The house sat on a well-tended acre filled with trees, flowering plants, and a manicured lawn, and was surrounded by an eight-foot brick wall. A twelve-foot-wide black wrought-iron gate barred the driveway. She could see a security camera over the front door and imagined there were other cameras and security measures she couldn’t see, but she didn’t see armed guards or patrolling Dobermans.
Emma returned home, showered, and had oatmeal for breakfast. Her home wasn’t as grand as Spear’s, nor was it enclosed by a protective wall, but had she any desire to sell, it would go for about two million. The house was silent, which pleased her enormously, although she felt somewhat guilty that she felt this way.
Christine, her roommate/lover, played cello for the National Symphony Orchestra. She was also a member of a string quartet, and the quartet was currently on a ten-city tour—and frankly Emma was glad it was. She loved Christine but was happy to be spending a month alone and to have some time to herself. She also liked that music wasn’t coming through the twenty or so speakers around the house. When Christine was home, music was always playing. It would usually be soft, classical pieces, which Emma didn’t mind so much, but Christine’s taste was eclectic. Sometimes the house would be practically vibrating with old rock and roll, gospel songs, reggae, or even hip-hop—which made Emma want to jam chopsticks into her ears.
She dressed in a lightweight gray blazer, jeans, a dark gray polo shirt, and running shoes. She was just leaving to go see what Neil had learned when the phone rang. It was Mahoney. The last time Emma had spoken to him was when he’d called her right after DeMarco was arrested and asked her to help.
“DeMarco was stabbed last night at the jail,” Mahoney said.
Emma inhaled sharply. “Is he alive?”
“Yeah. It was just a flesh wound. He was stabbed through a love handle.”
“Who tried to kill him?”
“Four MS-13 bangers.”
“Do you know why?”
“No. The sheriff said DeMarco hadn’t been in there long enough to irritate MS-13. So maybe it was just a typical jailhouse thing. He looked at the wrong guy the wrong way, didn’t show proper respect, whatever. In prison it doesn’t take much to end up with a shank in your back.”
“Have you talked to DeMarco?” Emma asked.
“No,” Mahoney said. He didn’t bother to add that there was no way he was going to talk to DeMarco with all the media flak he was already catching because of him.
“I’ll go see him today,” Emma said. “But we need to do something to make sure he’s not killed in there.”
“I’ve already told the sheriff who runs the place that I’m gonna have his balls if anything happens to Joe. He’s got him in a cell by himself, being guarded twenty-four hours a day.”
“That may not be good enough,” Emma said. “What do you think would happen if DeMarco was killed right now?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“What I mean is that the investigation into who killed Lyle Canton would end with DeMarco’s death. Right now the FBI has stopped investigating Canton’s murder because they’re sure they have the killer, and the only thing they’re currently doing is getting ready to present all their evidence at DeMarco’s trial. But if DeMarco dies, there will b
e no trial. Which means there will be no opportunity to present a defense that someone else killed Canton. So what I’m saying is that it’s possible that the attack on him was arranged by the people who framed him, and they’ll probably try again.”
Neil looked like a man who’d spent the entire night staring at a computer monitor: bloodshot eyes, stubble on his chin, jittery from too many caffeine-spiked energy drinks. There was a pizza box on a table near his workstation, and the office reeked of pizza—and of Neil.
Emma took a seat across from him and said, “Well?”
“Of the thirteen hundred people employed by the U.S. Capitol Police, four hundred and twenty-three white guys bear a physical resemblance to DeMarco, which isn’t surprising. DeMarco’s a pretty average white guy, five eleven, a hundred and eighty pounds. But there’s one man who’s approximately his size and who has, I guess you’d say, an indirect connection to Sebastian Spear.”
“What do you mean by indirect?”
“I mean there is no one employed by the Capitol cops related to Spear or who ever worked for his company or went to the same schools with him or anything like that. The connection is via his head of security, a guy named Bill Brayden.”
Neil picked up a crust of cold pizza and popped it into his mouth—making Emma wince—before continuing. “Brayden is a retired air force colonel. He spent most of his career as a security officer.”
Emma knew that air force security officers were responsible for protecting the planes, facilities, weapons, and personnel at air force bases all over the planet. They were also responsible for law enforcement on those bases. The officers were highly qualified and carefully selected, and when they were assigned to bases in places like Afghanistan and Iraq, the job was dangerous.
“The guy I found,” Neil said, “is named John Lynch. He was also in air force security, but he wasn’t a colonel like Brayden. He was a corporal and served as an MP.”
