by Mike Lawson
That stung.
“I guess,” DeMarco said.
Emma just shook her head. DeMarco could tell that she was just as upset and depressed as he was—and felt just as helpless.
“And this guy Eklund, what about him?” DeMarco said, and Emma proceeded to tell DeMarco about her most recent meeting with Charlie Eklund.
“It occurred to me while I was running this morning that Charlie is the least of our problems. Yes, he knows something that he can use to blackmail Morelli, and when Morelli becomes president, he’ll use it to become DCI. But after that, my guess is that he won’t be around for very long.”
“Because of his age?” DeMarco said.
“No. Because Paul Morelli has a friend who helps him kill people, people like Terry Finley. I think the first time Charlie threatens Morelli he’s liable to end up in a coffin.”
“Huh,” DeMarco said. “I hadn’t thought about that.”
Christine drove up at that moment, tapped the car’s horn in a friendly beep, and Emma rose from the step.
“Hey! Where are you going?” DeMarco said. “We gotta figure this out.”
“You gotta figure this out,” she said. “I’m going home to take a shower, and then Christine and I are going Christmas shopping.”
Christmas shopping? Who the hell went Christmas shopping in September? Christmas shopping was something you did on December twenty-fourth.
Emma stopped and examined George’s lawn mower one more time before driving away.
Chapter 47
“Emma’s mad at you,” Neil said.
“Yeah, I know,” DeMarco said. “Did you find anything on anybody in New Jersey?”
DeMarco, though he thought it was hopeless—and because he couldn’t think of anything else to do—was once again backtracking Terry Finley’s investigation to see if he could find anything that could be used to destroy Morelli. One of the things that Lydia had told him was that the last time she’d spoken to Terry, he had discovered something in New Jersey but he didn’t tell her what it was. DeMarco, having no better idea, had sicced Neil onto that thin lead to see if he could come up with something.
“Yeah, I did,” Neil said. “And it wasn’t easy.”
DeMarco didn’t say anything; he was in no mood to stroke Neil’s ego.
“You remember David Reams, the guy who claimed he was drugged when they found him in bed with that boy?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, the man who signed off on the test that said Mr. Reams was drug-free was a man named Robert Bolt. Mr. Bolt is actually Doctor Bolt, a medical examiner and forensic specialist used by the NYPD. Three years after Reams was imprisoned, Bolt purchased a summer home at Egg Harbor, New Jersey. He selected Egg Harbor because it’s a stone’s throw from Atlantic City and the good doctor is a gambler—a bad one, judging by his last credit report. Anyway, he purchased the home for an amazingly low price.”
“So you think Morelli—or whoever’s helping Morelli—paid Bolt off with a summer place in New Jersey.”
Neil shrugged. “I’m not sure, but it’s the only connection I could find between Terry Finley’s list and the lovely Garden State, and the only reason I found it was because I looked into Benjamin Dahl’s death.”
“What are you talking about?” DeMarco said.
Benjamin Dahl was the New Yorker who had refused to give up a piece of real estate that then-mayor Paul Morelli had needed for some civic project. Lydia had told DeMarco that Dahl had died by falling down a flight of stairs, but DeMarco didn’t understand what the connection was between Dahl and this Dr. Bolt.
“Well,” Neil said, “in Mr. Dahl’s autopsy report, an assistant to Dr. Bolt noted a couple of details regarding Mr. Dahl’s death that seemed inconsistent with a dive down the stairs. The good doctor, however, penned a note explaining why his assistant was incorrect and officially ruled Dahl’s death an accident.”
“What were the inconsistencies?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Neil said. “The point is that on two occasions it appears that Bolt, in his official capacity, may have aided Paul Morelli.”
“So why didn’t somebody spot this earlier?” DeMarco said. “I mean with all these investigations into Morelli’s past conducted by Republicans and journalists, why didn’t someone—other than you and Terry Finley—notice the connection to Bolt? And don’t tell me they didn’t because they weren’t as smart as you, Neil.”
“A,” Neil said, “it was three years after the Reams incident that Bolt purchased the home in New Jersey. That’s a long time between the event and the payoff, making the payoff less obvious and thus much harder for someone to spot. B, if the word ‘egg’ hadn’t been on that napkin of Finley’s and if Lydia hadn’t told you that Finley was interested in someone in New Jersey, I never would have seen the connection. And C, in the case of Benjamin Dahl, nobody but Lydia Morelli—who told both you and Terry Finley—knew that Paul Morelli was tied to Dahl’s death.”
DeMarco hated when Neil did one of his pedantic A, B, C recitations but he suspected Neil was right. Terry had found out about Benjamin Dahl from Lydia, and in his stubborn, plodding manner, had looked at everyone and every record connected with Dahl, and that’s when he noted that Dr. Bolt was the forensic guy that had also signed off on Reams’s drug tests. DeMarco wouldn’t have been surprised if Terry had approached Bolt and tried to question him, and that may have been what got him killed.
“Do you have an address for Bolt?” DeMarco asked.
“I have two,” Neil said, “but they won’t do you any good.”
“Oh, no. Don’t tell me,” DeMarco said.
“I’m afraid so. Three weeks ago Dr. Bolt had a phenomenal night at a blackjack table at the Resorts Casino in Atlantic City. The police report said it was so phenomenal that he bought everyone sitting at his table a bottle of cheap champagne. Anyway, he was mugged in the casino’s garage, hit with a sap hard enough to crush his skull. The wit who wrote the police report said that Bolt committed suicide by tongue, meaning that a man who would brag to everyone within earshot that he had ten thousand dollars in cash in his wallet obviously had a death wish.”
DeMarco knocked on Marcia Davenport’s door, waited a few minutes, and knocked again. She wasn’t home. He left the apartment building and stood despondently on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, pondering his next move. He realized quickly that he didn’t have one. Then he looked across the street.
There were a number of restaurants across the street from Davenport’s apartment building, restaurants with outdoor tables. In the summer, this section of Connecticut Avenue teemed with sidewalk drinkers. Although it was late September, it was a pleasant evening and there were a few customers outside, and DeMarco saw Davenport sitting at a table by herself. It was as if God had decided that he’d dealt DeMarco enough bad cards in recent days and felt it was time to give him a break.
“Hi, Marcia,” DeMarco said when he reached her table. “Do you remember me? Joe DeMarco, from Congress?”
She was wearing a white V-neck sweater, a blue skirt, and high heels. The sweater clung to her figure and the V in the sweater was deep enough that DeMarco could just see the swell of her breasts. She was a good-looking woman and it was easy to understand why Morelli had been attracted to her.
She looked up at DeMarco. “Yeah, I remember you. And I don’t have any more to tell you than the last time we talked.”
Her voice had a soft, dreamy quality to it, and she didn’t look as annoyed to see him as he’d expected, making him wonder how many drinks she’d had. Hopefully enough that she would talk to him.
“May I sit down?” DeMarco said, then took a seat before she could say no. “I was hoping—”
“You know,” she said, “I had a really good day today. I got a new client, a lady with money to burn and a four-thousand-square-foot home that she thinks needs a complete makeover. And on top of that, just ten minutes ago, I gave my phone number to a really cute guy, a guy that I know is going to
call me. I should have known my luck wouldn’t last.”
“Look,” DeMarco said, “I’m not trying to screw up your life, but with what’s at stake here, I have to insist on your help.”
“With what’s at stake?”
“The presidency, Marcia. Paul Morelli’s going to become the next president of this country if you don’t come forward and tell what he did to you.”
Now that was pretty shitty, dumping the fate of the entire nation on Marcia Davenport, but what else could he do?
“I told you,” she said, “he didn’t do anything to me.”
“I know what you told me and I don’t believe you. Please, you have to . . .”
“Imagine, just for a minute, that you’re a woman who’s just been sexually assaulted by one of the most powerful men in Washington. You know it will be your word against his, and that he’ll say it was consensual. But in the case of this particular woman, imagine that when she was in college she accused the son of the governor of her home state of date rape. The woman takes the governor’s son to court and the boy’s not only acquitted but his attorneys make the woman look like a trashy little gold-digger who was trying to extort money from the kid’s dad. How much credibility do you think this woman would have, Mr. DeMarco? And then imagine this woman five years after this supposed assault, this assault that never happened. She seems to have gotten her life back together. Her business is going well. She’s starting to trust men again. Do you think this woman would risk everything by accusing a man like Paul Morelli of a crime that she can’t possibly prove?”
Davenport stood up. “Paul Morelli did not rape me. If I’m ever subpoenaed and asked to testify, I’ll say he was the most wonderful man I’ve ever met. And I don’t ever want to see you again.”
Davenport was crying when she walked away and DeMarco couldn’t possibly have felt any worse.
As DeMarco watched Davenport cross the street to her apartment building, he realized how much she looked like Lydia Morelli. In fact, she looked like Janet Tyler as well. All three women were short and blond, though Lydia had been thinner than the other two.
A waitress stopped at the table and asked if he wanted a drink. When she returned with his martini, she also brought him a bowl of those Goldfish crackers that are more addictive than heroin. DeMarco knew he wouldn’t leave until all the little fish had disappeared.
He didn’t know what to do. The doctor in New Jersey was dead and neither Janet Tyler nor Marcia Davenport would testify against Paul Morelli. The witnesses to Lydia Morelli’s death were also dead and even if they hadn’t been, the police clearly had no interest in investigating Morelli for his wife’s murder. Charlie Eklund probably had information that could hurt Morelli, but he would never tell what he knew. So, no matter what the Speaker wanted, there was nothing else DeMarco could think to do. His ass was cooked.
As he raised his glass to his lips—a much too frequent exercise of late—DeMarco reflected on Paul Morelli’s drinking habits. DeMarco just couldn’t imagine the man that Lydia Morelli had described: a brilliant, calculating politician who has a few drinks then attacks women. But Davenport had all but confirmed that this was the case. And then there was the story that Harry Foster had told him: about the lady in New York, the mousy little thing who’d never had her “tit squeezed before by a drunken wop.”
Drunken wops, DeMarco thought, and he raised his glass again.
Chapter 48
DeMarco knew that Emma and Audrey Melanos had once lived together. Why they still weren’t together he didn’t know, but whatever had driven them apart hadn’t diminished the love between them. DeMarco, an expert on failed affairs of the heart, could tell.
Audrey was younger than Emma, about DeMarco’s age. She was pretty and petite, with a sun-kissed Mediterranean complexion and dark hair that reached the delicate nape of her neck. Her eyes were her best feature, a caramel brown that radiated a combination of compassion and intelligence. Or maybe intelligence wasn’t the right word. Wisdom seemed more appropriate—wisdom borne of observation and empathy. It had been DeMarco’s experience that Emma’s lovers were rarely ordinary, and Audrey Melanos was no exception.
“I would have thought, Joe,” Emma said, “that since Audrey was kind enough to fly down from New York to meet with you, you would have been on time for once in your life.”
DeMarco suspected that Audrey hadn’t flown down just to meet with him. He suspected she would have walked from New York to see Emma.
“I’m sorry,” DeMarco said to Audrey. “I got stuck in traffic.”
“You did not get stuck in traffic,” Emma snapped. “It’s nine o’clock at night and you live fifteen minutes from here. If you’re going to make up excuses you could at least be a little more imaginative.”
DeMarco was about to tell her that a wreck in Georgetown actually had delayed him, but before he could Audrey said, “It’s okay, Joe. We just got here ourselves, only a minute ago. We were late too.” DeMarco smiled over at Emma, delighted to have caught her in a fib. Naturally, Emma ignored him and pretended she was trying to catch a waiter’s eye.
They were at the Washington Hilton, one of DeMarco’s favorite places because of the piano player. He was a burly-looking guy with curly blond hair, and sitting behind his piano he looked as if he might have played football for some small college team. You didn’t notice his legs until he stood up and hobbled away from the keyboard on his crutches. But whatever had happened to his legs hadn’t affected his voice; his voice had a smoke-and-whiskey tinge that was perfect for melancholy love songs.
DeMarco had told Emma that he needed to talk to an expert on alcoholism and Emma had said that she had a friend who lived in New York who had a doctorate in psychology and specialized in addictive behaviors. If DeMarco had asked to speak to someone who specialized in lizard cancers, Emma would have had a friend who was an expert. In this case the expert just happened to be an ex-lover rather than someone who worked for an intelligence agency.
DeMarco, as Emma had noted, was not good at small talk—particularly when he was under pressure—but he made an effort. He thanked Audrey for flying down, asked if the flight had been okay, asked if—
“Oh for God’s sake,” Emma said, “just tell her what you need to know before you explode.”
“Yeah, I guess I should,” DeMarco said. “It’s getting late.”
“I’m in no rush, Joe, take your time,” Audrey said. “And you,” she said to Emma, “be nice.”
DeMarco wanted to say Hah, take that!
“There’s a man,” DeMarco said. “A politician. He’s very gifted, very intelligent. He does great, good things for our country. He is in fact an extraordinary politician.”
Emma started to interrupt with some comment, but Audrey looked over at her and managed to silence her with a look—and then she gave Emma’s hand a squeeze to let her know everything was all right. DeMarco liked this woman.
“What you need to understand,” DeMarco said, “is that the man I’m talking about is very rational, and he has enormous self-control. But on occasion, when he gets a few drinks inside him, and if he’s alone with a certain kind of woman, he turns into a different person. He sexually assaults women.”
“What do you mean by ‘a certain kind of woman’?” Audrey said.
“The women he’s attacked are physically similar. They’re all short and blond, and most of them are kind of shy, not very self-confident. Anyway,” DeMarco said, “a drink or two, and a switch flips inside this guy. Jekyll becomes Hyde—or Hyde become Jekyll—whichever one was the monster. Have you ever encountered such a personality?”
“Sure,” Audrey said. “All the time. There’s nothing unusual about a man who’s normally rational—a good husband, a good worker—having a few drinks and turning into a sexual predator.”
Before DeMarco could tell her she was missing the point, she continued, “Joe, alcohol is a mood-altering drug. It’s not LSD, but it affects everyone in some way. Like you. When you drin
k you get melancholy. Am I right?”
How did she know that?
“I realize alcohol causes personality changes,” DeMarco said, “but I’m talking about drastic personality changes produced by very small quantities of alcohol. Yeah, I get a bit blue when I drink, but it takes half a bottle and I don’t get suicidal. It’s a matter of degree.”
“Yes,” Audrey said, “and the degree to which alcohol affects different people depends on the individual. There are metabolic and genetic influences which come into play. Or he could be idiosyncratic or someone afflicted by pathological intoxication.”
“Pathological? What are you . . .”
Audrey laughed at DeMarco’s confusion, but it was a nice laugh, like the sound of silver bells tinkling. “What I mean is that he could have a reaction to alcohol that’s almost allergic in nature,” she said. “Like people allergic to penicillin or shellfish. For ninety-nine percent of the population, penicillin cures what ails them, but there’s that one percent that goes into shock. The man you’re talking about could have such a reaction. There are many documented cases, and usually people who have such reactions stop drinking after the first few experiences.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” DeMarco said.
Since Audrey wouldn’t let her talk, Emma just rolled her eyes. Her message was clear enough though: the things that DeMarco had not heard of far exceeded those that he had.
“They even made a movie based on pathological intoxication several years ago,” Audrey said. “It was called Final Analysis and starred Richard Gere and Kim Basinger. In the movie, Kim has a couple of sips of alcohol—cough syrup, actually—and then beats her husband to death with a dumbbell. Pathological intoxication has also been used, unsuccessfully I might add, as a defense in a number of criminal cases. The defense argues that the defendant had no more control over his actions than an insane person who commits murder or assault or whatever. I’ve testified twice for the defense in such cases, and the defense lost both times. Juries don’t buy it, regardless of the scientific data. They can’t believe that a couple sips of booze will affect a person so drastically since it’s never affected them that way.”
