House Reckoning

by Mike Lawson

  She popped up from her chair like a jack-in-the-box. “That is a lie and I will not stand for—”

  “Sit down!” Mahoney bellowed. She hesitated for a moment, then sat.

  “It’s not a lie. Your father was a goddamn guinea hood involved in loansharking and extortion and he made a fortune off dope. And every once in a while, he’d have someone whacked.”

  “I never had anything to do with my father’s business,” Stephanie said, not looking embarrassed, just defiant.

  “I know you didn’t,” Mahoney said. “You went to college just like you were a normal person instead of a mafia princess and—”

  “Goddamnit, I’m not—”

  “—and then you started screwing around in politics, doing volunteer work and all the usual shit. The thing that’s amazing about you, though, is that the money crowd up there loves you. You get donations from some of the biggest names on Wall Street and Park Avenue, and the person who’s helped the most is Barbara Quinn, the commissioner’s wife. So tell me how that happened, princess? How is that I’ve got pictures of you sitting at the head table at functions next to Mrs. Quinn when a person like her wouldn’t ordinarily give you the time of day?”

  “I have her support, you drunken buffoon, because she knows I’m an honest person and that I’ve done good things for my borough. She also knows that I’d represent the Seventh District better than that idiot Barlow.”

  That almost made Mahoney smile: Barlow was an idiot.

  “Bullshit,” Mahoney said, slamming his big fist down onto his desk, slopping some of the bourbon out of the glass. “She’s supporting you because you’re blackmailing her husband. I know this, Stephanie. I’m not guessing.”

  Actually Mahoney didn’t know and he was guessing.

  “What I don’t know,” Mahoney said, “and what you’re going to tell me, is exactly what you have on Quinn.”

  “This discussion is absurd and I’m leaving.”

  “No, you’re not,” Mahoney said, “and I’ll tell you why. I’m going to call the president and suggest that he withdraw Quinn’s nomination. I’m going to tell the president that I know some things about Quinn that I can’t prove, but should they ever come to light, the president will wind up with egg all over his face. I’ll also tell the president that the reason I can’t prove what I know is because this lady named Stephanie Hernandez won’t tell me, and that I intend to make sure Mrs. Hernandez never holds another public office. How would you like that, Stephanie? Having both me and the president of the United States for enemies?”

  “I’m telling you,” Stephanie screamed, her face as red as Mahoney’s, “that I never had anything to do with my father’s business and the only association I’ve ever had with Commissioner Quinn is because of his wife’s support of women’s issues.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Mahoney said. “Let me give you a couple scenarios, Stephanie, and see which one you like better. You want Barlow’s seat and it just so happens that privately I agree with you that Chris Barlow ain’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. Now I could probably convince the DNC that you’re the gal we want up there in the Seventh District and I could probably convince Barlow that it’s time for him to move on. I’ll come up with some kind of job for him over on K Street, something that will make him happy. So then you’ll become a congresswoman and when you get down here, I’ll do my best to help you out, and then, the next thing we all know, you’re running for senator or governor or I could give a shit what.

  “Scenario number two is, you keep lying to me about not having something on Quinn and I destroy your political career. The other thing is, and you may not know this—although half the fucking New York Police Department does—is that Quinn has a girlfriend and I wouldn’t be surprised if he and your political meal ticket get a divorce.

  “So I don’t know, Stephanie. Maybe Mrs. Quinn will continue to stand by your side after she’s the ex–Mrs. Quinn, but I doubt it. I’m thinking the only reason she supported you in the first place is because her husband made her, which he won’t be able to do after the divorce.”

  Stephanie just sat there looking stubborn.

  “Why don’t you go take a walk around the Mall and think things over,” Mahoney said. “If I don’t hear back from you in an hour, I’ll assume that you’ve decided not to become my new best friend—and the next congresswoman from New York.”

  It didn’t take Stephanie an hour to make up her mind.

  37

  DeMarco’s home phone rang, and he walked into the den to answer it. As he picked up the receiver, Mike—or maybe it was Dave—called out from the kitchen, “Hey! Don’t stand in front of the window.”

  “Hello,” DeMarco said, ignoring Mike.

  “Get your ass over here,” the caller said and hung up.

  DeMarco was so stunned that for a moment he just stood there, the phone still in his hand.

  “Hey! I told you not to stand in front of the window,” Mike said, walking into DeMarco’s den. “Are you trying to get killed?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I have to go to the Capitol. My ex-boss wants to talk to me.”

  “Emma said you were to stay here.”

  “Well, Emma only thinks she’s in charge of my life, and I don’t need her permission. If you think you need her permission, give her a call.”

  “Don’t be a smartass,” Mike said.

  “I’m going to shave and change into a suit. I’ll be leaving in about fifteen minutes.”

  “We’ll take my car,” Mike said.

  “How ’bout putting some of those dishes lying all over the kitchen into the dishwasher while I’m changing?”

  Mike made a snorting sound that DeMarco interpreted as Do I look like your maid?

  Oskar Pankov strolled past the target’s house in Georgetown. He was on the other side of the street from the house, and as he walked, he studied the place without being obvious about it. He wished he had a dog to walk so he could stop and let it shit, which would have given him more time to exam the house. He could see the target through one of the windows, talking on the phone—and he was beginning to think that maybe the easiest thing to do would be to shoot him through that same window. He had no idea why Tony wanted DeMarco dead; it didn’t matter to Oskar.

  He didn’t see the two men DeMarco had with him, but he knew they were inside the house, too, and he suspected they were both armed. He knew one of them was armed for sure because when he had come outside earlier to get the paper off DeMarco’s front porch, Oskar—sitting in his car, just a few houses away—had seen the gun in the shoulder holster the guy was wearing. Tony hadn’t said anything about DeMarco having bodyguards and Oskar was going to call Tony and raise the price they’d agreed to. An urban kill was risky enough even if the guy didn’t have protection.

  If DeMarco left his house, Oskar could follow him and see if an opportunity presented itself. He’d brought a silenced pistol with him in case he had to take a close-range shot—like maybe if the guy was in an underground parking lot or in an elevator by himself—but now, since he knew DeMarco had bodyguards, he wasn’t going to do anything like that. He didn’t really want to use the pistol, anyway. He’d always preferred to use a rifle because he was better with a rifle, and because a rifle put distance between him and the target, which gave him a better chance to escape and not be seen.

  If DeMarco went to a meeting or to a restaurant, maybe he could find a place where he could pick him off. The problem with doing that, however, was that he probably wouldn’t have much time to pick a good spot to shoot from. In the past, when he’d killed with a rifle, he’d usually picked his spot days in advance, devised a way to conceal himself, and figured out multiple routes for getting away. The other problem with trying to snipe DeMarco anyplace public was that there were cameras all over Washington. America was turning into a fucking police state and if he shot DeMarco near any government building, he’d have no idea if he was being videoed while he was taking the shot. He’d end up like those two evil lit
tle Chechen pricks who bombed the Boston Marathon; the smoke had barely cleared before their pictures were all over the news.

  Yeah, the best thing to do would be to shoot him right in his own house when he passed in front of one of the windows or the next time he came outside. So now he had to find a place to shoot from, which wasn’t going to be easy in a densely populated neighborhood.

  Oskar decided to walk all the way around the block to get back to his car. If he passed in front of DeMarco’s house again, and if DeMarco’s security people were worth a damn, they would notice him. As he was walking, studying the neighborhood, he wondered how things were going at the restaurant. His brother-in-law was substituting for him while he was in D.C., and although the man wasn’t a bad cook, he was incredibly slow. He knew all his regular customers would be angry having to wait so long for their orders and his wife would be a nervous wreck by the time he returned. Maybe he would call his wife when he got back to the car and tell her to take a few of the more complicated dishes off the menu.

  He’d just reached his car when two things happened simultaneously: his cell phone rang and DeMarco and the two hardcases protecting him stepped out of DeMarco’s house. The security guys immediately looked in Oskar’s direction, so when he answered the phone, he turned his head slightly and used the hand holding the phone to partially obscure his face. He noticed that one of DeMarco’s bodyguards looked a lot like DeMarco: he was DeMarco’s height and had the same build, but his hair was gray instead of dark. He’d better make sure he shot the right guy when the time came. He quickly got into his car, hoping DeMarco would think he was just someone who lived in the neighborhood.

  Only two people had the number of the burner phone he was using: his wife and Tony Benedetto. “What do you want?” he said to whoever was calling.

  “It’s Tony,” the caller said. “Why the fuck do you answer the phone like that?”

  He was glad Tony had called. He didn’t know what the old wop wanted, but this would give him a chance to tell Tony the price for killing DeMarco had gone up substantially.

  As DeMarco and his escorts were leaving the house, a cell phone rang and Mike and Dave spun in the direction of the sound; Mike actually reached for the gun in his shoulder holster.

  “Jesus, relax,” DeMarco said.

  DeMarco barely saw the guy answering the phone, just that he was a tall, balding guy. He didn’t recognize him, but then there were a lot of people in the neighborhood he didn’t know; people were always moving in and out as the politicians played a never-ending game of musical chairs.

  “Where did you park your car?” he asked Mike. “I don’t want to be late.”

  Quinn glanced at his watch, wondering what was keeping Hanley. He was meeting with two senators this morning at the Russell Building, with a third at the Dirksen Building, and then would have lunch with the acting director of the FBI over at the Hoover Building. He didn’t want to start out the day being late for his first meeting.

  One thing he didn’t like about staying in his friend’s town house was that the place only had a small one-car garage and his friend’s car was parked in the garage—which meant that Hanley had been forced to park the rental car on the street, and he may have had to park a block away. Georgetown was a pain in the ass when it came to parking.

  His wife, however, liked the town house and the neighborhood; she especially liked being close enough to be able to walk to the shops in Georgetown. While Quinn was in meetings today, a real estate agent was planning to show Barbara some large homes in Arlington and in Northwest D.C. off Embassy Row, but Barbara was now talking about looking at town houses in Georgetown instead. He felt bad about the fact that she was probably going to put down money on a house or town house, and a couple of months after that, he was going to divorce her. He’d tried to talk her into renting a place until they got to know the area better, but Barbara’s financial people were telling her that the real estate market for upscale homes in the D.C. area was good and improving, and she could probably sell whatever house she bought for a profit. Oh, well. He’d tried.

  Hanley finally arrived with the car. “I’ll see you this evening,” Quinn said to his wife. She was on her phone—as always—and she just waved at him. Grimes stepped outside before Quinn and looked around, then nodded to Quinn and he left the house.

  On his way to Capitol Hill, Quinn thought about the questions he’d most likely be asked by the senators in these private meetings this morning. He wasn’t worried about the first two meetings; those senators liked him, and one was from New York and he knew the man well. His third meeting, however, was with Senator Beecham of Georgia, a man who intensely disliked the president and was inclined to oppose whomever the president nominated. Aw, he could handle Beecham, although the man was so damn old he probably wouldn’t be able to remember whatever Quinn told him.

  38

  DeMarco had no idea why Mahoney wanted to see him. He was hoping that Mahoney had decided to forgive him and was going to offer him his job back—but the way he’d sounded on the phone made that fantasy seem unlikely.

  When he arrived at Mahoney’s office, Mavis coolly said, “He’s waiting for you.” Mahoney’s secretary had always liked him—but Mavis was loyal only to the man she’d served for more than thirty years.

  With Mahoney was a short, broad-hipped, dark-haired woman DeMarco didn’t know. The woman looked unhappy and tired. Mahoney looked unhappy and hungover.

  “This is Stephanie Hernandez,” Mahoney said.

  Jesus! Taliaferro’s daughter.

  “The other day,” Mahoney said to DeMarco, “your pal Emma came to see me and told me that Mrs. Hernandez might have some information that would, uh, demonstrate that Brian Quinn is not the man who should be our next FBI director. I subsequently spoke to Mrs. Hernandez and she confirmed what I was told.”

  DeMarco knew what Mahoney was really saying: he was saying that Emma had told him that Hernandez had something that had been given to her by her father, and she’d used whatever she’d been given to blackmail Brian Quinn to advance her political career. DeMarco had no idea what Mahoney had done to force the woman to cooperate, but it was apparent that he was now treating her as some sort of ally.

  DeMarco, however, had no interest in participating in whatever game Mahoney was playing. “What do you have on Quinn?” he asked Hernandez.

  She hesitated, and looked over at Mahoney.

  “Go on, tell him,” Mahoney said. “He’s not going to be a problem for you. All he wants is Quinn.”

  “I have photographs of Quinn killing your father,” Stephanie said. “My father gave them to me.”

  “What! How did Carmine manage to get pictures?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is that before my father died, he gave me the photos and told me to hide them someplace where Quinn wouldn’t ever find them. And right after my father died, Quinn got a warrant to search my house, my father’s house, and all the businesses we own. He’d convinced some judge, who was a crony of his, that my dad had hidden information that could be used in an organized crime case. The warrant was bullshit. He was looking for the photos.

  “His people just ripped my house apart and they disrupted our businesses for more than a month. Anyway, after the search, I met with him. I told him that he was never going to find the photos and he’d better stop harassing me or I’d give them to the FBI. I told that shithead the truth: that I wasn’t a criminal like my father, that all I wanted to do was work for my community and I would appreciate his help.”

  “In other words, you blackmailed him,” DeMarco said.

  Stephanie Hernandez jumped up from the chair where she was seated and shouted, “Fuck you! It wasn’t blackmail. Don’t you dare call it blackmail. I never asked for a dime from him or his snooty bitch of a wife. All I wanted was for him not to get in my way and maybe give me a few endorsements.”

  Bullshit it wasn’t blackmail, DeMarco thought, but why argue with her.

  Mahoney said, “
Calm down, Stephanie.” To DeMarco he said, “Mrs. Hernandez is a little tired. Yesterday, after I met with her, she had to go back up to New York, get the pictures, and bring them back here. So she’s tired and understandably distraught.”

  “What happens next?” DeMarco asked Mahoney.

  “The first thing that’s going to happen is, I’m going over to the White House and tell the president that he needs to immediately withdraw his nomination of Brian Quinn. Right after that, Mrs. Hernandez is going to become a hero. She’s going to go see the acting director of the FBI and she’s going to tell him that she was cleaning out her garage or her attic or some fuckin’ place, and she ran across these pictures. Being a good citizen, she felt it was her obligation to come forward with this information immediately and, because of who Quinn is, she felt the only one she could go to was the head of the Bureau. The Bureau is then going to arrest Brian Quinn. At the same time, the Bureau is going to question Tony Benedetto before he dies and try to get him to repeat the story he told you.”

  “Quinn’s going to say the photos are phony,” DeMarco said.

  “You don’t understand,” Mahoney said. “These are old-time photographs with negatives. They’re not digital. They couldn’t be Photoshopped. I mean, Quinn can claim they’re phonies, but the wizards at the Bureau will be able to prove they’re not.”

  “I want to see them,” DeMarco said.

  “Aw, Joe, what’s the point? Do you really want to see your dad being killed?”

  “I want to see them,” DeMarco said again.

  Mahoney shrugged and pushed an envelope toward him. “Don’t touch the negatives,” Mahoney said.

  DeMarco opened the envelope. There were three identical sets of eight-by-ten photographs in the envelope, each set consisting of ten photos. In a small, clear envelope were the negatives.