You know, Banks said, Mattis being in the reserve, same as Edwards, you need to follow up on that armory break in.
If the FBI cant find anything, I doubt Ill be able to.
Yeah, but you gotta check it out.
Sure, DeMarco said.
He had no intention of checking it out.
11
The man sitting at the bus stop across from Secret Service headquarters wore a blue polo shirt, chinos, and sandals with white socks. He was in his sixties, had iron-gray hair, and a face that DeMarco could envision, for some reason, behind the plastic face shield of a riot helmet. This was Emmas man Mike, last name unknown.
Hi, DeMarco said as he sat down next to Mike on the bench.
Hey, Joe, Mike responded, but he didnt look at DeMarco. His eyes continued to scan the building across the street, moving from exit to exit, and occasionally over to a nearby parking lot. When you got a guy from Emma, you got a pro.
Hows it going? DeMarco asked.
Like watchin paint dry, Mike replied. He leaves his house at six thirty and gets here at eight 395 was a fuckin parking lot this morning. He goes directly to this building where he stays all morning. What hes doin in there, I dont know. At twelve he comes outside, grabs a burrito from a street vendor, takes a walk around the Mall, then goes back inside the building.
Did Mattis see you tailing him?
Now Mike looked at DeMarco; his stare answered DeMarcos question.
And I take it no one approached him while he was taking his lunchtime walk.
You take it right, Mike said.
They sat in silence for a while, Mike watching the building, DeMarco watching the women walk by. As he sat there, DeMarco thought back to the FBI briefing. What Edwards had done fascinated him. He couldnt imagine a man lying in a dark, claustrophobic space for two days waiting for the opportunity to take a shot and then having the balls to stay in the shooting blind while the FBI scoured the bluff above him for evidence.
Which made DeMarco think of something else: Why did he take the shot he took? There must have been an easier shot Edwards could have taken while the President was fishing. Instead he waited until the day the President was departing, surrounded by his bodyguards. Then he remembered that Prudom had said that while the President was on the river the Secret Service had patrolled the bluff, so maybe thats what had prevented Edwards from shooting earlier.
The skill it had taken to sneak into and out of the area was also remarkable. Prior to the shooting Edwards had to get past a Secret Service cordon to get to the shooting blind he had previously dug. After the FBIs forensic people arrived on-site, Prudom said they worked sixteen hours a day, and when they werent there, the area had been patrolled to keep out sightseers and protect the crime scene. Yet the assassin had left the shooting blind, probably the day after the shooting, reconcealed the blind, and either climbed back up to the top of the bluff or down the bluff to the river, carrying his waste and all his gear with him. Then he waltzed past all the people guarding the site.
The rifle also intrigued DeMarco. Why would Edwards have taken the assassination weapon back to his house? Why didnt he just dump it the first chance he got? It was almost as if
You ever seen pictures of Mickey Mantle, Joe? Mike said. I dont mean right before he died of cancer, but when he was playing.
Sure, DeMarco said.
Well thats who this kid looks like. He looks like the Mick, ol number seven. Why am I tailing a guy who works for the Secret Service and looks like Mickey Mantle, Joe?
DeMarco rose from the bench. Ill check in with you again tomorrow, Mike. Thanks for helping out on this.
Sure, Joe, Mike said, but if I gotta spend another day sittin in the sun on a concrete bench, Im gonna go crazy. And when I do, youre gonna be the first person I kill.
DeMarco lived in a small town house in Georgetown, on P Street. The town house, a carbon copy of several others on the block, was a narrow two-story affair made of white-painted brick. Wrought-iron grillwork covered the windows; ivy clung to the walls; azaleas bloomed in the flowerbeds in the spring. It was a cozy place, and he and his neighbors pretended the artfully twisted black bars barricading their lower-floor windows were installed for aesthetic reasons. He had purchased the house the year he married.
The interior of DeMarcos home looked as if thieves had backed a moving van up to the front door and removed everything of value which, in a way, is exactly what had happened. A house once filled with fine furniture, Oriental rugs, and pricey artwork now contained only a few haphazardly selected pieces that DeMarco had bought at two yard sales one Saturday morning. The entertainment center in his living room had been replaced with a twenty-four-inch television on a cheap metal stand. A lumpy recliner sat a few feet from the television and on the floor near the recliner was a boom box that served dual purpose as a radio and a place to set his drink when he read or watched TV.
DeMarco tossed his suit coat on the recliner the antique oak coat stand that had been by the door was gone and walked toward his kitchen. Each step he took on the bare hardwood floors echoed throughout the house like punctuation marks in a sonnet to loneliness.
When DeMarcos wife left him she decided not to take the house. Her lover had a house. She didnt, however, like her lovers furniture so her lawyer made DeMarco a deal: if he didnt contest the divorce he would pay no alimony and get to keep his pension and a heavily mortgaged house. In return, his wife would get all the furniture and furnishings and all the money in their joint savings account, the cash value of his insurance policies, and DeMarcos best car.
DeMarcos dinner was two slices of cold pizza eaten while standing in front of the refrigerator. Dinner the night before had been the same pizza, except hot from the box. DeMarco was a good cook and he enjoyed cooking, but he didnt enjoy cooking for one.
He felt restless after his supper and the pizza sat like a cheese boulder in his gut. He changed into a pair of shorts, a sleeveless Redskins T-shirt, and a pair of scuffed tennis shoes and trudged slowly up the stairs to the second floor of his home. For a brief period, DeMarcos ex had used one of the two upstairs bedrooms as a studio, ruining yards of perfectly good canvas while whining that the windows didnt let in the northern light. This hobby, like others that followed, lasted only a short time before she returned to those activities at which she excelled: shopping and adultery.
Now the bedrooms were empty and the only thing in the upper story of DeMarcos home was a punching bag, a fifty pounder that swung black and lumpy from a ceiling rafter like a short, fat man who had hanged himself. When asked why he had installed the heavy bag he would shrug and say it was for aerobic exercise, but the truth was that he loved to beat the shit out of an inanimate object when the mood struck him.
He put on his gloves, warmed up with a little shadowboxing, and attacked the bag. The bag took the first round but by the second he was drenched with sweat, pounding leather with a vengeance, imagining his wifes lovers ribs cracking like kindling with each blow. His wifes lover had been his cousin. He was so into violent fantasy that he almost didnt hear the doorbell ring.
Standing on his porch was a compact man in his thirties wearing a gray suit. When DeMarco noticed the pistol in the shoulder holster beneath the mans suit jacket, he gave the stranger his full attention. Behind the man was a black limousine with government plates parked at the curb.
Are you Joseph DeMarco? the man asked.
Yeah, DeMarco said, still trying to catch his breath. How can I help you? DeMarco thought it prudent to be polite to armed men.
Patrick Donnelly, director of the Secret Service, would like a word with you, sir. Would you mind joining the director in his car?
Ah, shit, DeMarco thought. Shit, shit, shit. On the case less than two days and the Secret Service already knew he was involved. He thought of slamming the door in the agents face and running to hide under his bed.
Please, sir, would you mind coming with me, the man prodded.
Dignity prevailed over the ostrich defense. You bet, DeMarco said, his voice sounding more confident than he felt.
Donnellys driver opened the rear door of the limo for him. Feeling foolish in his shorts and Redskins T-shirt, DeMarco stepped into the car and took his place on the jump seat so he could face Patrick Donnelly. The armed driver closed the door behind DeMarco then remained standing outside the limo, several feet away; apparently Mr Donnelly didnt want his man to hear their conversation.
Lil Pat Donnelly stared at DeMarco, his eyes projecting his hostility. He was a slender man in his late sixties, no more than five feet six inches tall. His hair was dyed glossy black and parted so precisely on the left side that DeMarco could imagine him using a straightedge to guide his comb. He had small features, close-set ears, and narrow black eyes with drooping lids. His mouth was a cruel slash and his face was covered with a smear of five oclock shadow. DeMarco thought he looked like a fencer, slim and wiry and nasty the type who would use real swords if allowed the opportunity.
DeMarco ignored Donnellys glare and looked casually around the limo, at the leather upholstery, the small TV, the bar inset into the back of the front seat. The jump seat of the limo was more comfortable than his recliner, and he bet Donnellys TV got better reception than his did.
Afraid Im gettin sweat on your upholstery, he said to Donnelly. I was working out. Ya little shit, he added silently.
Shut up, Donnelly said. You were in Middleburg today where you interrogated a retired Secret Service agent. What in the hell makes you think you have the authority to do such a thing?
DeMarco gave Donnelly the same line hed fed John Engles. Congress is concerned about the Presidents security, Mr Donnelly, and
Congress my ass, Donnelly said. You talked to Frank Engles because Banks told you that jackass idea of his about Billy Mattis.
DeMarcos face gave away nothing but inside his gut was a small mad animal, gnawing at the lining of his stomach. He knew how Donnelly had found out about him: Engles, still loyal to his old outfit, had called some pal and told him about DeMarco and his questions. The word immediately went up the chain of command to Donnelly. Donnelly knew, even if no one else did, about Bankss concern with Mattis. And maybe Donnelly had someone check Bankss appointment calendar and found out that DeMarco had met with him. DeMarco should have used a phony name with Engles.
What happened at Chattooga River is a matter for the FBI and the Secret Service, mister, and you are going to stay out of it. Do you understand? Not only have they found the guy who did it, there are still three hundred goddamn FBI agents investigating the assassination attempt! Even if you had the authority, what in the fuck do you think you could possibly do that the FBI and my people arent already doing?
Before DeMarco could respond, Donnelly said, I run the Secret Service, you idiot, which means I can find out anything about anybody. I know, for example, that youre John Mahoneys heavy. If its something easy, getting a few guys to compromise on some chickenshit bill, Mahoney sends his chief of staff, that fat guy who wears suspenders. But when he doesnt want to compromise, when he wants to shove his dick up somebodys ass, he sends you.
I dont work for the Speaker, DeMarco said, Im an independent coun
Bullshit. You dont show up on any org chart linking you to Mahoney, but Mahoney set up your position. Counsel Pro Tem. What a crock. You work for Mahoney and I know it.
But can you prove it? DeMarco wondered.
I also know why Mahoney doesnt want any official connection to you. Your father was Gino DeMarco, a low-life cocksucker who worked for Carmine Taliaferro. Fifteen years ago your daddy wasted three of Taliaferros rivals before the fourth one got lucky and plugged him. Isnt that right?
DeMarco said nothing but he felt like ripping Donnellys tiny ears off for calling his dad a cocksucker.
The amazing thing, Donnelly said, is that Mahoney hired you when you got out of law school. I dont know why he hired you thats the one mystery I havent unraveled but I know he did. And I do know that your father is the reason Mahoney keeps you down in his cellar. He doesnt want to have to explain your dago ass to anybody.
Donnelly leaned forward so his face was closer to DeMarcos and said, So let me ask you something, sonny boy. Knowing John Mahoney to be the self-serving son of a bitch that he is, how long do you think youll keep your job when the press finds out about you and your father and your job with the Speaker?
Did you personally assign Billy Mattis to the Presidents security detail, Mr Donnelly? DeMarco said.
Why you Donnelly took a breath. Now you listen to me and you listen good: my agents are clean. They all have outstanding records, particularly Mattis, and they all passed lie detector tests. Banks is a fool to think the Secret Service had any part in this.
Then why didnt you have the warning note analyzed?
You impertinent son of a bitch! Donnelly said, his face turning scarlet.
Thats it, DeMarco thought. Have a stroke, you little fuck.
Donnelly opened his mouth to scream something else but managed to get his emotions under control. He jerked his thumb in the direction of DeMarcos house. Id suggest you put that place on the market, he said. Youre not going to be living in this town much longer.
Really, DeMarco said.
Donnelly smiled. His teeth were small and sharp. Your job requires a security clearance, smart ass. Guess what agency does the background checks to provide that clearance? Now beat it.
DeMarco stepped from the limo and closed the door quietly. As he watched the taillights of the limo disappear up the block, he stood quietly in the center of the street, feeling the sweat go cold on his arms and legs.
So Donnelly knew about his father.
12
A woman answered Emmas phone; she sounded like Emma, the same low voice, the same inflections, but the speaker wasnt Emma. The woman, whoever she was, passed the phone to Emma who said, If youre a telemarketer, Im going to hunt you down, burn your house, and kill your dog. She sounded serious.