House Odds (23 page)

One of the bimbos had actually been sitting on Randy Collier’s lap, and in the photo it looked like she was trying to clean out one of Collier’s ears with her tongue.

“So there you go,” Mahoney said. “That proves that Terry Wheeler is truly independent and not just hunting Republicans.”

Mahoney’s car pulled up at that moment. “I gotta get back to work, Bob.”

“John, if you don’t put an end to Wheeler’s witch hunt and quit opposing my bill, I’m going to tell the media that the Atlantic Palace casino just canceled the hundred-thousand-dollar gambling debt your daughter owes them.”

That stopped Mahoney. “What? How do you know . . .”

“I’m going to suggest that the president’s special prosecutor needs to take a hard look at
you
because you’re obviously getting some sort of kickback from this casino. I’ve also heard that you’re trying to attach a rider to a bill to give the state of New Jersey a hundred million for some convention center that will benefit this same casino.”

Goddamnit, how did Fairchild know all this stuff?

“I’m not doing any such thing,” Mahoney said, not quite lying.

What Mahoney had done was ask Perry Wallace, just in case, to look into how to get New Jersey the money, but how did Fairchild know?

“I’ll tell you what, John,” Fairchild said. “In return for doing what I want, I won’t stop you from sending money to your pals in New Jersey.”

What Fairchild meant was that the Republicans wouldn’t put up a fight if Mahoney wanted to tack the money onto a bill. But that would also mean that Fairchild would have something else to use against Mahoney at some time in the future.

“But,” Fairchild continued, “if I don’t get what I want, I’m going to tell the press everything. I also have a feeling that if the SEC knew about your daughter’s gambling problem, that would strengthen the case against her in so far as motives go.”

Mahoney stepped close enough to Fairchild to exhale the odor of the president’s bad coffee into Fairchild’s face. “You leave my daughter out of this.”

“Oh, I see,” Fairchild said. “Your daughter’s off-limits but my nephew’s fair game. I don’t think so,” he added, then stepped into his car and closed the door before Mahoney could respond.

It took Mahoney about thirty seconds to figure out what was going on. Preston Whitman was working for both Ted Allen and Big Bob Fairchild, and Whitman was Fairchild’s source. He also knew why Ted had canceled Molly’s marker: because Fairchild had paid him to cancel it and the money had probably come from Fairchild’s extraordinarily rich wife. So much for Ted’s goodwill gesture. And Molly’s marker being canceled was bad news for all the reasons Fairchild had said. Now not only was his daughter in trouble, but Fairchild had information that could possibly destroy his career.

Mahoney stood there on the curb of the White House driveway, his big hands clenched into fists. There had been a time, really not that long ago, when congressmen challenged each other to duels. Mahoney yearned for those times. If he couldn’t shoot Fairchild with a dueling pistol, just slapping him with a glove—just slapping the
shit
out of him with a glove—would have been very satisfying.

* * *

Mahoney called DeMarco and told him to meet him at Reagan National.

Mahoney was flying to Boston to give the commencement address at Boston College. If DeMarco remembered correctly, BC had given Mahoney an honorary doctorate once upon a time, so he’d wear a robe with a fancy sash and a mortarboard on his big head, and he’d give his standard speech about how the graduates were the bright, shining hope of America. He’d quote JFK half a dozen times—
ask not what your country can do for you—
and urge them to eschew private-sector greed and consider public service. After the ceremony, public servant Mahoney would go to his office in Boston, and like a scene from
The Godfather,
constituents would line up, kiss his ring, and ask for his help on a variety of things.

DeMarco met his boss at a coffee shop in the airport. Mahoney was already seated, a scowl on his face, drinking coffee from a paper cup that had been laced with bourbon from the flask in his pocket. As soon as DeMarco sat down, Mahoney launched into a recap of his White House discussion with Fairchild, concluding with: “So now I know why Allen canceled Molly’s marker, and if the press finds out, they’ll hang me out to dry just like Fairchild said.”

An announcement about a flight to Boston came over the loudspeaker and Mahoney stood up.

“You find a way to get Fairchild off my back. You find some way to neutralize the bastard. You understand?”

“Yeah,” DeMarco said. He understood, but what the hell was he supposed to do?

33

Richard Praeter couldn’t get the key into the keyhole.

“Man, am I drunk,” he said. He placed his forehead against the door to help maintain his balance and continued to jab his key at the keyhole, missing repeatedly, scratching the lock. “This reminds me of the first time I got laid,” he said.

“You want me to try?” the big man said.

“Hell, no. You’re drunker than I am.”

The big man was standing behind Praeter, watching as he poked at the lock. The big man didn’t seem drunk at all.

Praeter finally opened the door and stumbled into his office. “I don’t know why you wanted to look at this stuff tonight. You’ll never remember it tomorrow.”

The big man looked down the hallway to make sure it was still empty then followed Praeter into the office.

Praeter shrugged off his coat and threw it at the top of a file cabinet. He missed, and his handmade cashmere topcoat dropped to the floor. He fell into the chair behind his desk and hit the power button on his computer. “This’ll take a minute,” he said. “Fuckin’ security systems slow these machines way down. They oughta chop the fingers off those little hacker bastards when they catch ’em.”

The other man stood for a moment then walked over to the window behind Praeter’s desk. “I forgot what a view you’ve got from up here, Dickie,” he said.

Praeter glanced behind him. One in the morning and lights blazing everywhere. New York, New York. What a town. “Yeah,” he said. “Hey, you want another drink? I gotta bottle of Glen . . . Glen-something.”

The big man tapped the window with one finger. “Nah,” he said, “but you go ahead and have one.”

“Damn right,” Praeter said and opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a bottle. He twisted the cap off and said, “Sure you don’t want a hit?” The big man shook his head. “Okee-dokie,” Praeter said, and took a drink directly from the bottle.

In front of Praeter’s desk was a visitor’s chair. It was made of wood and leather. The big man picked up the chair; it was heavier than he’d expected. Good. “I want you to duck, Dickie,” he said softly.

“What?” Praeter said.

“Duck,” the big man said and swung the chair behind him.

“Jesus Christ!” Praeter said, and dived out of his chair.

The big man threw the chair as hard as he could at the window behind Praeter’s desk. The chair bounced off the window, almost landing on Praeter who was lying on the floor.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Praeter screamed.

“Shit,” the big man muttered, ignoring Praeter. “Safety glass.” The window was still intact but there were a dozen cracks radiating out from the point of impact.

The big man stepped over Praeter and picked up the chair again.

“What are you doing?” Praeter screamed again.

The big man, his legs straddling Praeter’s prone form, swung the chair again. More cracks appeared in the glass. He swung a third time, and the glass shattered. Wind roared into the room and the papers on Praeter’s desk swirled into the air.

“Goddamnit, are you fucking nuts?” Praeter said. He was lying on his back so he rolled over onto his stomach, then got on his hands and knees. Before he could stand up, however, the big man reached down and grabbed Praeter by his belt and the collar of his monogrammed shirt and dropped him out the window. He didn’t
throw
him out; he’d made that mistake once before.

34

The sound of a ringing telephone pulled DeMarco from a deep sleep, and his first thought was: What inconsiderate jackass could be calling so early? His second thought was: Why doesn’t she answer the damn phone?

An elbow poked him in the ribs and a sleepy voice murmured, “That’s your phone.”

“Oh, sorry,” he said. He got out of bed, then down on his hands and knees and groped through a pile of clothes until he finally retrieved his cell phone from a pocket.

The jackass calling turned out to be his old college buddy from New York, Sal Anselmo, who sounded bright-eyed and cheerful, as if he’d been up since dawn. “I just thought you’d like to know, since you were asking about him the other night, that Dickie Praeter committed suicide last night.”

“What?” DeMarco said, still half asleep, and Sal repeated what he’d just said: Richard Praeter was dead.

DeMarco mumbled a thank-you and looked at his watch. It was only seven a.m.—way too early to do anything. He crawled back into bed, snuggled up against the warm body lying next to him, and cupped her right breast. She pushed his hand away and said, “Too early.” He smiled, closed his eyes, and went back to sleep.

* * *

Two hours later, DeMarco headed for McLean with a smile on his face. If he’d been walking instead of driving, one might have said that he had a spring in his step.

He’d called Alice’s friend the night before and asked if she might like to have dinner sometime in the near future. She surprised him by saying, “Actually, tonight would be perfect. My daughters are out of town.”

Tina Burke (née Marino) turned out to be even better looking than the picture Alice had shown him. Short dark hair, dark eyes, slim yet busty—and DeMarco had always been partial to Italian types. Like his ex-wife. She seemed bright and had a sense of humor, but was extremely picky about what she ate. He decided he could overlook that one small flaw. She’d been divorced for four years from a jerk who worked for a think tank, and was seventeen when she had her twin daughters. She made a point of telling DeMarco—twice—that her girls were out of town, checking out William and Mary where they’d be going to school next year, and it had been a long time since she’d had a night to herself.

DeMarco didn’t need as much direction as Alice and her friend seemed to think—or maybe he just took direction well.

* * *

As DeMarco approached Emma’s front door he could hear the sound of a cello. The music was nice and mellow, but nothing he recognized, which meant it was most likely some classical thing composed two hundred years before he was born. He rang the doorbell. The playing stopped and the door was opened a moment later by a pretty young woman, her long blonde hair piled on top of her head in a casual style. She was wearing loose-fitting cotton pants, the waist secured with a drawstring, and a T-shirt with Beethoven’s head sketched on the front. DeMarco knew it was Beethoven because it said so on the shirt. She was barefoot and DeMarco thought she had really pretty feet.

The woman was Christine, Emma’s lover. She played cello for the National Symphony.

“Is her highness here?” DeMarco asked.

“She’s in the backyard.” Then Christine leaned forward and whispered, “She had these two guys over yesterday, a couple of Japanese guys, and they spent an
hour
looking at some bug she found on one of her roses. You would have thought the plant had cancer the way she was acting.”

DeMarco and Christine had very little in common—in fact, they had nothing in common but Emma—but on one thing they could agree: when it came to her yard, Emma was a nut. He just shook his head to convey his sympathy. As he made his way through the house toward the backyard, the cello began again, this time making edgy, angry noises.

DeMarco found Emma standing on her patio, looking out over her lawn. She was wearing the same sort of outfit she’d been wearing the last time he saw her: a long-billed baseball cap, a grass-stained T-shirt, and shorts. In spite of her attire, she looked like a general surveying a battlefield, trying to decide where to attack the enemy next.

Imagine Patton planning the obliteration of crabgrass instead of Rommel’s tanks.

“You got a minute to talk?” DeMarco said.

“No,” she said without turning to look at him.

* * *

Emma put down the phone.

“Like your buddy told you, the cops in New York are treating Richard Praeter’s death as a suicide,” she said. “They have no reason to suspect he was murdered but they do have a number of reasons to think he killed himself.”

The military is a huge club, and its members, active and retired, are spread out all over the globe. And a large number of ex-military personnel become cops when they muster out. This phenomenon—soldiers mutating into cops—gave Emma, a retired superstar from the DIA, contacts in a lot of police departments. Getting an NYPD captain to talk to her had not been hard at all.

“Like what?” DeMarco said.