House Revenge (23 page)

“Maria, thank you,” he said. “Now please tell me what I can do to make things right.”

Maria looked at him for what seemed an eternity, then shook her head. “Give me the gun,” she said to the man who had killed Paulo. He handed it to her and she walked slowly over to Javier. She was almost forty now but as beautiful as ever, he thought.

“Maria,” he said. “I don't care about the money you took from me today. I really don't.”

“I'm sorry, Javier,” she said. “You say you don't care now, but you're an intelligent man, and a ruthless one. I'm afraid I just wouldn't feel secure with you around.” She smiled that sad, sad smile of hers and said, “So much misfortune because of one stubborn old woman.”

And then Maria answered Javier's earlier prayer—and shot him in the head.

DeMarco was shoveling the two feet of snow that had fallen on Washington the night before off his front sidewalk. It had been the third heavy snowfall in January, and he wished he could afford to spend the winter in Florida. He was wearing a heavy wool sweater, jeans, and Gore-Tex-lined boots. On his head was a black stocking cap that he knew made him look like a thug. Which made him wonder if the romance writer who had taken his photo in Boston because she thought he looked like Bruno, her menacing villain, had ever published her stupid novel.

As he bent his back to dig another shovelful of snow, he heard snow chains clanking on a vehicle's tires and looked up to see a D.C. Metro Police car coming down the street in his direction—and his heart started beating faster. In the last seven months, ever since Mahoney had convinced the DEA to go after Javier Castro, DeMarco's heart rate increased every time he saw a cop. He wondered if this was the day they were going to arrest him for Sean Callahan's murder. But the cop car didn't stop, and continued along on its noisy way.

His phone rang just then, and by the time he yanked his gloves off and dug the phone out of his jeans, it rang for the fifth time; after the next ring it would go to voice mail. He said hello without looking at the caller ID.

“Joe?” a woman said, her voice low and sexy.

“Yes,” he said, wondering who it was.

“It's Maria. You remember me from Boston?”

DeMarco couldn't speak for a moment. “Maria, trust me when I say that I'll never forget you. What do you want?”

“I just wanted to let you know that you can stop worrying.”

“You mean about being framed for murder?”

“That's right. You can also tell Mr. Mahoney that he's made his point, and that no one will bother him at any time in the future, no matter what the DEA uncovers in their investigation. As far as the cartel is concerned—or maybe I should say, as far as I'm concerned—what's happened in the last few months is just the cost of doing business. It's time to move on.”

“Really,” DeMarco said. “And Javier Castro is okay with this? I mean, from what I've heard, he's lost a lot of money.”

“Where Javier is now, Joe, he doesn't need money.”

That took a moment to sink in. “I see,” DeMarco said. “And the gun that was used to . . . You know.”

“Oh, the gun. It's been, shall we say, recycled. Don't worry about the gun.”

“That's good to hear.”

“Well, that's all I called to say, Joe. But if you ever come to Mexico again—it's beautiful where I am right now; the temperature's about eighty, not a cloud in the sky—give me a call. For some reason, I have a hard time getting a date down here, and I'd love to see you again.”

Then she laughed and disconnected the call.

Notes and
Acknowledgments

The idea for this book came from a photo in the
Seattle Times
of an elderly woman wearing yellow rain gear and protesting against a developer trying to evict tenants from a building in the Ballard neighborhood of Seattle. She was the original Elinore Dobbs.

The story in the book about a multimillionaire landlord given hundreds of citations for not maintaining apartments—while suffering no serious legal or financial consequences—was inspired by an article I found online. I included this story in the book to make the point that in real life developers/landlords like Sean Callahan can often act with impunity when it comes to tenants' rights.

The fictional Delaney Square in this book is modeled after a real development in Boston called Boston Landing, which is a five-hundred-million-dollar development occupying fourteen acres, and includes a corporate headquarters for New Balance, a hotel, a sports complex, and four office buildings. As far as I know, the developer didn't do anything nasty and underhanded like Sean Callahan.

I particularly want to thank Gerry LaCaille. Gerry has been involved with developments in Seattle and he was incredibly generous with his time, educating me on the financial aspects of large projects. The whole process is a whole lot more complicated than the way I describe it in the book and if any of what I've written is incorrect, the fault lies with me and not Mr. LaCaille.

I also want to thank Robert Kirschner, a friend and civil engineer, for advising me on large construction projects and such things as fall protection violations. Bob also gave me some advice recently on adding a few strategically placed two-by-fours under my deck to keep it from moving around when folks walk on it—which is a whole different story.

Regarding drug cartels laundering massive amounts of money and the U.S. government seizing assets, a lot has been reported on this subject. A 2008 NPR article reported that the Justice Department, in a four-year period, seized $1.6 billion in assets related to drug trafficking. Even better, my wonderful editor at Grove Atlantic, Jamison Stoltz, sent me a link to an article in which HSBC Bank, which is headquartered in London and has offices in eighty countries around the world, was fined $1.9 billion for charges related to Latin American drug cartels laundering billions of dollars. Specifically, the article noted that the bank “failed to monitor”—whatever the hell that means—
$670 billion
in wire transfers and purchases of more than $9.4 billion in U.S. currency. So, as noted in the book, we're talking big bucks—and, as always appears to be the case, the bankers get fines that are a drop in the bucket to them and the bankers themselves never seem to go to jail.

Regarding the Stolen Valor Act, I was shocked that people lying about military service and unearned military medals occurred so frequently and so blatantly. Can you even imagine walking into a room wearing a Congressional Medal of Honor you never earned? I wasn't so surprised that people were committing fraud through bogus claims of military service—like the guy I mention in the book who scammed the VA for two hundred grand—as someone out there is always finding a clever way to commit fraud. I also wasn't so surprised that Congress could come together to pass the first Stolen Valor Act. Who in their political right mind would vote against such a law? Then after the Supremes overturned the law in 2012, I was amazed at how a Congress that can't seem to agree on anything worked so rapidly to pass a second Stolen Valor Act in 2013. How come these guys can't ever come together on other really important things?

One other item of interest. I was asked recently at an event if I really believed that folks in Congress are as corrupt as I often make them out to be in my books. Well, just as my editor and I were working together to finish this book, former Speaker of the House Dennis Hastert was arrested for lying to the FBI about paying someone over $1 million (of a promised $3.5 million) in hush money to apparently cover up some sort of sexual misconduct. At the time I wrote this paragraph, all the facts weren't in, but three things about the Hastert case interested me. First, although my character Mahoney is based in many ways—his appearance, being from Boston, being a Democrat—on former speaker Tip O'Neill, former Republican speaker Hastert also bears a striking physical similarity to my Mahoney. Second, when Hastert started in Congress his net worth was said to be only about $270,000. How did he amass enough money to pay someone $3.5 million? Lastly, Hastert was just the latest in a long line of politicians to be indicted for one thing or another. While researching this book I came across one congressman (a Democrat) indicted on sixteen federal counts for “solicitation of bribes, wire fraud, money laundering, obstruction of justice, racketeering, and conspiracy.” Just reading the counts of the indictment, you'd think the person arrested was a Mafia hood, not a United States congressman. So is Congress the bed of corruption I seem to think it is? Maybe not, but the institution is corrupt enough that I may never run out of ideas for books.

Lastly, I want to thank my son, Keith, for flying to Boston with me and assisting me with my research as we walked about the city and looked at the places mentioned in this book: the Park Plaza Hotel, Copley Plaza, the Warren Tavern, the Lansdowne Pub, Christian Science Plaza—and Fenway, of course. We also drove to Rhode Island, where I found Pine Orchard Road after driving around for about three hours, although I modified the locale somewhat for DeMarco's encounter with the McNultys. The most memorable part of the trip may have been the Italian dinner in the North End, where my son spoke in Italian with all the waiters while I stuffed my face.