House Rivals (25 page)

She was going to miss Bill Logan—she really was—but Bill just had to go.

30

“Where are you, DeMarco?” Westerberg asked.

“In my motel room. Why? What's going on?”

“You need to get down to the Bismarck police station. Right now.”

DeMarco drove to the station and asked the cop at the main desk where he could find FBI Agent Westerberg. The cop told him to wait. Five minutes later Westerberg arrived in the station lobby to meet him. “Come with me,” she said.

“And good morning to you, too.”

Westerberg ignored him. She led him to what looked like an interrogation room: a table, a chair on one side, two chairs on the other, a camera up on the wall. Sitting in one of the chairs was the big detective with the kind eyes who'd interviewed him after Sarah was killed.

“Sit down, DeMarco,” Westerberg said—directing DeMarco to what he thought of as the suspect's seat.

“What's this all about?” he asked

“Mr. DeMarco,” the Bismarck detective said, “you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say—”

“Hold on. What's going on here?”

The detective—whose name was Fredericks—ignored him and continued with the Miranda warning, concluding with, “Do you understand your rights as I've explained them to you?”

“Yeah, I understand them. Now what's going on?”

“Bill Logan was shot last night. He's dead. Would you mind telling me where you were last night?”

“You gotta be shittin' me,” DeMarco said to Westerberg.

“Answer the question, DeMarco,” Westerberg said. “Where were you last night?”

“Well, from about five thirty until eight, I was at a restaurant called Jack's Steakhouse. I had dinner with a woman.”

“What was her name?”

“Uh, Christie something. A tall brunette. I don't know that I ever got her last name. But I know she works at Walmart and should be at work today.”

“And where did you go after dinner?” Detective Fredericks asked.

DeMarco looked away, feeling sheepish, particularly with Westerberg there. “I went back to Christie's apartment and spent the night there. I left about seven this morning.”

“Jesus, DeMarco,” Westerberg said, like he'd done something wrong.

“What?” DeMarco said.

“Would you object to a gunshot residue test on your hands and arms?” the detective said.

“No. Swab away. Or whatever it is you do.”

After the gunshot residue test was complete—the results were ­negative—the detective said he was going to Walmart to talk to Christie and see if she'd confirm DeMarco's alibi.

“Let's go back into the interrogation room,” Westerberg said. “I want to show you something.”

Inside the room, DeMarco again back in the suspect's chair, Westerberg placed a multipage, handwritten document on the table in front of him. “Take a look at that. That's was in the inside pocket of the jacket Logan was wearing when he was shot. It's already been dusted for prints, and the only prints on it are Logan's. If that document is authentic, which I think it is, there's enough there to get Marjorie Dawkins, three state legislators, and two judges. I'm not sure we can get Leonard Curtis, however. Logan said Curtis ordered him and Dawkins to bribe the judges and legislators, and he provides enough details that maybe what Logan wrote will convince a jury, but I'm not sure.”

DeMarco was scanning the document as Westerberg talked. While still reading, he said, “It doesn't matter. If we can get Dawkins, she'll give us Curtis.”

“This will work,” DeMarco said, tapping Logan's statement. “What you don't do is give Dawkins immunity for testifying against these politicians. Tell her she only gets immunity if she gives up Curtis and tells us who killed Sarah. Let's go talk to her.”

“You are not going near Marjorie Dawkins, DeMarco. As I've told you about sixteen times, you are not law enforcement. I have enough now to make a case against her and five other people, and I am not about to let you screw it up.
I'll
go talk to Dawkins. In fact, I'm going to arrest Dawkins. And Detective Fredericks is going to come with me and ask where she was last night.”

“You think she might have killed Logan?”

“I don't know. If she knew he'd prepared that document, she certainly wouldn't have left it on his body.”

“If she didn't kill him, then who did?”

“I don't know. Maybe the person who tried to kill Logan the other night at his office. Maybe the person who killed Sarah Johnson. I don't know.”

The bell rang and Marjorie answered the door. Dick was grocery shopping and the boys were in school. She opened the door to find a woman and a big guy she didn't know standing on her porch. The big guy identified himself as Detective Harold Fredericks, Bismarck Homicide, and introduced the woman as Agent Westerberg, FBI.

“Mrs. Dawkins,” he said, “Bill Logan was shot and killed last night.”

“What?” Marjorie said, backing up, holding her hands over her mouth. “What are you talking about? Oh, my God, this can't be true. Are you sure it's Bill? He just can't be dead.”

Marjorie thought she did a pretty good job of feigning surprise. She tried to squeeze out a few tears, but couldn't make that happen.

“I need to ask you some questions, Mrs. Dawkins,” the big cop said.

“Yeah, sure. Anything,” Marjorie said.

“But first I need to tell you your rights.”

“What?”

“You have the right to remain silent. You . . .”

After he finished, he said, “Would you like to have a lawyer present, Mrs. Dawkins?”

“A lawyer? Why would I need a lawyer? What's going on here?”

“Can you tell me where you were last night, Mrs. Dawkins?”

Marjorie didn't spit it all out at once. She said she'd had dinner with Dick and the boys about five, went to the PTA meeting, and had drinks afterward with a bunch of moms. When Fredericks asked, she filled in the details regarding the time and where she went for drinks. When he asked what time she got home, she told him. “Dick can tell you I got home about ten, ten thirty, and didn't go out for the rest of the night.”

“Can anyone beside your husband verify you didn't leave the house?”

“Beside my husband?” she said, acting confused. Then she pretended to remember the emails she'd sent out and the phone call she'd made. “I'm guessing you can confirm those emails were sent from the desktop computer here in the house,” she added.

“Will you give permission for one of our technicians to examine your computer and gain access to your phone records?” Fredericks asked.

“Sure. I don't have anything to hide. But I can tell you I'm starting to get a little mad here. My partner, who was also my friend, was killed and you people are treating me like a, like a . . . like a suspect or something.”

Marjorie noted that the FBI lady hadn't said a word since the detective started questioning her. She just sat there, with this sort of half smile on her face.

“And why is the FBI here?” she asked. “I mean, I don't know anything about legal jurisdictions and all that, but is Bill's murder some sort of federal crime?”

“No,” Westerberg said. “Mrs. Dawkins, I'm arresting you on five counts of bribing public officials in two states. You've already been read your Miranda rights and I'd suggest you not say another word until you have an attorney present.”

“What!” Marjorie shrieked.

“Turn around, Mrs. Dawkins. I'm going to handcuff you.”

And that's when Dick walked through the side door that led to the garage. “Hey, you're not going to believe what I heard down at the store. I ran into—”

Then he saw his wife in handcuffs.

In the last five hours, Marjorie had been on an emotional roller coaster.

The roller-coaster ride started when Westerberg and an assistant U.S. attorney gave Marjorie and her lawyer a copy of a document that Bill had prepared and which had been found in the jacket Bill was wearing when she shot him. At first, she was numb with shock as she read what Bill had written, then she got so mad she was surprised she didn't have a stroke. If Bill Logan had still been alive she would have killed him again. When she read how she'd bribed a federal judge—Bill helpfully providing the day she met the judge, the restaurant where they met, the name of a waitress who could corroborate the meeting, and how she'd obscured the money trail—she began to laugh hysterically, then the laughter turned to tears. She'd probably spent two of the last five hours crying.

It had never occurred to her that Bill would write a document implicating her—and himself—for things they'd done for Leonard Curtis. He must have prepared it to protect himself in case Curtis was thinking about killing him and he'd probably been planning to show it to her, but she'd shot him before he could. It had also never occurred to her to search Bill. Plus, she hadn't had time to search him after she shot him because her whole plan revolved around her being gone from the tavern for the shortest period possible.

Unlike half the women in Bismarck, Marjorie had never slept with Bill Logan—but the man had truly and totally fucked her.

Marjorie never said a word when Westerberg and the U.S. attorney attempted to question her. The U.S. attorney eventually concluded the meeting by saying that the only way she could avoid going to prison for years was to cooperate and testify against Leonard Curtis—and her first thought was: Murdock is going to kill me.

She also realized that she'd made a serious mistake. Her lawyer was from a firm that Curtis used. A firm that made a lot of money off Leonard Curtis. She asked her attorney if he understood that he was representing her and not Curtis, and the weasel said of course, he understood. He was her lawyer, not Curtis's.

Yeah, right. Marjorie was willing to bet everything she owned that as soon as he went back to his office he was going to call Curtis.

Tomorrow morning she'd be arraigned and granted bail—and by tomorrow evening every person she knew would know she'd been arrested. Her sons were going to be humiliated. She needed to figure out what she was going to do, but it seemed pretty clear. She really had only one option. She was going to have to testify against Curtis. She was also going to give up Murdock, although she didn't really know much about Murdock other than his name and that he probably lived in Denver.

She figured if she did both of those things, she might get immunity. But until Curtis's trial—which probably wouldn't take place for a couple of years because his lawyers would delay things as long as possible—they'd have to put her and her family in a witness protection program. She needed to make sure the FBI lady understood that Curtis would kill her to prevent her from testifying. Logan's document alone wouldn't be enough to convict Curtis, but her testimony would be—after which her life would be over.

Her family was going to have to move away from Bismarck—no way would she continue to live in the city and become the butt of jokes. Dick would have to get some kind of job and she would, too. But she knew she'd never get anything in politics after Curtis's trial. She could just see herself working at Walmart, like that bimbo Christie.

Leonard Curtis was in Pierre when he got a call from a lawyer named Barrington who practiced in Bismarck. Barrington's message said the subject was urgent, but Curtis didn't get around to calling him until three hours later.

Barrington told him that he'd been retained to represent Marjorie Dawkins. After that, the phone call was like a series of aftershocks following an earthquake: Bill Logan had been killed. Logan had left a document incriminating Dawkins and Curtis. Dawkins had been arrested for bribery. The government was offering Dawkins a deal if she'd testify against Curtis.

The first thing Curtis did was make sure Barrington was going to continue to represent Dawkins while at the same time keeping him informed. “Yes, sir,” Barrington said.

Then he texted Murdock:
Did you kill Logan?

No. Dawkins did. I saw her do it.

Whoa! He was shocked that Dawkins had killed Logan but then, when he thought about it, maybe that wasn't so shocking. Who else would have killed the man if Murdock didn't? Curtis had told Dawkins that she needed to get Logan under control if she wanted to keep her job and it appeared that she decided the best way to do that was to kill the man. Marjorie Dawkins was one cold-blooded little bitch.

He was less surprised that Murdock had witnessed Logan's murder. He'd told Murdock that he wanted him in Bismarck so he'd be nearby if he had to take care of Logan or Dawkins, and he'd told Murdock to keep tabs on them. But he didn't see how Murdock being a witness to Logan's murder was going to do him any good. Murdock was not the kind of guy who was going to testify against Dawkins in a courtroom.

He texted:
Stick with Dawkins. But don't do anything unless I tell you.

Roger that.

Curtis called his pilot and said, “Get the plane ready to go. I want to fly to Bismarck.”

He wanted to see this document that Logan had left behind and he wanted to talk to Dawkins's lawyer. He also might talk to Dawkins. He wasn't sure what he was going to say to her, but he wanted to see if it looked like she was going to testify against him. Maybe he could work out some kind of deal with her if she agreed to take the fall without pointing the finger at him. If he offered her a million bucks on top of the annual salary he was paying her, that ought to be sufficient compensation for her to spend a few years in a cell—and he'd probably spend at least a million if he had to defend himself against a bunch of cockamamie charges.

And if that didn't work, there was always Murdock.

31

DeMarco packed his bag and swung by the police station to say good-bye to Westerberg. He found her in a conference room with half a dozen people. He was guessing the other people were more FBI agents and lawyers. With Dawkins's arrest and Logan's confession, the Bureau was in full swing. This was the sort of case they lived for: a witness to testify against a billionaire and five politicians who would soon be doing televised perp walks.

It wasn't clear to DeMarco who had jurisdiction over the whole mess. The FBI was involved because one of the judges bribed had been a federal judge and Curtis's crimes had occurred in multiple states. Regardless of who had jurisdiction, DeMarco was betting that Westerberg was feeling pretty good about things as she'd get the credit for pushing Logan to the point where he virtually wrote a confession and for busting Dawkins. DeMarco certainly didn't care who got the credit. The last thing he wanted was his name in the news.

“I just came to tell you good-bye, Agent,” he said.

“You're going back to Washington already?”

“Yeah. My work here is done.” He thought
my work here is done
sounded like something the Lone Ranger might say. “Logan's dead and Dawkins will soon be singing like a bright yellow bird against Curtis. But I'm guessing it's going to be months, if not years, before Curtis's trial starts.”

“Yeah, we've got a lot of work to do to build a case.”

“Do you think Curtis will actually be convicted?”

“I think if Dawkins testifies against him, there's a better than eighty percent chance.”

“Eighty percent?”

She shrugged. “He's a rich guy with a lot of lawyers. And even with Logan's written statement and Dawkins's testimony, it's still going to be tough to make a beyond-a-reasonable-doubt case that he ordered Logan and Dawkins to bribe people. Curtis will say that Dawkins acted on her own,
thinking
she was doing what Curtis wanted, and now she's only implicating Curtis to save herself. But I think our chances are pretty good. Dawkins will make a good witness.”

“What about Logan's killer? You got any leads on him?”

“No. It was probably the same guy who killed Sarah, although he didn't use the same kind of weapon. And I'm guessing Curtis ordered Logan murdered, but I don't know for sure. What I do know is that it wasn't you or Dawkins since you've both got alibis.”

“Did you seriously think that I might have killed Logan?” DeMarco said.

“No,” Westerberg admitted.

“That's good. Well, I've got to get going. Best of luck to you, Agent, and thanks for your help. And I'll be sure to tell John Mahoney that you did a good job.”

DeMarco turned to leave but Westerberg said, “Hey, hold on a minute, DeMarco. I don't want you to think you're getting away with something here. You may not have killed Logan, but I know you were the guy who fired those shots at him that night at his office. I'm positive it was you. You did it to panic him—and it worked.”

“Me?” DeMarco said. “I don't think so, Agent. I don't go around shooting guns at people. I don't even own a gun.”

“Bullshit, DeMarco. I know you did it.”

DeMarco smiled and walked away.