Dead on Arrival (17 page)

‘Gotta go, Nick,’ DeMarco said. ‘Talk to you later.’

That sounded pretty good, like DeMarco wasn’t at all concerned about Fine’s threats, but the truth was that DeMarco was very concerned. He’d prefer that Fine not talk to the Bureau or the IRS about him. Those agencies worried him, but they didn’t scare him. But OPM – the Office of Personnel Management – scared the hell out of him. One of OPM’s jobs was establishing pay standards for civil service positions. They had these absurdly rigid rules that specified, more or less, what one had to do to merit a GS-13’s salary, and one of those rules was that people in those positions usually had to supervise other people or as a minimum be a specialist with some clearly defined function. If OPM ever took a hard look at DeMarco’s job, he’d be reduced from a GS-13 to a GS-3. And if that happened he
wouldn’t
be able to afford the house in Georgetown, which was already mortgaged to the hilt.

As he was leaving, he encountered Senator Broderick himself. Broderick had his butt planted on the blond receptionist’s desk, apparently just chatting with her. When he saw DeMarco, he stood up, smiled broadly, and stuck out his hand.

‘Hi, Bill Broderick,’ he said. ‘And are you one of my fine constituents, sir?’

After all he’d heard about the man, DeMarco couldn’t help but be surprised by Broderick’s boyish good looks, his seemingly genuine friendliness, his average-guy demeanor. But his overwhelming initial impression was:
lightweight
.

In response to Broderick’s question, DeMarco said, ‘No, sir. I live in the District.’ Then, and he didn’t know why he did it, he raised his right fist in the air and said, ‘No taxation without representation.’

The southern belle twittered; Broderick just looked puzzled.

Unlike the fifty states, the District of Columbia has no senators or congressmen representing it in Congress. So even though D.C. has a mayor and a city government, it is, for all intents and purposes, a federal fiefdom and Congress has extraordinary control, fiscal and otherwise, over what happens within its borders. This being the case, a frequently seen D.C. bumper sticker was
NO TAXATION WITHOUT
REPRESENTATION
– but Bill Broderick was apparently unaware of this popular sentiment.

‘Just kidding, Senator,’ DeMarco said. ‘I’m Joe DeMarco. I work over in the House. Pleased to meet you.’ Before Broderick could say anything else, DeMarco winked at the secretary and left.

Broderick opened the door to Nick Fine’s office without knocking, something that annoyed Fine no end.

‘So what did he have to say?’ Broderick asked.

‘Nothing. He gave me some bullshit about a congressman being curious about some things related to the attacks, but he wouldn’t tell me who or why.’

‘Is he going to be a problem?’ Broderick asked.

‘No. He’s just somebody’s lackey. I suspect somebody over in the House is grasping at straws, hoping DeMarco will find something to keep your bill from moving forward. So I’ll keep an eye on him, and maybe I’ll make his life hell because I told him I would, but he’s not going to be a problem.’

‘I hope not, Nick,’ Broderick said. ‘Things are starting to come together in the House. I don’t want anything gumming up the works, not at this point.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Fine said.

He hated having to call Broderick
sir
. He hated that almost as much as having to call him
senator
.

DeMarco may have played in a political arena, but he really didn’t pay all that much attention to the other players. Fortunately, he knew people who did.

There was an alcoholic reporter at
The Washington
Post
named Reggie Harmon who had been around forever. In the Senate, there was a guy he went to law school with, Packy Morris, who was chief of staff to the junior senator from Maryland. Packy breathed gossip instead of air and always seemed to know who was doing what to whom. But when the stakes were really high, and he wanted insight and intuition and not just data and rumors, he went to Miranda Bloom.

Miranda was older than DeMarco but younger than the speaker. Because she’d been blessed with a supermodel’s face, long legs, and a noticeable bosom, in her late teens she’d been a Miss America runner-up. She could have married a golden quarterback from Ol’ Miss, had a couple of gorgeous kids, and spent the rest of her life hosting parties and talking about how close she’d come to being princess for a year. But Miranda Bloom had been blessed with more than a good body and a lovely face. She had a wicked, devious, clever mind, and she put it to good use.

Miranda was a lobbyist and had been one for many years. She was in fact
the
lobbyist, the one desperate CEOs came to when they wanted legislation twisted unreasonably in their favor. And get it twisted, Miranda did. How she did what she did was something she could never have written down in a how-to book. There was no set formula, no consistent, identifiable set of rules. She operated by some deep inbred political instinct she couldn’t have explained to anyone other than someone just like herself, of which there were none. But most important, from DeMarco’s perspective, she knew every politician in town better than they were known by their lovers and their mothers; she
had
to know them that well to get them to do whatever she wanted done.

Miranda had been married three times that DeMarco knew of and had had more affairs than probably even she could remember. DeMarco suspected that one of those affairs had been with Mahoney, because once – when Miranda misstepped, when her marvelous instincts momentarily failed her – she did something that at best could have landed her in jail and at worst could have caused her to be disappeared, and the speaker sent DeMarco to help extricate her from the situation.

After being threatened by Nick Fine, DeMarco had decided he needed to talk to Miranda and he arranged to meet her in the bar of the St Regis Hotel located on K Street, close to her office. She was dressed in a white silk Versace blouse and a red St John suit that showed off her legs to their best advantage. A simple strand of pearls graced her long neck, and her earrings matched the pearls. DeMarco knew nothing about women’s fashion, but he would have bet even money that the outfit Miranda had on – clothes, jewels, and shoes – was worth more than he made in a month.

DeMarco loved talking to Miranda. She reminded him of Mrs Robinson in
The Graduate
, not because she looked like the late Anne Bancroft but because she was delightfully jaded, world-weary, wise, and sexy. With the help of a good surgeon she had aged extremely well, so well you had to wonder how she could have ever been a runner-up to anyone in Atlantic City all those years ago. It was her voice, though, that DeMarco thought was her best feature: a deep southern accent combined with a cigarette-and whiskey-tinged purr filled with the promise of seduction. Her voice alone had probably corrupted more lawmakers than her clients’ money.

‘Tell me about Nick Fine,’ DeMarco said.

‘Oh, that poor boy,’ Miranda said.

‘What’s that mean?’ DeMarco said. He found it hard to imagine anyone feeling any sympathy toward the guy he’d just met.

‘You know of course that he was chief of staff to the late Senator Wingate?’

‘No, I didn’t know that,’ DeMarco said.

‘Well, he was. He worked for Wingate for almost twenty years, started right out of college, but unfortunately for Nick, Wingate just lived forever and ever. It seemed like the man was
never
gonna die.’

‘What’s this—’

‘Wingate, that glorious old bastard, promised Nick that when he retired – it never occurred to Wingate that he might actually
die
– the party would back Nick for his seat. He told Nick he was what the Republicans needed: their own brilliant, handsome, articulate black politician, one who might actually get a few African Americans to vote for the Grand Ol’ Party. And twenty percent of Virginia’s residents are black. Wingate, for the last five years, had all but guaranteed Nick his job when he moved on – or up, as it were.’

‘But he didn’t get it,’ DeMarco said.

‘No, he did not. When Wingate joined that great caucus in the sky, the party hacks decided they didn’t like Wingate’s choice of successor, maybe because of his race, but more likely because they thought Bill Broderick was a guy they could push around.’

‘So why didn’t Fine quit when Broderick got the job?’

‘I heard he considered that quite strongly. I know he approached a couple of K Street firms and offered his services, and a lad like Nick would seem to be a real catch as a lobbyist. He’s been on the Hill a long time, knows who’s who, and has the brains to understand what needs to be done. Although I’d never hire him, I heard he got a few good offers, three times his current salary.’

‘Why wouldn’t you hire him?’

‘Because Nick’s one of those people that, if given the choice between battering you into submission and sweet-talking you into doing what he wants, he prefers to batter. Though he hides it most of the time, there’s a deep mean streak in Nick. Maybe he feels, had he not been born black and poor, he wouldn’t have been playing second banana to Wingate all those years. Whatever the reason, I just don’t think he’d fit into our little club. We lobbyists don’t go around
armed
, darlin’. We rely on our charm as well as our clients’ money, and Nick, handsome and smart as he is, is for the most part devoid of charm.’

She said
chawm
, and DeMarco couldn’t help but smile.

‘I still don’t get it,’ he said. ‘If he resented Broderick so much, why didn’t he take a job at some think tank or a consulting firm? For that matter, why didn’t he go home and start campaigning against Broderick?’

Miranda didn’t answer immediately. She was making eye contact with a tall gray-haired man at the bar who was about as handsome as Cary Grant. She tipped her martini glass at the gentleman, then said to DeMarco, ‘Well, what I heard was that Nick met with Cal Montgomery …’

Montgomery was the chairman of the Republican National Committee.

‘… and with Rick Walters …’

Walters was the minority leader in the Senate.

‘… and I think those boys gave Nick the ol’ your-time-will-come speech and probably made him some kinda promise. You know, Virginia’s other senator ain’t no spring chicken either. But I’m just guessin’, sugar, since I couldn’t get any details from anyone.’

Which meant Miranda wasn’t sleeping with anyone who’d attended the meeting.

‘This bill of Broderick’s,’ DeMarco said.

‘Now ain’t that somethin’,’ Miranda said.

‘How involved is Fine in that?’

‘Totally, would be my guess. Broderick’s had some incredible luck – if you can call the Capitol nearly gettin’ blown up
luck
– but the guy who maneuvered that bill through the Senate was Nicky.’

‘I can believe it,’ DeMarco said. ‘Is Broderick really the lightweight that he seems to be?’

‘Yes and no,’ Miranda said. ‘I mean, the man’s no intellectual giant, but he has one thing goin’ for him and that’s ambition: raw, unrestrained, unadulterated ambition. You’d never guess it to look at him, but he’s one of the most power-hungry bastards you’ll ever meet, and considering that he works with ninety-nine other power-hungry bastards, that’s saying something.’

‘What’s he wanna be, president?’

‘No. I mean, yes, of course he wants to be president, but that’s not what motivates him.’

‘What does?’

‘Sibling rivalry.’

‘You gotta be shittin’ me.’

‘No. Bill Broderick was the classic unloved and ignored middle sibling, and his two brothers were the apples of his daddy’s eye. The oldest is not only a neurosurgeon, he’s out there on the leading edge. And the other brother, the one on the West Coast, he’s on the Hollywood A-list and has been invited to the White House a lot more times than brother Bill. I’ve heard that if you even mention his brothers to him, he gets this look on his face like he’d like to strangle you. This is the first time in his life, being a senator
and
in the middle of a national debate, that he’s ever gotten more attention than those other two boys, and he’s just lovin’ it.’

When DeMarco saw Miranda glance over at the gray-haired matinee idol at the bar again, he thanked her for her time and tried to pay for the drinks, but she wouldn’t let him. She pointed out that she spent more on shoes than he made in a year. As DeMarco was shrugging into his topcoat, she asked, ‘Are you finally over that ex-wife of yours?’

DeMarco laughed, sat back down, and told her about his cousin getting arrested and Marie having the nerve to ask him for help. He concluded by saying, ‘Yeah, I’m definitely over her.’

Miranda Bloom looked at him for a long moment with her marvelous, dark, seen-everything eyes. Then she reached out and patted his hand and said, ‘Oh, honey, you are so not over her.’

Oliver Lincoln sat on the patio of his Key West home, flipping through a copy of
GQ
, drinking iced coffee. The soothing burble of a nearby fountain – he liked fountains; he had three on his estate – added to his contentment. A feature on Italian tailors reminded him that he needed to contact Rubinacci and schedule a fitting. Spring was just around the corner, and he needed a few new lightweight suits. The Naples tailor was so busy that if he didn’t visit soon –

‘I’m so sorry to disturb you, Mr Lincoln.’

Lincoln looked up. It was Esperanza, his maid.

‘Mr Harris is on the phone. I know you said you didn’t want to be disturbed …’

‘You did the right thing, dear. I’ll take the call. Thank you.’

Lincoln was always polite to his domestic staff and he paid them well, and they, in turn, took very good care of him. Lincoln was not, however, happy that Harris was calling. Harris was a conduit, a human relay station, and the only reason he could be calling was because the client wanted to speak to Lincoln. And that meant Lincoln would have to leave his comfortable home and his lovely shaded patio with its bubbling fountain.

‘What is it, Harris?’ Lincoln said into the phone. He had no need to be polite to Harris.

‘At eleven-thirty,’ Harris said, ‘Prudential is expected to be at seventy, Amerigas at thirty-two, Johnson and Johnson at fifty-six, Credit Suisse at fifty-eight, and Chubb at ninety-seven.’

Harris worked for a national brokerage firm, and if by some fluke a law enforcement agency happened to note that either the client or Lincoln had called the firm – or was called
by
the firm – that wouldn’t be considered unusual. And whenever the client or Lincoln called Harris, they didn’t call Harris’s extension directly but went though a number used by the general public. And if someone happened to be tapping Lincoln’s phone, they would have heard Harris give reasonably accurate predictions for five stocks for a particular time of day, but the five stock prices given equaled a ten-digit phone number – 703-256-5897 – assigned to a public booth, and the time given was the time Lincoln was to call the number.

But connecting with the client was annoying. Lincoln would now have to drive to a public phone booth, making sure he didn’t use one he’d used before or one too close to his house. And finding a functioning phone booth was no easy matter. The other thing that irked him was that the client had the audacity to presume that Lincoln would just drop whatever he was doing and make the call at the time specified. Well, considering what he was being paid, Lincoln had to admit that wasn’t completely unreasonable.

He checked his watch. He had an hour and a half before he had to make the call. He took a shower and shaved, then dressed in fawn-colored linen-silk trousers, a whimsical Charvet sport shirt, and Spanish sandals. On his head he wore a white Borsalino straw hat and Persol sunglasses. He looked in the mirror and was delighted by his reflection.

Lincoln had been told before that he looked like a young Orson Welles. He was tall, six-three, and powerfully built. If he didn’t watch his diet he could become quite obese – as Orson had in his later years – but he did watch his diet. He had sleek black hair, a handsome, somewhat arrogant face, and sensuous lips – appropriate, he thought, for a sensuous man.

There had been some rather ferocious two-legged predators who’d made the mistake of thinking that Lincoln, a man with style, was easy prey. The predators no longer walked the planet, but Lincoln did – shod in Spanish sandals.

He left the main house and strolled to the converted carriage house where he stored his cars. Which should he drive: the Porsche, the Jag, or the Mercedes SUV? The Porsche, he decided. It was too lovely a day to drive anything other than a convertible. He drove slowly down the long driveway toward the main entrance to his property, admiring his yard as he drove, and then waited patiently for the gates to open. Oliver Lincoln was a patient man.

He found a phone booth on the beach, one that wouldn’t be too noisy, one where he could watch lovely young women walk by in their swimwear. At precisely eleven-thirty he made the call.

The client began speaking as soon as he answered the phone, before even confirming that it was Lincoln calling. Not only was that rude, it was also rather rash. The odds were high that Lincoln was the caller, but it was also possible someone could have dialed the number by mistake.

‘We may have a problem,’ the client said.

‘Really,’ Lincoln said, but he doubted that was the case. On the other hand, the client was not given to panic.

‘There’s a man,’ the client said. ‘He’s some sort of investigator who works for Congress. I’m not sure who he works for specifically, but he’s not a cop and he’s not very high up the food chain. However, he’s taken an abnormal interest in the … the recent events.’

‘Such as?’ Lincoln said.

‘He’s talked to the DEA twice about that idiot Cray.’

‘So?’ Lincoln said. ‘Cray is dead and the FBI – according to
your
sources – are happy with the explanation for his fingerprint.’

‘That may be, but I don’t like the fact that he’s asking questions at all.’

‘Is there anything else?’

‘Yes, he was the one who found the Capitol policeman’s body. He apparently went to his home to question him.’

‘But since the policeman’s dead, I still don’t see that we have a problem,’ Lincoln said.

‘He was also in Key West,’ the client said.

‘Oh,’ Lincoln said.

‘Yeah, I thought that might get your attention.’

‘What was he doing here?’ Lincoln said.

‘I don’t know. My source at Homeland Security just said he was down there.’

‘Why was he at Homeland Security?’

‘He was asking about the man from New York.’

The client meant Youseff Khalid, the man who had tried to hijack the shuttle from LaGuardia.

Lincoln didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he asked, ‘Is there something you want me to do, or is this call simply informational?’

‘I want you to do something. I don’t like this man’s … persistence. And there’s something else. I found out he was involved in wrapping up an espionage ring on the West Coast a while ago, but I couldn’t get any details on what his role was. His name was mentioned only once in the press; then it disappeared like he was never there. What I’m saying is, this guy might be some kind of heavy hitter and I can’t take that chance.’

‘But what do you want me to do
exactly
?’ Lincoln said.

‘Neutralize him in some way. Incapacitate him. I don’t care what you do, but do something to stop his meddling.’

‘I’m not sure that’s wise,’ Lincoln said. ‘You said he works for Congress. If somebody in the House assigned him to investigate, and if something were to happen to him, that could cause complications. All you have so far is a man without a badge asking questions, but he’s not getting any answers other than those we want the public to have.’

‘I don’t want to take the chance, not at this point,’ the client said. ‘Do something.’

Lincoln could refuse, but to refuse would reduce his income. ‘I think it’s going to take about two hundred thousand to do what you want done,’ he said.

‘That’s fine,’ the client said.

That was the one thing Lincoln liked about the client: there was never any quibbling over money.