Читать книгу Dead Man’s List - Mike Lawson - Страница 12

It took half an hour to set up the phone call.

Paul Morelli couldn’t call the old man directly. He first had to call another man, and that man would tell the old man that they had to talk. He gave the middleman the number of a phone booth at the Guards restaurant on M Street in Georgetown. He had picked the Guards because it was close to his home and not usually frequented by the hordes of college kids who invaded every other drinking establishment on M Street. His other reason for selecting that particular place was that it had a phone booth—an actual booth where you could shut the door—and the booth wasn’t too close to either the dining room or the bar.

He arrived at the restaurant wearing glasses with heavy black frames and clear lenses, a baseball hat, and a light jacket. The jacket wasn’t necessary for warmth; he wore it because he could turn up the collar to further obscure his face. He knew, however, that if anyone studied him closely he’d be recognized. He entered the restaurant and immediately proceeded to the phone booth. The bartender was engaged in a conversation with a good-looking brunette and barely noticed his arrival.

Two minutes later the phone rang.

“Your people may have screwed up with that reporter,” Morelli said. “The reporter’s father found a number of suspicious things about his son’s death, and now there’s a guy from Congress looking into it.”

“What sort of things?” the old man said. His voice, as usual, was calm and completely devoid of emotion. Morelli had always admired this about him: he never allowed emotions to cloud his judgment. Emotions were counterproductive. Or maybe, he thought, the old man didn’t have any emotions.

Morelli quickly told him about Dick Finley’s concerns.

“None of that’s significant,” the old man said.

“True,” Morelli said. “But your guys missed something. They didn’t check Finley’s wallet, and inside it were five names written on a cocktail napkin.” Morelli quickly discussed the three men on Finley’s list. The old man was familiar with the names so the discussion didn’t take long.

“That’s old news,” the old man said. “You said five names. Who were the other two?”

“A couple of women, a Marcia Davenport and a Janet Tyler.”

Morelli hadn’t wanted to tell him about the women but finally decided that he had to. Dick Finley knew their names and now so did DeMarco and whoever DeMarco had talked to. Maybe even the police. The old man’s ability to acquire information was incredible—his tentacles spread in all directions—and it was always possible that he might learn about Finley’s list from some other source. But Morelli knew that he was on very dangerous ground here.

“Who are they?” the old man asked.

“Davenport’s a decorator who did some work on my house here in D.C. Tyler was on my staff in New York.”

“What do these women know?” the old man said.

“They don’t know anything,” Morelli said.

This was the only time Paul Morelli could recall ever having lied to the old man.

“I went through Finley’s laptop and his notebooks,” Morelli said. “According to what was there, Finley had contacted these women because I’d fired both of them. I guess he was hoping that they’d have something negative to say, something that he could use, but they didn’t, of course. Finley was grasping at straws.”

“You sure?” the old man said.

“Yes. The problem isn’t the list or the people on it,” Morelli said. “The problem is that this investigator may be plowing the same ground that Finley plowed.”

“And you still don’t have any idea how Finley got the doctor’s name or connected him to…”

“No. I don’t know how he made the connection.”

“So what do you wanna do? Do you want this investigator taken care of?”

For the old man it was that easy: You want somebody gone? No sweat.

“Absolutely not,” Morelli said. “If something happened to him, that might get people really digging, people like the FBI. I just want him watched for a while. I think he’ll give up in a couple of days, conclude there was nothing strange about Finley’s death, but until he does I’d like him watched. What I don’t want him doing is talking to the doctor.”

“You know,” the old man said, “the doc, he’s been useful lots of times. But since we can’t figure out how the reporter got on to him, well, I think maybe it’s time…”

“Yeah, I think you’re right,” Morelli said. “But this investigator, let’s just watch him. Oh, and one other thing: have someone come by and get Finley’s laptop. I want it found someplace. Finley’s father is suspicious because it’s missing.”

“You sure the computer’s safe?”

“Yes. The important stuff was in a notebook, the one he had on him the night he died.”

“Okay,” the old man. “So what’s this investigator’s name?”

“DeMarco,” Paul Morelli said. “Joe DeMarco.” Morelli thought about mentioning that DeMarco was Harry Foster’s godson, but decided not to. He wanted to keep it simple for the old man.

The old man was silent a moment then he said, “We’re so close, Paul. I never thought we’d get this far.”

Morelli almost said: I did. But he didn’t. Instead he said, “I didn’t either, but we have, and we’re going to make it. Thanks to you.”