Читать книгу Dead Man’s List - Mike Lawson - Страница 11

DeMarco’s illusions had been mangled so often by politicians that he thought he should qualify for handicapped parking—but he had to admit that he was pretty impressed with Paul Morelli.

Morelli hailed from a blue-collar family, the youngest of five children. He attended college on a poor-boy scholarship and according to legend, obtained his law degree studying twelve hours a day and doing charitable work in the time remaining. He apparently never slept. Ambitious, brilliant, and charismatic, he took to politics as baby eagles take to the air and became one of the youngest occupants of Gracie Mansion. And as mayor of New York, he was a grand success: crime dipped; no ugly scandals marred his term; labor unions refrained from untimely, crippling strikes. Then off to the Senate he flew, and the Senate, all the commentators concurred, was but a pit stop on his race to the Oval Office.

Certainly the way he looked wasn’t a hindrance. He was a youthful forty-seven, his hair was a curly black crown streaked with just the right amount of gray, and he had a profile that plastic surgeons could use for a template. He was also tall and perfectly proportioned, and if he tired of politics he could model swimwear. But even his critics had to admit that he was more than a pretty face. He was a dazzling strategist, the consummate negotiator, and one of the most eloquent speakers to ever choke a microphone. And the things he spoke of, the causes he championed, the battles he fought were always so…right. The last Democrat with such magnetism had been a man named Kennedy.

When DeMarco rang his doorbell that evening, Morelli answered the door himself. He was dressed casually: an NYU sweatshirt, softlooking beige slacks, and loafers. The sleeves of the sweatshirt were pulled up on his forearms, exposing strong wrists matted with coarse, dark hair. DeMarco felt stiff and overdressed in his suit and tie.

Morelli led DeMarco to a comfortable den, commenting on the warm autumn weather as they walked. Already in the den was a man that Morelli introduced as his chief of staff, Abe Burrows. Burrows sat in one of the two chairs in front of Morelli’s desk and had a stack of paper in his lap that was six inches high. He nodded at DeMarco but didn’t rise to shake his hand.

Unlike Paul Morelli, Burrows wasn’t physically impressive. He was short and overweight, his gut spilling softly over his belt. He had fleshy lips, a lumpy potato of a nose, and thin sandy hair that was styled in a curly Afro in a vain attempt to disguise the fact that he was going bald.

“Abe and I were just going over a few things,” Morelli said with a tired smile. “There just isn’t enough time during the day and I’m going out of town tomorrow.”

Morelli pointed DeMarco to the chair next to Burrows then took a seat in the high-backed chair behind his desk. Even dressed in a sweatshirt, Morelli looked like a man who belonged behind a big desk, giving orders, and DeMarco couldn’t help but feel inadequate. Here was a guy just a few years older than him, yet while Joe DeMarco was a GS-13 in a dead-end job, Paul Morelli was going to be running for president.

“Would you like a cup of coffee, Joe?” Morelli said, and when DeMarco said yes, Morelli glanced over at Burrows. Burrows frowned at being drafted as DeMarco’s waiter, but put the stack of papers aside and left to get the coffee.

“John Mahoney asked me to see you tonight, Joe, but he wasn’t too clear on why. Do you work for John?”

“No, sir, not directly,” DeMarco lied. “I’m just a lawyer who does odd jobs for Congress.” To deflect Morelli from asking more questions about who employed him and what he did, DeMarco said, “By the way, sir, my godfather’s done some work for you.”

“Your godfather?”

“Yes, sir. Harry Foster.”

“Well, I’ll be darned,” Morelli said. “Harry’s a good man; I’ve known him for years.” Then Morelli asked DeMarco a question that he thought was odd: “Are you and Harry close, Joe?”

“Uh, no, sir, not anymore. We were when I was a kid, but since I live here now and Harry lives in New York…”

“I understand,” Morelli said. At that moment Burrows returned with coffee for DeMarco and the senator. Morelli thanked Burrows, took a sip from his cup, then said, “So, Joe, what can I do for you?”

“Mr. Mahoney got a call from an old friend, an ex-congressman named Dick Finley who retired about ten years ago. Finley’s son just died and the police ruled the death as accidental, but Finley thinks his son may have been killed because of something he was working on.”

“What did his son do?” Morelli asked.

“He was a reporter. He worked for the Washington Post.”

“Oh, that guy,” Burrows said.

“You knew him, Abe?” Morelli said.

“Yeah, I knew him,” Burrows said, then made a face that led DeMarco to conclude that Burrows wasn’t a Terry Finley fan.

“What makes Mr. Finley think his son was killed?” Morelli said.

DeMarco told him.

“Hmm. Sounds rather speculative. But then, I imagine Mr. Finley is quite distraught by his son’s death. I assume he’s also a rather elderly gentleman.”

“Yes, sir,” DeMarco said, but he was thinking that Morelli was very good. Without having said anything negative, he’d just implied that Dick Finley was not only out of his mind with grief but possibly senile.

“At any rate,” Morelli said, “what does this have to do with me, Joe?” Before DeMarco could answer the question, the door to the den swung open and the senator’s wife entered the room.

DeMarco had seen newspaper photos of Lydia Morelli posing at the senator’s side at various Washington galas, but the photos hadn’t captured her frailty. She was petite, no more than five-two, and painfully thin. DeMarco had read that she was five or six years older than her husband, but in the same room with him, their age difference appeared closer to a decade. Nonetheless, she was still an attractive woman with large, blue-gray eyes and blond hair cut in a style that framed good cheekbones. Unlike the senator, she wasn’t dressed casually. She was wearing a beige-colored pantsuit, a pink blouse with a wide collar, and high-heeled shoes.

Lydia’s eyes widened momentarily in surprise when she saw DeMarco sitting in the den but she recovered quickly, smiled at him, and said to her husband, “I’m sorry, Paul. I didn’t know you had company.”

“Hi,” Morelli said to his wife. “Where’ve you been?”

Morelli had asked the question casually but DeMarco noticed a slight edge to his tone, as if he was annoyed that his wife had gone out or that she hadn’t told him where she was going.

“Oh, I had dinner with an old sorority sister,” Lydia said. She then raised her right fist into the air in a halfhearted manner, muttered “Go Alpha Pi,” and walked over to an armoire on the far side of the room. When she opened the armoire, DeMarco could see that it was actually a liquor cabinet filled with bottles of booze, glasses, and decanters. “I’ll be out of your way in just a shake,” Lydia said, her back to the men as she looked into the cabinet. “I just want to make myself a drink to take into the tub.”

DeMarco could see that the senator was somewhat embarrassed by his wife’s behavior. When she had said “sister,” she’d slurred the word slightly, and he noticed that as she walked toward the liquor cabinet she’d moved carefully, as if she was making an effort to maintain her balance. She’d obviously had several drinks with her sorority pal and was a bit tipsy.

Bottles in the cabinet clanked together loudly as Lydia searched for the one she wanted. A bottle of scotch clutched firmly by the neck, she turned and smiled at DeMarco again. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to this handsome gentleman, Paul?” she said.

“Oh, of course,” Morelli said. “Joe, this is my wife Lydia. Lydia, this is Joe DeMarco. Joe’s an investigator for the House.”

“Really,” Lydia said. “Like a private eye?”

Burrows laughed, probably thinking that Lydia was making a joke, and she immediately shot him a look that wiped the smile off his face. DeMarco had noticed that she’d ignored Burrows when she entered the room, and judging by her reaction to his comment, it was apparent she didn’t like the man.

Feeling the need to respond, DeMarco said, “No, ma’am. I’m just a lawyer. I’m…” Then he stopped. He didn’t think he should be discussing the reason for his visit with the senator’s wife, and Paul Morelli, immediately sensing DeMarco’s discomfort, said, “Joe’s just looking into a matter concerning a reporter, Lydia. Nothing significant.”

Lydia arched an eyebrow and said, “Well, it would have been much more interesting if he’d been a hardboiled private eye. He looks like one.”

“Lydia,” Morelli said, his impatience evident, “we need to…”

“Oh, all right. I’m out of here. I’ll let you boys get back to whatever you’re doing.” As she passed through the doorway, her right hip bumped the door frame slightly, and she muttered, “Oops.”

Morelli stared at the open door for a moment, then looked at DeMarco and said, “I assume you know what happened to our daughter, our Kate. It’s had horrible impact on us, particularly on Lydia. We’re both still recovering.”

Again, DeMarco couldn’t help but be impressed with Morelli’s diplomacy. Without saying anything derogatory, he’d just explained why his wife might have had a couple of drinks too many and had acted a bit silly in front of a complete stranger.

“Yes, sir,” DeMarco said, “and I’m sorry for your loss.”

DeMarco knew that Kate Morelli had actually been Paul Morelli’s stepdaughter—Lydia’s daughter from her first marriage—and that Paul had adopted her when she was less than two. She had been sixteen years old when she died in an automobile accident six months ago. DeMarco remembered a newspaper picture of the senator at his daughter’s funeral, supporting his wife, tears streaming down his handsome face. The photo had been a portrait of the perfect family with the center gouged out.

Morelli shook his head, as if scattering memories he didn’t want to recall, and said, “Where were we, Joe?” Then answering his own question, he said, “Oh, yes. You were about to tell me what Terry Finley’s death has to do with me.”

DeMarco started to tell him about the three men on Finley’s list—Bachaud, Frey, and Reams—and when he did, Abe Burrows erupted.

“Not this bullshit again,” Burrows said. “You know, DeMarco, this stuff with those three guys happened anywhere from five to fourteen years ago. Fourteen years! But people still keep talking about it. These men, they all did something dumb, but just because their mistakes helped Paul’s career there’s always some asshole implying that Paul caused their problems. And the Republican Party…Those bastards have spent thousands, maybe millions, investigating these three incidents, coincidences, whatever the hell they are—and they spent the money because they were hoping to find something to pin on the senator. Like maybe he paid that little faggot to climb into bed with Reams.”

“Abe,” Morelli said, apparently not happy with his aide’s choice of words.

“Well, it’s such horseshit!” Burrows said. “And I’ll tell you something else. I hate to speak ill of the dead, but Terry Finley…He was like one of those snappy little dogs you see. You know, those mutts about six inches high that are always straining against the leash, trying to get at you like they’re pit bulls. That was Finley. He was always searching for the next big scandal, the next Watergate, the next Lewinsky—and he never found it. He worked at the Post fifteen years, and like you just heard, people like the senator didn’t even know he existed.”

“I can’t confirm Abe’s impression of Terry Finley,” Morelli said to DeMarco, “but I have to agree with him about one thing: these allegations that I engineered the tragedies that befell those men is a subject that’s not only baseless but one that’s been completely discredited.”

DeMarco had the impression that this was the way the two men worked together: Burrows was the one who made the violent, emotional frontal attack while Morelli came across as being cool and reasonable. Or maybe he was cool and reasonable.

“There were two other names on the list, Senator,” DeMarco said. “Two women. A Marcia Davenport and a Janet Tyler.”

“Who?” Morelli said. “Do you recognize those names, Abe?”

“No,” Burrows said.

“Davenport is an interior decorator. You or your wife apparently consulted with her regarding this house when you first moved to Washington.”

“Is that right?” Morelli said. Then he snapped his fingers, “Wait a minute. A small, blond woman?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Right. I remember her now. She came to the house a couple of times, but as I recall, she and Lydia weren’t able to work together. But that’s all I remember. I don’t think I even spoke to the woman.”

That pretty much matched what Marcia Davenport had told DeMarco.

“And the other woman?” Morelli said. “What was her name again?”

“Janet Tyler. She worked on your staff when you were the mayor.”

“Well, shit,” Burrows said. “The entire New York city government was part of the senator’s staff back then.”

“So you don’t remember her either, Abe?” Morelli said.

“No,” Burrows said.

“Joe, I’ll tell you what,” Morelli said. “Why don’t you stop by my office tomorrow and Abe’ll see what we have in our files on the Tyler woman. I mean, I’m just as curious as you are as to why her name would be linked to mine.”

“Aw, come on, Paul,” Burrows said. “This guy Finley, he’s got a bug up his ass about his kid’s death, but it doesn’t have anything to do with us.”

“Richard Finley was a distinguished member of Congress, Abe,” Morelli said, “and his son died tragically. If we can do something to help make sense of what happened, I want to help.”

DeMarco had to admit: he was pretty impressed with Paul Morelli.