The Inside Ring

‘I thought Edwards was a hunter,’ DeMarco said. ‘Why didn’t he use one of his own guns?’

‘He hocked ’em,’ Prudom said, ‘because he’d been off work so long. All he had in his house were a couple of shotguns.’

‘And I suppose the Bureau is investigating the armory theft?’ DeMarco said.

Prudom nodded impatiently. ‘Of course, along with army CID, but we haven’t come up with anything that ties it directly to Edwards – other than the fact that all the weapons that were stolen were in his damn house. The .45 he killed himself with? It came from the armory.’

‘Is the rifle the only physical evidence you have?’ Banks asked.

‘You mean besides the suicide note?’ Prudom said.

‘Yeah,’ Banks said.

‘Well, we found a receipt in his car from a gas station about thirty miles from Chattooga River. But the guy left nothing in the shooting blind, and when you think about it, that’s also amazing. He was in that hole digging, eating, shitting, pissing, and shooting – and he managed not to leave any trace. He took all his garbage with him when he left and while he was in there he must have been covered head to foot in some kinda suit because he didn’t leave any hair or skin or anything else we could get DNA from. We didn’t find the suit in his house, by the way.’

Prudom closed his notebook. ‘The good news, General, is that this helps the Secret Service. I mean it’s not like their procedures were sloppy or they were goofin’ off on the job. This guy Edwards may have been a whack job – but he was good. Really good.’

‘But how did he plan this thing?’ DeMarco asked. Banks almost gave himself whiplash as his head spun toward DeMarco.

‘What do you mean?’ Prudom said.

‘You said Edwards went down to Georgia the week before the Secret Service’s advance team arrived at Chattooga River, and that’s when he dug the shooting blind. How’d he know when to go?’

‘We’re not sure, but this thing the President did every year with Montgomery always got plenty of ink. And obviously lots of people here in D.C. knew when the President was leaving and where he was going. The other thing is, we found out the other day that when Montgomery was at some book signing he talked about going down to Georgia to do some fishing with the President. We got that from his publicist. So to answer your question, we don’t know exactly how Edwards figured out the President’s schedule but we do know that planning for the trip wasn’t controlled like the Manhattan Project.’

After Prudom left, Banks and DeMarco sat together in silence a moment thinking about what Prudom had told them.

‘You know,’ Banks said, ‘Mattis being in the reserve, same as Edwards, you need to follow up on that armory break in.’

‘If the FBI can’t find anything, I doubt I’ll be able to.’

‘Yeah, but you gotta check it out.’

‘Sure,’ DeMarco said.

He had no intention of checking it out.

11

The man sitting at the bus stop across from Secret Service headquarters wore a blue polo shirt, chinos, and sandals with white socks. He was in his sixties, had iron-gray hair, and a face that DeMarco could envision, for some reason, behind the plastic face shield of a riot helmet. This was Emma’s man Mike, last name unknown.

‘Hi,’ DeMarco said as he sat down next to Mike on the bench.

‘Hey, Joe,’ Mike responded, but he didn’t look at DeMarco. His eyes continued to scan the building across the street, moving from exit to exit, and occasionally over to a nearby parking lot. When you got a guy from Emma, you got a pro.

‘How’s it going?’ DeMarco asked.

‘Like watchin’ paint dry,’ Mike replied. ‘He leaves his house at six thirty and gets here at eight – 395 was a fuckin’ parking lot this morning. He goes directly to this building where he stays all morning. What he’s doin’ in there, I don’t know. At twelve he comes outside, grabs a burrito from a street vendor, takes a walk around the Mall, then goes back inside the building.’

‘Did Mattis see you tailing him?’

Now Mike looked at DeMarco; his stare answered DeMarco’s question.

‘And I take it no one approached him while he was taking his lunchtime walk.’

‘You take it right,’ Mike said.

They sat in silence for a while, Mike watching the building, DeMarco watching the women walk by. As he sat there, DeMarco thought back to the FBI briefing. What Edwards had done fascinated him. He couldn’t imagine a man lying in a dark, claustrophobic space for two days waiting for the opportunity to take a shot and then having the balls to stay in the shooting blind while the FBI scoured the bluff above him for evidence.

Which made DeMarco think of something else: Why did he take the shot he took? There must have been an easier shot Edwards could have taken while the President was fishing. Instead he waited until the day the President was departing, surrounded by his bodyguards. Then he remembered that Prudom had said that while the President was on the river the Secret Service had patrolled the bluff, so maybe that’s what had prevented Edwards from shooting earlier.

The skill it had taken to sneak into and out of the area was also remarkable. Prior to the shooting Edwards had to get past a Secret Service cordon to get to the shooting blind he had previously dug. After the FBI’s forensic people arrived on-site, Prudom said they worked sixteen hours a day, and when they weren’t there, the area had been patrolled to keep out sightseers and protect the crime scene. Yet the assassin had left the shooting blind, probably the day after the shooting, reconcealed the blind, and either climbed back up to the top of the bluff or down the bluff to the river, carrying his waste and all his gear with him. Then he waltzed past all the people guarding the site.

The rifle also intrigued DeMarco. Why would Edwards have taken the assassination weapon back to his house? Why didn’t he just dump it the first chance he got? It was almost as if …

‘You ever seen pictures of Mickey Mantle, Joe?’ Mike said. ‘I don’t mean right before he died of cancer, but when he was playing.’

‘Sure,’ DeMarco said.

‘Well that’s who this kid looks like. He looks like the Mick, ol’ number seven. Why am I tailing a guy who works for the Secret Service and looks like Mickey Mantle, Joe?’

DeMarco rose from the bench. ‘I’ll check in with you again tomorrow, Mike. Thanks for helping out on this.’

‘Sure, Joe,’ Mike said, ‘but if I gotta spend another day sittin’ in the sun on a concrete bench, I’m gonna go crazy. And when I do, you’re gonna be the first person I kill.’

DeMarco lived in a small town house in Georgetown, on P Street. The town house, a carbon copy of several others on the block, was a narrow two-story affair made of white-painted brick. Wrought-iron grillwork covered the windows; ivy clung to the walls; azaleas bloomed in the flowerbeds in the spring. It was a cozy place, and he and his neighbors pretended the artfully twisted black bars barricading their lower-floor windows were installed for aesthetic reasons. He had purchased the house the year he married.

The interior of DeMarco’s home looked as if thieves had backed a moving van up to the front door and removed everything of value – which, in a way, is exactly what had happened. A house once filled with fine furniture, Oriental rugs, and pricey artwork now contained only a few haphazardly selected pieces that DeMarco had bought at two yard sales one Saturday morning. The entertainment center in his living room had been replaced with a twenty-four-inch television on a cheap metal stand. A lumpy recliner sat a few feet from the television and on the floor near the recliner was a boom box that served dual purpose as a radio and a place to set his drink when he read or watched TV.

DeMarco tossed his suit coat on the recliner – the antique oak coat stand that had been by the door was gone – and walked toward his kitchen. Each step he took on the bare hardwood floors echoed throughout the house like punctuation marks in a sonnet to loneliness.

When DeMarco’s wife left him she decided not to take the house. Her lover had a house. She didn’t, however, like her lover’s furniture so her lawyer made DeMarco a deal: if he didn’t contest the divorce he would pay no alimony and get to keep his pension and a heavily mortgaged house. In return, his wife would get all the furniture and furnishings – and all the money in their joint savings account, the cash value of his insurance policies, and DeMarco’s best car.

DeMarco’s dinner was two slices of cold pizza eaten while standing in front of the refrigerator. Dinner the night before had been the same pizza, except hot from the box. DeMarco was a good cook and he enjoyed cooking, but he didn’t enjoy cooking for one.

He felt restless after his supper and the pizza sat like a cheese boulder in his gut. He changed into a pair of shorts, a sleeveless Redskins T-shirt, and a pair of scuffed tennis shoes and trudged slowly up the stairs to the second floor of his home. For a brief period, DeMarco’s ex had used one of the two upstairs bedrooms as a studio, ruining yards of perfectly good canvas while whining that the windows didn’t let in the northern light. This hobby, like others that followed, lasted only a short time before she returned to those activities at which she excelled: shopping and adultery.

Now the bedrooms were empty and the only thing in the upper story of DeMarco’s home was a punching bag, a fifty pounder that swung black and lumpy from a ceiling rafter like a short, fat man who had hanged himself. When asked why he had installed the heavy bag he would shrug and say it was for aerobic exercise, but the truth was that he loved to beat the shit out of an inanimate object when the mood struck him.

He put on his gloves, warmed up with a little shadowboxing, and attacked the bag. The bag took the first round but by the second he was drenched with sweat, pounding leather with a vengeance, imagining his wife’s lover’s ribs cracking like kindling with each blow. His wife’s lover had been his cousin. He was so into violent fantasy that he almost didn’t hear the doorbell ring.

Standing on his porch was a compact man in his thirties wearing a gray suit. When DeMarco noticed the pistol in the shoulder holster beneath the man’s suit jacket, he gave the stranger his full attention. Behind the man was a black limousine with government plates parked at the curb.

‘Are you Joseph DeMarco?’ the man asked.

‘Yeah,’ DeMarco said, still trying to catch his breath. ‘How can I help you?’ DeMarco thought it prudent to be polite to armed men.

‘Patrick Donnelly, director of the Secret Service, would like a word with you, sir. Would you mind joining the director in his car?’

Ah, shit, DeMarco thought. Shit, shit, shit. On the case less than two days and the Secret Service already knew he was involved. He thought of slamming the door in the agent’s face and running to hide under his bed.

‘Please, sir, would you mind coming with me,’ the man prodded.

Dignity prevailed over the ostrich defense. ‘You bet,’ DeMarco said, his voice sounding more confident than he felt.

Donnelly’s driver opened the rear door of the limo for him. Feeling foolish in his shorts and Redskins T-shirt, DeMarco stepped into the car and took his place on the jump seat so he could face Patrick Donnelly. The armed driver closed the door behind DeMarco then remained standing outside the limo, several feet away; apparently Mr Donnelly didn’t want his man to hear their conversation.

Lil’ Pat Donnelly stared at DeMarco, his eyes projecting his hostility. He was a slender man in his late sixties, no more than five feet six inches tall. His hair was dyed glossy black and parted so precisely on the left side that DeMarco could imagine him using a straightedge to guide his comb. He had small features, close-set ears, and narrow black eyes with drooping lids. His mouth was a cruel slash and his face was covered with a smear of five o’clock shadow. DeMarco thought he looked like a fencer, slim and wiry and nasty – the type who would use real swords if allowed the opportunity.

DeMarco ignored Donnelly’s glare and looked casually around the limo, at the leather upholstery, the small TV, the bar inset into the back of the front seat. The jump seat of the limo was more comfortable than his recliner, and he bet Donnelly’s TV got better reception than his did.

‘Afraid I’m gettin’ sweat on your upholstery,’ he said to Donnelly. ‘I was working out.’ Ya little shit, he added silently.

‘Shut up,’ Donnelly said. ‘You were in Middleburg today where you interrogated a retired Secret Service agent. What in the hell makes you think you have the authority to do such a thing?’

DeMarco gave Donnelly the same line he’d fed John Engles. ‘Congress is concerned about the President’s security, Mr Donnelly, and—’

‘Congress my ass,’ Donnelly said. ‘You talked to Frank Engles because Banks told you that jackass idea of his about Billy Mattis.’

DeMarco’s face gave away nothing but inside his gut was a small mad animal, gnawing at the lining of his stomach. He knew how Donnelly had found out about him: Engles, still loyal to his old outfit, had called some pal and told him about DeMarco and his questions. The word immediately went up the chain of command to Donnelly. Donnelly knew, even if no one else did, about Banks’s concern with Mattis. And maybe Donnelly had someone check Banks’s appointment calendar and found out that DeMarco had met with him. DeMarco should have used a phony name with Engles.

‘What happened at Chattooga River is a matter for the FBI and the Secret Service, mister, and you are going to stay out of it. Do you understand? Not only have they found the guy who did it, there are still three hundred goddamn FBI agents investigating the assassination attempt! Even if you had the authority, what in the fuck do you think you could possibly do that the FBI and my people aren’t already doing?’

Before DeMarco could respond, Donnelly said, ‘I run the Secret Service, you idiot, which means I can find out anything about anybody. I know, for example, that you’re John Mahoney’s heavy. If it’s something easy, getting a few guys to compromise on some chickenshit bill, Mahoney sends his chief of staff, that fat guy who wears suspenders. But when he doesn’t want to compromise, when he wants to shove his dick up somebody’s ass, he sends you.’

‘I don’t work for the Speaker,’ DeMarco said, ‘I’m an independent coun—’

‘Bullshit. You don’t show up on any org chart linking you to Mahoney, but Mahoney set up your position. Counsel Pro Tem. What a crock. You work for Mahoney and I know it.’

But can you prove it? DeMarco wondered.

‘I also know why Mahoney doesn’t want any official connection to you. Your father was Gino DeMarco, a low-life cocksucker who worked for Carmine Taliaferro. Fifteen years ago your daddy wasted three of Taliaferro’s rivals before the fourth one got lucky and plugged him. Isn’t that right?’

DeMarco said nothing but he felt like ripping Donnelly’s tiny ears off for calling his dad a cocksucker.

‘The amazing thing,’ Donnelly said, ‘is that Mahoney hired you when you got out of law school. I don’t know why he hired you – that’s the one mystery I haven’t unraveled – but I know he did. And I do know that your father is the reason Mahoney keeps you down in his cellar. He doesn’t want to have to explain your dago ass to anybody.’

Donnelly leaned forward so his face was closer to DeMarco’s and said, ‘So let me ask you something, sonny boy. Knowing John Mahoney to be the self-serving son of a bitch that he is, how long do you think you’ll keep your job when the press finds out about you and your father and your job with the Speaker?’

‘Did you personally assign Billy Mattis to the President’s security detail, Mr Donnelly?’ DeMarco said.

‘Why you …’ Donnelly took a breath. ‘Now you listen to me and you listen good: my agents are clean. They all have outstanding records, particularly Mattis, and they all passed lie detector tests. Banks is a fool to think the Secret Service had any part in this.’

‘Then why didn’t you have the warning note analyzed?’

‘You impertinent son of a bitch!’ Donnelly said, his face turning scarlet.

That’s it, DeMarco thought. Have a stroke, you little fuck.

Donnelly opened his mouth to scream something else but managed to get his emotions under control. He jerked his thumb in the direction of DeMarco’s house. ‘I’d suggest you put that place on the market,’ he said. ‘You’re not going to be living in this town much longer.’

‘Really,’ DeMarco said.

Donnelly smiled. His teeth were small and sharp. ‘Your job requires a security clearance, smart ass. Guess what agency does the background checks to provide that clearance? Now beat it.’

DeMarco stepped from the limo and closed the door quietly. As he watched the taillights of the limo disappear up the block, he stood quietly in the center of the street, feeling the sweat go cold on his arms and legs.

So Donnelly knew about his father.

12

A woman answered Emma’s phone; she sounded like Emma, the same low voice, the same inflections, but the speaker wasn’t Emma. The woman, whoever she was, passed the phone to Emma who said, ‘If you’re a telemarketer, I’m going to hunt you down, burn your house, and kill your dog.’ She sounded serious.

‘It’s Joe, Emma. And wouldn’t it be easier to get on one of those do-not-call lists?’

‘Those lists are unconstitutional.’

‘And house burning and dog killing aren’t?’

‘Why are you calling at such an ungodly hour?’

‘Emma, it’s only nine.’

‘Oh. So what do you want?’

‘Patrick Donnelly just came to my house and threatened me. The other day, when we listened to your friend, the cello player, you seemed to know something about him. I’d like to know what you know.’

‘He came to your house?’

‘Yeah.’

Emma hesitated then said, ‘All right. Come on over.’

Her voice sounded strange. She sounded … worried. DeMarco had rarely known Emma to be worried about anything.

Emma answered her door wearing jeans, a white T-shirt, and a blue smock smeared with paint. DeMarco didn’t know she painted; just one more thing about her he’d discovered accidentally. She took DeMarco into a living room that could have made the cover of House Beautiful and poured them whiskeys. She slugged hers down and immediately poured herself another.

Before DeMarco could say anything a young woman entered the living room. He was immediately struck by her resemblance to Emma. She was tall like Emma and had Emma’s nose and Emma’s chin, but her hair was dark and her eyes were brown. The young woman looked over at DeMarco, her expression wary.

‘Julie, this is Joe DeMarco. A friend of mine.’

No smart-ass cracks tonight, like DeMarco being a bagman. Emma was definitely not herself.

The young woman nodded at Joe then turned back toward Emma.

‘I’m tired. Jet lag, I guess. I’m going to hit the sack,’ Julie said.

I’m tired, Mom. That’s what it sounded like to DeMarco. He was sure the young woman was Emma’s daughter.

‘That’s a good idea, hon,’ Emma said. ‘We’ll sort this out in the morning.’

And Emma, DeMarco thought, sounded absolutely, unbelievably maternal. A maternal Emma seemed stranger to DeMarco than snakes cuddling.

After Julie left the room, DeMarco said, ‘Is everything okay, Emma?’

Emma shook her head, dismissing DeMarco’s question.

‘Tell me what Donnelly said to you,’ she said.

DeMarco relayed the gist of his one-sided conversation with Donnelly.

‘I knew about your father,’ Emma said.

DeMarco nodded, not the least surprised. ‘I know this is going to sound strange,’ he said, ‘but he wasn’t a bad guy.’

Emma didn’t say anything but her eyes widened momentarily in amazement.

‘Yeah, I know what you’re thinking: he was a killer. How could he not have been a bad guy. But from my perspective, as his son, he was okay. He was a quiet man, not some Mafia big mouth always trying to prove how tough he was. And when my dad wasn’t, uh, working, we had dinner together like other families and most of the conversation centered around me, his only child. What I was doing in school, how I was doing at sports, why my grades weren’t better. That sorta thing. He was good to my mom and he was good to me. He and I used to go see the Yankees play almost every Saturday they were in town, and Sundays he always made breakfast – pancakes and sausage.’

DeMarco was silent a moment, remembering his father, how he sat in the bleachers with him at Yankee Stadium, an old flat cap on his head, an unlit cigar in his mouth, not cheering much, mostly just watching DeMarco enjoy himself. And he remembered his mother when they got home from the games and how she’d rail at his dad for feeding him so much junk, and his dad standing there, this big guy with arms that could bend rebar, his head hanging contritely while his cap hid the pleasure in his eyes. DeMarco knew one thing for sure: his mother had never feared his father.

‘I really didn’t know what he did until I was about fifteen,’ DeMarco said, ‘and even then I had a hard time believing it. I just couldn’t imagine him taking some guy out to a marsh in Jersey and putting one into the back of his head.’

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