House Arrest

  Also by Mike Lawson

  The Inside Ring

  The Second Perimeter

  House Rules

  House Secrets

  House Justice

  House Divided

  House Blood

  House Odds

  House Reckoning

  House Rivals

  House Revenge

  House Witness

  Rosarito Beach

  Viking Bay

  K Street

  House Arrest

  MIKE LAWSON

  Copyright © 2019 by Mike Lawson

  Cover design by Cindy Hernandez

  Cover photograph © Roy Bishop/Arcangel

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011, or permissions@groveatlantic.com.

  FIRST EDITION

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Grove Atlantic edition: February 2019

  This book was set in 12-pt. Garamond Premier Pro by Alpha Design & Composition of Pittsfield, NH.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is available for this title.

  ISBN: 978-0-8021-2930-7

  eISBN: 978-0-8021-4702-8

  Atlantic Monthly Press

  an imprint of Grove Atlantic

  154 West 14th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  www.groveatlantic.com

  19 20 21 22 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Gail

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Mike Lawson

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Chapter Sixty-two

  Chapter Sixty-three

  Chapter Sixty-four

  Chapter Sixty-five

  Chapter Sixty-six

  Acknowledgements

  Back Cover

  Author’s Note

  I completed this book in May 2018. The 2018 midterm elections—the elections that would determine which American political party would control the U.S. House of Representatives—were to be held in November 2018, six months after I finished the book. If you keep reading, you’ll see that the outcome of the 2018 midterms has a significant impact on the future of Joe DeMarco, and at the time I finished the book, I had no idea what the outcome would be.

  —Mike Lawson

  1

  The killer knew the location of every surveillance camera in the Capitol.

  He was dressed in a dark blue uniform: a blue baseball cap, a dark blue short-sleeved shirt, and matching pants with cargo pockets. An equipment belt held a holstered .40-caliber Glock, zip ties that could be used as handcuffs, an extendable metal baton, and a canister of pepper spray. On his feet were black combat boots. On his hands were thin, black leather gloves.

  The rotunda was dimly lit because of the hour, and as the killer walked he followed a route he’d practiced many times, staying against the walls, taking advantage of shadows. Nonetheless, three cameras captured his image, but as he passed into camera range he would turn his head, placing his big hands over his face, the bill of the baseball cap further obscuring his features. The cameras, however, did record a blue-and-white insignia patch on his right sleeve.

  He ascended a marble staircase, and on the third floor he again kept his head lowered, so the bill of the cap and his hands blocked his face from a hallway camera. Once he was past the camera, he quickened his pace until he reached the main door to the politician’s suite of offices. Before he opened the door, he unholstered the Glock, pulled a silencer from a pocket, and screwed the silencer into the barrel of the weapon.

  The door was not locked. The politician most likely locked it when he left for the day, but there was no reason to lock it when he was there. What did he have to fear? He was in one of the most well-protected buildings in the United States.

  The killer walked into the suite, holding the gun down at the side of his leg. He passed several small offices and desks in open areas where secretaries, aides, and interns usually sat. Because of the hour, he’d been hoping the politician’s staff had left for the day; most of them usually left by seven or eight, unless there was something extraordinary going on. If any of them hadn’t left, he’d have been forced to kill them too, which he really didn’t want to do.

  The politician he’d come to kill was seated behind the desk in his office. There were a Virginia state flag and an American flag in floor stands behind the desk, photographs of party leaders on the wall, and on his desk, a photo of his late wife. A smiling portrait of the fool who was now president was prominently displayed.

  The politician wore a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up, and a blue-and-red-striped tie loosened at the collar. He was holding a phone to his right ear, and the killer heard him say, “Kathy, if you don’t get on board with this—”

  At that moment the politician saw the killer standing in the doorway but didn’t see the gun he was holding next to one leg. He was puzzled by the appearance of the killer, wondering why he had come to
his office, but he wasn’t concerned or alarmed. Why would he be concerned? The U.S. Capitol Police were there to protect him.

  He said into the phone, “Kathy, hang on a minute.” Cupping his hand over the phone, he said, “Can I help you, Officer?”

  The killer raised his weapon, pointed it at the man’s chest, and whispered, “Tell her you’ll have to call her back.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Do it, or I’ll shoot you.”

  Eyes expanding with fear, the politician said into the phone, “Kathy, I’ll have to call you back,” and disconnected the call—and the killer shot him in the heart.

  The politician slumped back in his chair, dropping the phone on the carpeted floor, and the killer shot him a second time, in the forehead. Blood splattered the wall behind the desk, creating an interesting Rorschach pattern. The politician fell forward after the second shot and ended up, still seated, with his head resting on the blotter on his desk. The blotter slowly turned from green to dark red as the pooling blood from the forehead wound formed a halo around the dead man’s head.

  The killer didn’t bother to pick up the two shell casings ejected from the Glock. He could have, but he didn’t. He wasn’t worried about leaving evidence behind. He removed the silencer from the gun, put it back in his pocket, and holstered the Glock. He then made his way back through the maze of staff offices, and when he left the suite, he locked the door behind him. If anyone came to see the politician tonight—though it was unlikely, considering the hour—they’d think that he had gone home for the day. His body shouldn’t be discovered until the next morning, when his secretary, who was always the first to arrive, came to work. In fact, given that this was a Friday night, it might not be discovered until Monday.

  The killer walked down the stairs to the rotunda level, again always mindful of the cameras, then took another staircase to reach the subbasement of the Capitol. In the subbasement, he unlocked a door marked with the letter E and a series of numbers. The room he entered was a small closet, and inside it was a gray metal cabinet containing electrical equipment. On the floor of the closet was a gym bag he’d placed there hours ago.

  Now he would wait an hour and hope that was enough time.

  The waiting didn’t bother the killer; he’d spent a lifetime standing around waiting.

  The hour passed, and he took out his cell phone and made a call. He let the phone he was calling ring five times but hung up before an answering machine could pick up.

  He left the electrical equipment closet, taking the gym bag with him, and walked down the hall to an office that had the words Counsel Pro Tem for Liaison Affairs written in flaking gold paint on the frosted-glass window of the mahogany-stained door. The phone the killer had called before he left the closet belonged to the man who occupied the office, and he’d called to verify that the man was no longer there.

  He unlocked the door with a key he’d had made a month ago. The office was small and practically barren. There was an old and battered wooden desk, a wooden chair behind the desk that could swivel and tilt backward, and another, plain wooden chair—a visitor’s chair—in front of the desk. On the desk was a phone connected to an answering machine and a laptop computer. The only other items in the room were a four-drawer gray metal file cabinet and a coatrack near the door. Hanging on the coatrack were a tan London Fog trench coat and a battered L. L. Bean Scottish-tweed rain hat.

  The killer didn’t turn on the lights in the office. Moving quickly, he removed his equipment belt and stripped down to his underwear; he didn’t remove the gloves he was wearing or the ball cap. He took his cell phone out of a pocket and placed it in the gym bag. He left the silencer in the pocket of the pants he’d been wearing. Now, attired in only his ball cap, his underwear, black socks, and thin black gloves, he removed a flashlight from the gym bag, one small enough to hold between his teeth. He also removed a screwdriver.

  The killer took the visitor’s chair and placed it beneath a ventilation grille in the ceiling. He unscrewed the four screws holding the grille in place, set the grille on the floor, and put the pants, shirt, boots, and equipment belt holding the Glock he’d used inside the ventilation duct. Before he placed the boots in the duct, he removed inserts that had made him an inch taller. He didn’t, however, put in the ball cap he was wearing. He left the cap on his head.

  Next, he removed the black leather gloves and put them on the desk, and from the gym bag he took latex gloves, the kind surgeons wear. He donned the latex gloves and pulled from the gym bag a baseball cap identical to the one he was wearing. He made sure the two long, dark hairs he’d placed inside the cap were still there, and then put the ball cap and the leather gloves inside the ventilation duct and screwed the grille back into place. After he finished inserting the screws, he used the screwdriver to scratch the ventilation grille, making bright white marks in the metal, as if the screwdriver had slipped several times while he was threading in the fasteners.

  He put the visitor’s chair back where it had been originally and placed the screwdriver inside the center drawer of the desk. He removed his own clothes and boots from the gym bag next—clothes that appeared to be identical to those he’d been wearing—and got dressed. He also put on an equipment belt that was in the gym bag; the belt too appeared to be identical to the one he’d placed in the ventilation duct and included a holstered .40-caliber Glock. After he was dressed, he stood without moving for about sixty seconds, mentally reviewing everything he’d done, trying to think of anything he’d forgotten. He decided he was good; the entire operation had gone precisely as planned. He was pleased—and frankly somewhat surprised—that he was so calm.

  The killer had never killed before.

  He opened the office door and peeked down the hall. It was empty, as he’d expected at eleven thirty at night. He walked back to the electrical closet, holding the now mostly empty gym bag, and stepped back inside. Then he realized he had forgotten something and laughed out loud. He took off his cap, removed the wig from his bald head, and placed the wig in the gym bag. That would have been a hell of a mistake, if someone had spotted him with a full head of hair.

  Now he had hours to wait, but that was okay. It’d give him plenty of time to think of the things he could do with the money he’d earned.

  The dead politician was discovered by his secretary at seven o’clock the following morning.

  The politician’s name was Lyle Canton. He was the House majority whip.

  His killer was arrested thirty-eight hours later.

  2

  The J. Edgar Hoover Building, headquarters for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, is less than a mile from the U.S. Capitol. Ten minutes after the body of Congressman Lyle Canton was found, six FBI agents arrived in a black Chevy Suburban SUV, blue and red grille lights flashing. While the agent in charge went to look at the body and take over control of the crime scene from the Capitol Police, another agent commandeered a conference room that would be used as a temporary command center.

  The Capitol had been locked down by the Capitol Police before the FBI arrived, but now an announcement was made telling everyone who wasn’t law enforcement to gather in the rotunda. It was still early morning, and a Saturday, but there were about twenty civilians in the building. The Capitol Police checked each person’s credentials, patted him or her down for weapons, and searched all backpacks and purses. Then all twenty people were moved into a conference room and told they’d have to remain there until they were interviewed by the FBI. One of the people turned out to be the chief of staff of the Senate majority leader. He was dressed in casual clothes and had stopped by the Capitol only to pick up something from his office on the way to his daughter’s soccer game. He told the Capitol cops who his boss was and demanded to be released immediately. An unimpressed cop, not adequately trained on how to address his betters, told him to sit down and shut up.

  More Capitol Police were called in—over a hundred of them—to assist the FBI in searching the b
uilding and to make sure no one was lurking in a closet with an AR-15. As the Capitol has about six hundred rooms, it took several hours to complete the search.

  At the time, it never occurred to the FBI that the killer could be a Capitol cop.

  By noon there were over forty FBI agents and crime-scene technicians at the Capitol, all of them wearing blue windbreakers with FBI on the back in yellow letters. The Speaker of the House and the Senate majority leader had been informed that no business would be conducted in the Capitol for the rest of the weekend—not that much business was ever conducted there anyway, even during the workweek.

  The agent in charge of the investigation was a man named Russell Peyton, a twenty-five-year veteran of the bureau. J. Edgar Hoover may have been a pudgy cross-dresser, but Peyton was the type of agent Hoover had almost always hired: tall, slim, white, male, Protestant, and married. At the age of fifty-two, Peyton was in better shape than most men half his age because, unless a case prevented him from doing so, he jogged five miles every day. He suspected that with this case he wouldn’t be jogging—or for that matter sleeping much—until the killer was apprehended.

  The director of the FBI had told Peyton, “I’ll need updates every four hours because the president told me he wants updates every four hours.”

  The FBI director was a man named Ronald Erby. He’d been in charge of the bureau for only a few months, since the president had fired his predecessor for reasons that people were now writing books about. Erby was a lawyer who had spent some time in law enforcement prior to his appointment, but he was best known for his political acumen and his unwavering loyalty to the president—which was the main reason he was now the director.

  Erby and Peyton both knew that the president had liked Lyle Canton—Canton had been a lapdog for the president during his campaign—but a lot of Republicans didn’t care for Canton because of his abrasive personality. As for the Democrats, it would be literally impossible to find a Democrat inside the Beltway who didn’t despise the man. Nonetheless, and regardless of Canton’s popularity—or lack thereof—it was unacceptable to have one of the leaders of the Republican Party assassinated. At noon the president was going to stand in the Rose Garden and make a speech praising Canton for his service to the nation and promise that everything that could be done would be done to bring his killer to justice—and Director Erby wanted some answers by then.