House Blood - JD 7 Page 10

  “Why do you want to know about the foundation?” she asked—so he told her about Phil Downing and Brian Kincaid. And, as she always did, Emma listened intently as he spoke. Her concentration and attention to detail had always impressed him.

  “Why was Downing making a conference call so late at night?” she asked. “And who was he calling?”

  “According to the trial transcript, the conference call was set up by a guy named Hobson who works for Lizzie Warwick. It was supposed to have included Hobson, Downing, and the chief of staff to a congressman. Hobson was the guy who called the security guard when Downing didn’t answer the phone. But I don’t know why the call was being held so late.”

  “Well, you need to find out more, because that call is what placed Downing in the office the same time as Kincaid, and …”

  “I realize that,” DeMarco said, “but …”

  “… and when the body was discovered only fifteen minutes after Kincaid left the building, then Kincaid became the only suspect. So if you believe Brian Kincaid is innocent, you need to find out more about that call and the people involved in it.”

  “The thing is,” DeMarco said, “it’s kind of hard to believe he’s innocent. The cops had a plausible motive, they had the murder weapon, and there was no evidence anyone else was in the building when Downing died. If I’d been on the jury, I would have voted to convict him, too.”

  “What’s wrong with you!” Emma snapped. “You’re either trying to help the man or you’re not. You’re either his advocate or you’re not. If all you’re doing is going through the motions, you should just quit right now and tell his poor mother that nothing can be done for her son.”

  Sheesh. “Look, can you just give me the name of somebody to talk to about Warwick?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” she said.

  Whatever had been wrong with her, neither the disease nor the cure had improved her disposition.

  He followed her into the kitchen and could hear Christine at the other end of the house playing her cello, the kind of classical crap she always played. Maybe it was his imagination, but the music sounded like … like a joyous, grateful prayer. But what did he know? Emma picked up the phone in the kitchen and punched in a number. “Clive, it’s Emma. I’m fine. How are you?”

  Clive? What the hell kind of name was Clive? The guy was probably British.

  After a few minutes of mundane chitchat, Emma said, “I have a friend …”

  She rolled her eyes when she said friend.

  “… who needs some information about the Warwick Foundation. Could we come over and talk to you? Great. We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  Emma said that Clive lived about a mile a way. “We’ll just walk,” she told DeMarco.

  “Why don’t we drive? It’ll be quicker.”

  “Because I want to walk.”

  A lot of smart, distinguished people lived in Emma’s neighborhood in McLean. DeMarco was willing to bet that if he had a question about astrophysics, ancient Chinese religions, or Lyme disease, Emma would know a neighbor who could provide the answer.

  As they were walking, Emma said, “Clive worked for the State Department for a number of years and now he volunteers for several charities. He’s a wonderful man.”

  “The State Department? He’s not British?”

  “No. Why do you think he would be?”

  “Well, the only guy I know named Clive is British.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Clive Owen, the actor.”

  Emma looked over at him, and shook her head as if she felt sorry for him. It was sometimes rather hard to be Emma’s friend.

  Clive Standish—DeMarco thought Standish sounded British too—turned out to be a tall, stoop-shouldered man in his seventies with hair that looked like fluffy, white cotton candy. And, like a skinny Santa, he had twinkly blue eyes that looked out at the world benignly through wire-rimmed glasses. He was dressed casually in slacks, a short-sleeved shirt, and loafers, but the clothes looked expensive, particularly the shoes. DeMarco was guessing that Clive had been very high up the ladder at the State Department, though he came across as a modest fellow who would never brag about his accomplishments.

  After Clive had poured glasses of iced tea for everyone, he said, “So. The Warwick Foundation. What would you like to know?”

  Before DeMarco could answer, Emma said, “Start at the beginning. Tell us how it was established, about the family, what they currently do, et cetera.”

  This was typical of Emma. It may have been DeMarco’s case, but she was effectively taking charge of the conversation. It was also typical that her curiosity was wide and far-ranging; she wanted to know everything. By comparison, DeMarco just wanted to know enough to get the job done.

  “Well, let’s see,” Clive said. “Lizzie Warwick comes from an enormously wealthy Philadelphia family. Her grandfather and her father were defense contractors and made grenades, artillery shells, land mines—those sorts of nasty things. They were, by all accounts, very clever and extremely ruthless and made buckets of money. When Lizzie’s parents died she inherited all the money, but for whatever reason—her education, her religion, who knows—she didn’t have a deep avaricious streak running through her.”

  That’s probably, DeMarco thought, because she was already so fucking rich.

  “A couple of months after she inherited the family fortune, a hurricane occurred somewhere—I can’t remember where—and thousands were made homeless. Lizzie decided she wanted to do something to help, but instead of just giving money as she’d done in the past, she joined a church group and went with them to rebuild homes and provide aid. Well, she found the experience so exhilarating that she decided to make this her life’s work. She divested herself completely of the family businesses, established the Warwick Foundation, and when the next disaster came along, she jumped in with both feet. And someplace along the way, she ran into a French doctor named Lambert and they joined forces. And because Lambert is a very charming ­fellow, Warwick’s fund-raising efforts have improved dramatically and the foundation has become much better organized and well-known. I believe she and Lambert are in Uganda right now helping people displaced by one of their never-ending wars.”

  Clive paused, sipped his tea, and wiped his mouth delicately with a small napkin. “Let’s see, what else can I tell you? Oh, one other thing. Most relief organizations tend to operate fairly short-term. What I mean is, they’ll fly in, do the best they can to help the local population for a few months by providing immediate aid, but then they move on to the next catastrophe and leave it to the local government to deal with the long-term ramifications of the disaster. Warwick is different. What I’ve been told, though I don’t know anything about it personally, is that she’ll find people who have no one—the very young, the very old, and those with crippling medical conditions—and she sets up facilities called Warwick Care Centers that become orphanages and assisted living places. She can’t help everyone, of course, so she’ll select a couple hundred people and provide for them. She does what she can.”

  “Having heard all that,” DeMarco said, “I guess the question I’m going to ask is going to sound pretty stupid, but could Warwick or anyone working for her be doing anything illegal?”

  Then DeMarco explained what he meant, how the possibility existed—although the odds were low—that Phil Downing had discovered something he could use to force Lizzie Warwick to continue to employ him as her lobbyist, and then somebody killed Downing because of what he knew and framed Kincaid for his murder.

  Clive Standish surprised him. DeMarco expected him to say that Lizzie Warwick and the people who work for her are the saints who walk among us and would never do anything illegal. But that’s not what Clive said. “Actually,” he said, “there’s a good possibility that someone working for Lizzie might be stealing mo
ney intended for the victims. That’s a fairly common problem with relief organizations.” Clive laughed. “The Red Cross, for example, has had a peck of problems.”

  Now DeMarco was positive the guy was a closet Limey. Who but a Brit would use the work peck?

  “I remember a Red Cross manager in Pennsylvania,” Clive said, “who was embezzling to support her crack cocaine habit, and another fellow in New Jersey who stole over a million in Red Cross funds. One reason why it’s easy to steal from charities is because people don’t expect the folks who volunteer to be thieves. Money intended for purchasing relief supplies will be embezzled, or the supplies will be stolen before they reach the disaster area and sold on the black market. Or money will be spent to bribe foreign officials, and the amount of the bribe will be exaggerated and the briber will keep some for himself. There are dozens of ways to strip money from charities both at home and abroad, and it happens all the time.”

  “Bribes?” DeMarco said.

  “Of course,” Clive said. “Governments in some countries are extremely corrupt. Now, you can be an idealist and refuse to abet the corruption, but if you want to get things done, you need the local government on your side. They can either help you get aid to a disaster area or they can become an enormous impediment. They’ll insist that relief supplies be inspected, a task which can take weeks if they desire. You won’t be able to hire local labor and for so-called national security reasons, you’ll be prevented from going to wherever it is you need to go. So when your job is to get food, water, and medicine to people who are dying, you pay the bribes and get on with what you need to do. But sometimes, as I said, the person who is doing the bribing keeps a portion of the money for his services and no one is the wiser.”

  Bribes, DeMarco thought. He wondered if Phil Downing discovered that Warwick was giving money to some guy like Idi Amin or Charles Taylor, and decided to use that information to squeeze the foundation.

  “Have you ever heard anything negative about Warwick?” Emma asked. “Any past problems with employees embezzling money or doing anything else illegal?”

  “No, I haven’t,” Clive said. “But if somebody was embezzling from Lizzie, I’m not sure she’d even know it. The woman’s not stupid, but she focuses almost exclusively on the work in the field and leaves the financial management to other people. And I don’t know if she brings in outside auditors like the big organizations do.”

  “Why would she need a lobbyist?” DeMarco asked.

  “For the same reason everyone else does,” Clive said. “Lobbyists tend to have bad reputations. People hear stories about banks and insurance companies having more lobbyists than we have members of Congress, and how these lobbyists corrupt our politicians. And many of these stories are true. On the other hand, Washington is enormously complex and every industry and special interest group—be they charities or environmental groups or profit-making ­corporations—are trying to make their voices heard, and for that they need lobbyists who understand the system and know the players. Are some lobbyists corrupt? Of course. But is there anything wrong with a charitable organization like Warwick lobbying to get what it needs? Of course not.”

  Since DeMarco knew one corrupt congressman very well and also knew several lobbyists who abetted his corruption, he didn’t say what he thought about the fundamental nature of lobbyists. Instead he thanked Clive and Emma for their help and went home to his empty house.

  13

  It was Saturday, the day of the week that DeMarco accomplished those domestic chores he couldn’t put off until another Saturday. He paid bills and washed clothes. If his lawn was higher than his ankles, he might mow it. If something in the house needed fixing, he would fix it—but only if it was absolutely necessary to do so. The clogged drain in the bathroom sink came dangerously close to falling into this category. It was taking about five minutes for water to drain out of the sink, which meant that hair and other nasty gunk was clogging the p-trap beneath the sink. The sink, however, wasn’t overflowing—it was just taking a little too long to drain—and, consequently, this problem wasn’t in the absolutely-must-fix category and would be postponed until it was.

  This particular Saturday, DeMarco woke up with a slight hangover. The night before, he had dinner at a sports bar in Georgetown where he had onion rings and a cheeseburger the size of a Frisbee and watched the Washington Nationals get their asses kicked by the Florida Marlins. While he watched, he also drank a couple beers—and beer, even in small quantities, always gave him a hangover.

  Stoically nursing the pain caused by self-inflicted alcohol poisoning, he sat at the desk in his den and paid the bills that were almost overdue and ignored those that weren’t. He threw a load of clothes into the wash and vacuumed those rooms he occupied most frequently, but only the parts of the rooms that appeared to truly need vacuuming. He looked out his front window and saw that his grass was only an inch higher than the neighbor’s on his right but three inches higher than the manicured lawn of the anal retentive neatnik on his left, and said: Fuck it. Chores complete, he flopped down on the couch wearing the same clothes he’d worn to bed the night before: a New York Knicks T-shirt and blue boxer shorts.

  So what should he do about Brian Kincaid? Emma, as usual, was right. He should either pursue the case with something approaching real vigor or he should call up Mrs. Kincaid and lie that he’d done everything humanly possible. But the only thing he could think to pursue—with or without vigor—was, as Emma had said, the conference call that had so conveniently placed Downing in the office with Kincaid at the time of the murder.

  And at that moment, the phone rang. It was Emma. “Well?” she said. “What are you going to do about Brian Kincaid?”

  Sheesh. It was like she was psychic. “I don’t know. I was just thinking about that when you called.”

  “You need to find out more about that conference call. Take another look at the trial transcript and go see that private detective again to see if he knows anything else about it.”

  “May I ask why you’re taking such an interest in this?”

  “Because I don’t like coincidences,” Emma said, “and it’s possible that an innocent man has been convicted for a crime he didn’t commit.”

  Bullshit. She was bored. She didn’t have anything better to occupy her big brain at the moment and, after all her medical problems, Kincaid’s troubles might provide an interesting diversion. But DeMarco didn’t say this. Instead, coward that he was, he said, “Yeah, I might do that.”

  “And what about Downing’s records? What happened to them after he died? Go talk to his secretary again and see where they are and take a look at them.”

  The words Who the hell put you in charge of my life? were on the tip of his tongue, but since he too often relied on Emma for help, he decided to keep that response to himself. “You know, it’s Saturday,” he said instead.

  “So what?” she said. “And see if you can follow the money trail.”

  “What money trail?”

  “You heard what Clive said, about how money is always being stolen from charities.”

  “Yeah, but he also said he hadn’t heard anything like that about Warwick.”

  “Just because he hasn’t heard it doesn’t mean it isn’t happening.”

  “But how would I do that, follow the money?”

  “I don’t know,” Emma said, her tone saying: Do I have to do all the thinking? “And you should also find out how Downing’s client knew the security guard’s phone number at the building where Downing was killed. It seems odd to me that he would know the number.”

  Christ! He’d just gone from sitting on his ass, happily doing nothing, to a multi-item to-do list that would take hours to complete.

  “And one other thing,” Emma said.

  Was there no end to this?

  “You said Downing told his secretary that Warwick was
thinking about hiring another lobbyist, but then he ended up keeping the account. Find out who replaced Downing after he died and see what he knows. And maybe you ought to talk to Lizzie Warwick and ask her if she really was thinking about replacing Downing and if she was, why she changed her mind.”

  DeMarco squeezed the phone in his hand hard enough to turn his knuckles white. She was, without a doubt, the most exasperating woman he’d ever known, including his ex-wife. To keep her from giving him anything more to do, he said, “How are you feeling today?”

  Emma hung up.

  The small voice-activated tape recorder connected to DeMarco’s phone line and hidden behind the electric meter outside his house stopped recording.

  14

  Sharon Palmer lived in a brick rambler in Vienna, Virginia, and DeMarco concluded that she was no more compulsive about yard work than he was. The doorbell was answered by a tall, dark-haired, teenaged girl, and DeMarco could see her resemblance to Sharon. The girl was barefoot, wearing a T-shirt that showed a slice of flat stomach, camo-colored cargo pants, and a scowl on her face that looked as if it might be a permanent fixture. She was holding a cell phone in her hand, and she pressed the phone against her chest and said to DeMarco, “Yeah?”

  What a charmer.

  “Is your mother here?” he asked.

  The girl turned and yelled, “Mom, there’s some guy here to see you.” Then she walked away, leaving DeMarco standing in the open doorway.

  Sharon came to the door. She was wearing a tank top and shorts that showed off good legs and, like her daughter, she was barefoot. Her hair was uncombed, she wore no makeup, and in the harsh light of day, she looked every bit her age. It also appeared, judging by her pallor and her red-veined eyes, that she’d had way too much to drink the night before.

  “What do you want?” she said.

  It appeared that DeMarco had quickly gone from potential boy toy to an annoyance.