The second perimeter Page 4

  “Why would Carmody lie about not knowing the person who had awarded his contract?” DeMarco said.

  “So you thought so too,” Emma said.

  “Yeah. But why’s he lying?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  They sat there chewing in silence for a minute before DeMarco said, “Maybe he wasn’t really the low bidder and he gave a kickback to the guy who awarded him the contract. So maybe Whitfield’s right.”

  “I don’t know,” Emma said. “I suppose that’s possible, but the bidding process is usually pretty transparent.”

  “Or maybe Carmody’s just being a prick,” DeMarco said. “Since he didn’t give us a name, he knows that’s going to cause us to waste time tracking down the contract guy, and that’ll be time we don’t spend looking at him.”

  “Yeah, but he could be doing that,” Emma said, “even if everything’s on the up-and-up, just to get us out of his hair.” Emma pushed aside her salad, only half of it gone. No wonder the woman never gained an ounce. “At any rate,” she said, “we— meaning you— need to find out who awarded Carmody’s contract. I’d suggest you start by—”

  Emma was interrupted by the ringing of DeMarco’s cell phone.

  “Hello,” DeMarco said.

  “Hey,” Mahoney said, sounding abnormally cheerful. “I’m flyin’ out there. In fact I’m on the plane right now.”

  Thanks to space-age technology, Mahoney could now jerk DeMarco’s chain from thirty thousand feet.

  “Why are you coming here?” DeMarco said.

  “Ah, there’s a guy out there we’re runnin’ against the Republican in the fourth district. The Republican’s been there forever so Norm and I are gonna give a couple speeches tonight, pry open some wallets, give our guy a boost. But after that…”

  “Norm?” DeMarco said.

  “Norm Dicks, Joe. The congressman from the Sixth. You’re right there in his backyard.”

  DeMarco knew Norm Dicks; he liked the guy. Unlike Mahoney, he was a straight shooter.

  “Anyway,” Mahoney was saying, “tonight I’ll make a speech, but in the morning, I’m gonna go catch a salmon.”

  “What?”

  “There’s a guy out there, a contributor, and he’s gonna take me out on his boat. We’ll do a little business…”

  But not much.

  “…and then I’ll catch me a great big fish. He said he hooked into a fifty-pound king last week.”

  “Really,” DeMarco said.

  “Yeah,” Mahoney said. “So you need to pick me up tomorrow morning at my hotel. Get the details from Mavis. A fifty-pound king, Joe, can you believe it!” Mahoney hung up.

  “Great,” DeMarco muttered as he clipped his cell phone back onto his belt.

  “What?” Emma said.

  “That was Mahoney. He’s coming out here to go fishing and I have to play chauffeur tomorrow.”

  Emma shrugged, the gesture meaning: that’s what you get for working for Mahoney.

  “Maybe, uh, you could start looking for this contract guy while I’m taking care of Mahoney.”

  Emma arched an eyebrow. This time the silent message was that she was more likely to marry Burt Reynolds.

  “I think tomorrow, while you’re drivin’ Mr. Daisy,” Emma said, “Christine and I will pay a visit to a spa near Snoqualmie Falls. They do seaweed facials and give hot rock massages. This thing with Dave Whitfield can definitely wait a day.”

  DeMarco didn’t know what a hot rock massage was, but he had an immediate, vivid image of Christine lying bare-assed on a massage table, her legs and butt glistening with baby oil.

  8

  DeMarco was a walking corpse.

  Mahoney’s secretary had told him to pick up Mahoney at six a.m. at the Sheraton in downtown Seattle, which meant that DeMarco had to leave Bremerton at four thirty to get there on time. When DeMarco said that he couldn’t believe that the Speaker would be up at that hour, Mavis had responded: “I know. He just works too hard sometimes.” Mahoney had everybody fooled.

  But at six on the nose, Mahoney walked into the lobby with a big grin on his Irish face. He looked like a husky ten-year-old going on his first fishing trip. He wore Bermuda shorts that reached his dimpled knees, a sun-faded polo shirt stretched tight over his gut, and scuffed tennis shoes with baggy white socks. On his big head sat a Boston Red Sox baseball cap and he was carrying a nylon bag that DeMarco assumed contained whatever else he needed for the trip: sunblock, a jacket— and a fifth of bourbon in case they didn’t have his brand on board.

  The boat taking Mahoney fishing was moored at a marina on Shilshoe Bay. It was sixty feet long and had more antennae on the bridge than a navy destroyer. The owner of the boat was a very rich guy, Alex somebody, who had invented cell phones or cell-phone towers or maybe it was cell-phone cases. DeMarco hadn’t been listening when Mahoney told him. In addition to the rich guy there was a man who skippered the boat and a deckhand whose only function was to cater to Mahoney’s every need.

  DeMarco turned to leave after he had handed Mahoney’s bag up to the deckhand, but Mahoney said, “Where you going? You’re coming too. You need to tell me what you found out on this thing with Hathaway’s nephew.”

  Not again, DeMarco thought. This was just like the golf game. He wasn’t wearing a suit today— he was dressed casually in a short-sleeved shirt, khaki pants, and Top-Siders— but they weren’t clothes he wanted to get fish guts all over. Plus he didn’t have a hat to keep the sun off his head or a windbreaker in case it got chilly out on the water. He told Mahoney this.

  “Ah, don’t worry about it. They probably got stuff here on the boat you can use. Don’t you, Alex?” Mahoney said to the rich guy.

  “Oh, I’m sure we do,” Alex said.

  DeMarco could tell that Alex didn’t have a clue.

  * * *

  IT TOOK AN hour to transit from the marina to the area where the fish supposedly were. DeMarco was enjoying the ride, looking at the Olympic Mountains to the west, when his cell phone rang.

  “Mr. DeMarco, it’s Dave Whit…”

  The cell-phone signal was weak and DeMarco couldn’t hear half of what Whitfield was saying.

  “What?” DeMarco shouted.

  “It’s Dave Whit…those two guys…I was…”

  “Dave, I can’t hear you,” DeMarco yelled into his phone.

  “I said, I think…”

  “Dave! I can’t hear you!” DeMarco shouted.

  Then DeMarco could hear nothing but dead air and he hung up.

  The deckhand said to DeMarco, “If you need to talk to that guy you can go up to the bridge and use one of Alex’s phones. He’s got stuff up there that can reach the moon.”

  “Nah, that’s okay,” DeMarco said. “I’ll just call him after we get back to the marina.” He doubted if Whitfield had anything new to tell him, and at any rate, there wasn’t much he could do while stuck on a boat in the middle of Puget Sound.

  DeMarco would spend a lot of time in the days to come regretting that decision.

  THE DECKHAND HAD set up three poles in three downriggers and the downriggers were set for three different depths to triple Mahoney’s chances of catching a salmon.

  “Now if one of them hits,” the deckhand said to Mahoney, “you gotta set the hook. We’re using barbless hooks, and if you don’t set it right, the hook’s gonna come right outta the fish’s mouth.” He showed Mahoney the motion he was looking for.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Mahoney said. “I’ve fished before. And why are we usin’ barbless hooks, anyway?”

  “It’s the law,” the deckhand said.

  “Well, shit, who’s gonna know?” Mahoney said.

  After half an hour of trolling, Mahoney said, “Where the hell are the damn salmon? I thought you said there were fish out here, Alex.”

  Alex, the rich guy, didn’t hear him; he was on a phone, making more money.

  “We’ll get one, sir, don’t worry,” the deckhand said. “The fishfinder’s showing all kinds
of fish down there. We just gotta figure out what they’re hittin’ on.” Before Mahoney could complain further, the deckhand said, “Would you like another beer?”

  As Mahoney waited impatiently to catch a fish, DeMarco briefed him on what he and Emma had learned in Bremerton. Mahoney’s only response had been a disinterested shrug and the comment: “The whole thing sounds pretty chickenshit to me.”

  Five minutes later a salmon hit and the dialogue between Mahoney and the deckhand went something like this:

  Mahoney: “Holy shit! I got the bastard.”

  Deckhand: “Keep your tip up. Keep the tip up!”

  Mahoney: “Son of a bitch! It’s a big one. Son of a bitch!”

  Deckhand: “Loosen your drag. Loosen your drag! You’re gonna lose him.”

  Mahoney: “Aw, fuck! Did I lose him? Did I lose him?”

  Deckhand: “No, he’s running toward us. Reel, reel! Reel faster!”

  Mahoney fought the fish for twenty minutes. His face turned an unhealthy shade of purple as he reeled, and DeMarco could see the tendons popping out on his big freckled forearms. He finally got the fish up to the side of the boat. It was big and still had a lot of fight left in it. Mahoney was so excited that he was cursing incoherently at this point, and just as the deckhand was netting the fish, he gave a jerk on the line— and the fish came off the hook. Fortunately, the deckhand was good and already had the net under the fish. As the hook popped out of the salmon’s mouth, the deckhand swung the net upward, enveloping the fish in nylon mesh. The salmon hit the deck of the boat with a wet flop and thrashed around until the deckhand smacked it several times with a billy club— splattering blood all over DeMarco’s khaki pants.

  A really ugly ending to the life of a beautiful fish, DeMarco thought.

  “I got him!” Mahoney screamed, two arms in the air like he’d just scored a touchdown.

  The deckhand looked over at Mahoney like he wanted to kill him. He had almost gone overboard netting the fish, and the way he was holding his back it looked as if he’d strained something getting the salmon into the boat.

  While Mahoney celebrated his victory with his fifth beer of the day— it was ten a.m.— DeMarco watched the deckhand weigh the fish. The scale read forty-two pounds.

  “Fifty-two pounds!” the deckhand called out to Mahoney and winked at DeMarco.

  Alex asked Mahoney if he’d like to catch another one.

  “Nah,” Mahoney said. “One’s enough.”

  Now this surprised DeMarco. Mahoney, he always figured, came from the same stock as those who had almost made the buffalo extinct.

  “What about you, Mr. DeMarco?” Alex said. “Would you like to catch one?” DeMarco figured Alex wasn’t being nice, he just wanted to spend more time bending Mahoney’s ear. And since DeMarco’s pants were already a mess, why not?

  “Sure,” DeMarco said at the same time Mahoney said, “We don’t have time. I gotta plane to catch. I’m meetin’ with the president tonight.”

  Even the rich guy seemed impressed by that.

  On the way back to the marina, Mahoney and Alex sat in the cabin, Alex looking serious as they talked. Mahoney kept nodding his head, an equally serious expression on his face. Alex didn’t know it, but Mahoney wasn’t listening to a word he said. Mahoney had the ability to pretend to be intently engaged in a conversation with a potential contributor while his mind played back the fish— or the woman— he’d just landed.

  Mahoney made arrangements with the deckhand to ship his fifty-five pound salmon back to D.C. The fish had miraculously gained three pounds in the last hour; God knows what size it would be by the time Mahoney reached the East Coast. As DeMarco was driving Mahoney to the airport, DeMarco’s cell phone rang again. He wondered if it was Dave Whitfield calling back. It wasn’t, it was Emma.

  “Joe,” she said, “Dave Whitfield’s been killed.”

  “Oh, Christ,” DeMarco said.

  “What?” Mahoney said, hearing DeMarco’s tone of voice.

  “He had a four-year-old son, Joe,” Emma said.

  DeMarco said good-bye to Emma and turned to tell Mahoney the news but at that moment Mahoney’s cell phone rang. It was the Secretary of the Navy, Frank Hathaway.

  9

  Sir,” the marine said, “I need to check that bag.”

  Norton couldn’t believe it. Tonight, of all nights. They didn’t usually check things going out the gates, and if he had left at the same time all the other day-shift workers had, they never would have stopped him. But he was going out late because of what Carmody had told him to do— and because of what had happened today— and now the damn marine at the gate, a nineteen-year-old kid bored out of his skull, had decided to fuck with him.

  “Uh, yeah sure,” Norton said. There was no point arguing with the marine; you can’t argue with marines. He put his backpack on the little table near the gate and unconsciously hitched up his pants. When he realized what he was doing, he stopped immediately. He had to get a grip on himself.

  “Would you please open the bag, sir,” the marine said.

  Norton opened the backpack and the marine peered inside. Inside the backpack was a paperback book, a pair of sunglasses, a brown bag containing the remains of Norton’s lunch, and a chessboard. The marine removed the lunch bag from the backpack, peered inside, then set it aside. Then he reached for the chessboard.

  Oh please, God, Norton thought.

  The marine hefted the chessboard in his hand. “This thing’s pretty heavy,” he said. “What’s it made out of?”

  Before Norton could answer, a voice behind him said, “You search that bastard good, Corporal. He works for me and I want to make sure he’s not stealing me blind.”

  Carmody placed a big hand on the back of Norton’s neck and gave it a squeeze like he was being friendly. The squeeze wasn’t friendly.

  To the marine, Carmody said, “In fact, you oughta put on some gloves, son, and probe this boy’s orifices. The only problem is, he might enjoy it.”

  The young marine smiled— he couldn’t stop himself— then quickly rearranged his face back into a serious expression.

  “Sir,” he said to Carmody, “if you could please step…”

  Carmody glanced at the marine’s name tag. “Heesacker,” he said. “Did you have an older brother, flew choppers in Iraq in ’92?”

  “Uh, no, sir,” the marine said.

  “Well, you’re the spittin’ image of a guy named Heesacker I knew over there.”

  “You were in the corps, sir?” the marine said.

  Norton saw the marine was still holding the damn chessboard.

  “Nah,” Carmody said. “SEALs.”

  The young marine almost saluted. SEALs were his gods; a SEAL was what he wanted to be.

  The marine shoved the chessboard back into Norton’s backpack and replaced the lunch bag he’d removed. To Norton, he said, “You have a good evening, sir.” Looking directly into Carmody’s eyes, he added, “Both of you.”

  Carmody and Norton walked together for a block, neither man speaking. Norton was afraid to speak. When they reached the lot where Norton’s car was parked, Carmody said, “Did you get them?”

  “Yeah,” Norton said, and he reached into the back of his baggy pants and pulled out two square plastic cases containing unlabeled CDs.

  “Give me the laptop, too,” Carmody said.

  Norton quickly unzipped his backpack and handed the chessboard to Carmody.

  Carmody stared at Norton for a second, and then he put his face close to Norton’s and said very softly, “Somebody died today because you fucked up. The next time you fuck up, guess who’s gonna die?”

  * * *

  CARMODY STOOD IN the center of an old steel bridge called the Manette Bridge. From where he was standing he could see the shipyard less than a mile away. The drydocks were lit by banks of lights— like those used for night games in old ballparks— so work could proceed around the clock.