The Inside Ring Page 9

  While continuing to study the charts, Banks said to DeMarco, “When they formed Homeland Security they jammed twenty-two different agencies together, one hundred eighty thousand people, and each agency already had its own support structure. You know, overhead guys, financial people, admin staff, personnel departments, that sorta thing. But do you think the people that run these agencies would volunteer to combine some of these functions to reduce costs? Hell no, not them. Goddamn rice bowls, they’re costing—”

  “You need to tell the FBI what you know.”

  Banks stopped studying the charts and fixed his hard eyes on DeMarco. “You found something, didn’t you?” he said. It wasn’t really a question.

  “Maybe,” DeMarco said and proceeded to tell Banks how he had confronted Billy Mattis on the Mall and how the agent had reacted when he had quoted from the note.

  Banks threw his red marker at the wall. “Goddamnit, DeMarco!” he yelled. “I didn’t tell you to question the man. You’re about as subtle as an elephant’s dick!”

  DeMarco couldn’t tell Banks about the Speaker’s order, so instead he said, “I was wasting my time, General. I couldn’t find a link between Mattis and Edwards, or anything else that incriminates him. I thought the best thing to do was to put some pressure on him and see how he reacted—and I got one hell of a reaction, sir. If you’d been there you’d understand what I’m saying.”

  Before Banks could have him flogged for insubordination, DeMarco hurried on to say, “And the other thing is, Billy denied being given a polygraph. Donnelly could be lying about that too, just like he lied to you about analyzing the warning note.”

  Banks started to say something then stopped. He realized that it was possible that his worst fear had come true: the note had been genuine and he’d failed to act on it.

  “It’s time to talk to the FBI, General. You need to get them looking at Mattis.”

  Banks ignored DeMarco and instead bent to pick up the marking pen he had thrown, and then walked over to his window and looked down at the traffic jam on the street below him. DeMarco wanted to tell him that all that traffic was caused by people who were through working for the day and going home to eat.

  “No,” Banks finally said. “All we’ve got at this point is your gut feelin’—which isn’t any better than my gut feelin’. You stick with it a couple more days and see if you can get something solid.”

  “General,” DeMarco said, “if Mattis is tied to Harold Edwards, the odds of me coming up with anything substantial to prove it are less than remote. Virgin birth is more likely. The longer you wait to talk to the FBI, the colder the trail’s going to be and the worse you’re going to look in the end.”

  Banks shook his head. “Not yet, bub, not yet.”

  DeMarco argued with Banks for ten more minutes but he couldn’t sway him. As he turned to leave the secretary’s office he heard the marker squeak and Banks say, “Gotcha.”

  16

  Did you tell Mahoney about Billy’s reaction yesterday?” Emma asked.

  She and DeMarco were driving in the middle lane of I-395, three cars behind Billy Mattis. It was six thirty a.m., the following day.

  “No. You’re forgetting that the Speaker’s only interest in this case is Patrick Donnelly,” DeMarco said. “If I’d gone to him, he would have said the same thing Banks said: keep at it a couple more days and see what happens. My life’s dominated by assholes.”

  The freeway was unusually congested, even more so than normal, and drivers were competing for position like NASCAR racers. They had just slipped five cars behind Billy. As they approached the last exit in Virginia, before crossing the Fourteenth Street Bridge into D.C., Billy suddenly cut right, almost hitting the front fender of a van in the next lane. He then cut across a second lane, forcing another car to hit its brakes, and took the off-ramp. If Emma had been caught by surprise, she didn’t act like it. She calmly watched as Billy drove out of sight.

  “Shit,” DeMarco said, slapping the dashboard. “What the hell’s he doing?”

  “Losing us,” Emma said, but she was smiling.

  “What’s so damn funny?” DeMarco asked irritably.

  “He lost us but he didn’t lose Sammy.”

  “Sammy?”

  “An old friend,” Emma said.

  Emma and her old friends.

  “So what’s Sammy doing?” he asked.

  “Joe, I’ve told you before: one car can’t follow another car in heavy traffic, particularly when the guy you’re tailing knows he’s being tailed. You need at least two cars, and you’re better off with four. Mike wasn’t available today so I called Sammy last night and told him we needed backup. He’s been riding in the exit lane ever since we got on the freeway and he followed Billy off the ramp.”

  “Damn nice of you to tell me that Sammy was on my payroll,” DeMarco said.

  “Oh, quit being so grumpy.”

  DeMarco grunted in response; a grunt was better than admitting Emma was right. As usual.

  “I hope you didn’t tell Sammy why we’re tailing Mattis.”

  Emma arched an eyebrow at DeMarco’s impertinence. “I didn’t tell him anything. Just to follow Billy if he shakes us and see if he talks to anybody.”

  DeMarco grunted again. They rode in silence a few minutes before he said, “Maybe we should take the next exit and see if we can locate him.”

  “That would be silly,” Emma said. “We’ll go get some coffee, then go to Billy’s office. He’ll get there eventually and when he does, Sammy will be behind him.”

  At eight thirty Billy indeed arrived at his parking lot, locked his car, and walked slowly over to the Secret Service building. His eyes were fixed on the pavement as he walked. At one point, he shook his head as though he might be having a conversation with himself. He didn’t see Emma and DeMarco parked at the far end of the lot, although he would have if he had looked up. After Billy went inside his building, Emma and DeMarco stepped out of their car.

  “So where’s your pal Sammy?” DeMarco asked.

  Emma ignored his question and continued to scan the parking lot. When she didn’t see Sammy after a few minutes she said, “I wonder if Billy met someone and Sammy followed the other guy?”

  “Yeah, right,” DeMarco said. Mattis, with all his training, had probably ditched this Sammy character five minutes after he exited the freeway.

  Twenty minutes later, Emma raised her arm and waved at a small man walking in their direction.

  Sammy Wix weighed about a hundred pounds and was short enough to be a jockey’s big brother. His homely, long-nosed face was wrinkled, tanned, and leathery; he looked like a sun-worshiping troll. He also had a handshake which made DeMarco wince.

  “So what’s our Billy been up to, Sammy?” Emma asked.

  Sammy spoke in a dense New York dialect, all dems and dises, mangling the English language with his tongue.

  “He drives a couple a blocks after he gets offa da freeway, Em, den he circles around like he’s trying to make chur nobody’s followin’ him. Den he stops at a 7-Eleven to use da phone. Da store’s got two boots side by side, and since he doan know me from Adam, I bops on over to da boot next to him and listen to him jabber.”

  He stopped and smiled. It was a tight little smile, just a twitch of the lips. It was the kind of smile that said people always underestimated Sammy Wix and he liked it when they did.

  “He punches lotsa buttons, like he’s dialin’ long distance and chargin’ da call to a card.”

  “Did you get the number of the booth he called from?” DeMarco asked.

  Sammy looked at DeMarco for the first time and twitched his little smile again. “Chur,” he said, “and da time a da call.” His eyes lingered on DeMarco for a moment as if he didn’t quite trust him. DeMarco wondered if his face reminded Sammy of guys that used to chase him home from school when he was a kid.

  “Anyway,” Sammy said, continuing to address Emma, “he sounded real excited. He says, ‘Uncle Max, sometin’s funny
, sometin’s happenin’.’ Den before he can say anyting else, da guy on da other end, dis Uncle Max, starts screamin’ at him. I can tell cuz da kid holds da phone away from his ear. Den he says ‘Sorry, Uncle Max’ a whole buncha times, den he says, ‘No, I’m callin’ from a phone boot,’ den he says, ‘I’ll call Dale,’ den he says he’s sorry again, a whole bunch more times. Den he hangs up.”

  Sammy stopped, as though he was finished with his story.

  “So where’s he been since the phone call?” DeMarco asked. “He’s half an hour late for work.”

  “I was just gonna tell you dat.” Little gotcha smile. “After da call he hangs up and calls anudder number. Someone answers. Billy calls him Dale, says dey gotta talk. Da udder guy, dis Dale guy, he jabbers awhile, den Billy hangs up again.”

  He paused again, as if he was finished, but this time DeMarco waited. He was wise to the little bastard.

  “Den he gets in his car and drives into D.C., near GW University, parks and stands by his car. A few minutes later, dis udder guy shows up, lookin’ like maybe he just got outta bed. He walks up to Billy and Billy starts blabbin’, all excited, wavin’ his arms. I can’t hear what dere sayin’ cuz I gotta stay in my car, cuz I’m double parked down the block. Can’t ever find parkin’ in dis fuckin’ town. Anyway, da udder guy smacks him.”

  “Smacks him?” DeMarco said.

  “Yeah. A slap, not a punch. Kind of a getta-grip-on-yourself smack. Den da udder guy jabbers at Billy awhile, puts his arm around his shoulder like he’s tryin’ to make him feel better, calm him down. Billy nods his head a whole buncha times, blows his nose, like maybe he’s cryin’, den finally he gets in his car and leaves.”

  “I wonder who da udder guy . . . I mean, who the other guy was?” DeMarco said to Emma. Emma just looked over at Sammy.

  Sammy’s lips twitched. “As soon as Billy takes off, I slides into his parking space and takes off on foot after da guy Billy was talkin’ to. He walks back to an apartment right around da corner, a brownstone on Nineteenth and G. I look at da tenants’ names on da mailboxes. Only one name with da first initial D. Someone named D. Estep.”

  17

  DeMarco called Alice, gave her the phone number of the booth Billy had used, and told her to start tapping her keyboard. He wanted to find out who Uncle Max was.

  Alice, sounding distracted, said it was going to be a couple of hours before she could get the information DeMarco needed.

  “Alice,” DeMarco said, “I know it only takes you ten damn minutes to trace a number for me. I need this quick.”

  “I was just leavin’ for a doctor’s appointment when you called. I’ve been havin’ these chest pains lately. I think it’s my heart.”

  “Alice, you don’t have a heart. It’s indigestion. Go to the doctor tomorrow.”

  “I’m not going to risk a heart attack for you!” Alice said, stung by DeMarco’s bedside manner.

  “Alice, you know what’s worse than having a heart attack?” DeMarco said.

  “What?”

  “Starving to death—which is likely to be your demise since you feed your paycheck to a slot machine every week. You need that check I send to you, Alice. You are on retainer—just like a lawyer—but if you don’t provide the service for which you have been retained I’m going to stop mailing you money, in which case you’ll be eating dog food by the end of the month.”

  “Listen to me, you insensitive prick,” Alice hissed. “I’m going to the doctor. I’ll be back in a couple of hours unless he puts me in the hospital, and when I get back, I’ll do your damn trace.”

  Alice hung up without saying good-bye.

  D. ESTEP LIVED in a three-story apartment building housing a dozen tenants. DeMarco buzzed the door marked “Manager” and was greeted by a belch, followed by, “Yeah?”

  “Are you the manager?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I need to talk to you. Buzz me in, please.”

  “If you’re a salesman, you can fuck off.”

  “I’m not a salesman. I’m a government investigator and if you don’t let me in, I’m gonna make your life miserable.” And I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll . . .

  “My life’s already miserable, asshole,” the manager said, but before DeMarco could complete the chorus by saying he would make it more miserable, he heard the click of the door lock being released.

  The apartment manager was one of those aesthetic creatures blessed with an enormous belly and no butt. He wore a too-tight green T-shirt and baggy blue jeans, so from the front you were treated to the lovely sight of a roll of fat flopping over his belt, and from the rear, the crack of his rump.

  The manager took a seat in a swaybacked recliner then picked up a Budweiser from a nearby end table. There were three empty beer cans on the floor next to the recliner. As he took a drink his eyes drifted toward a television set tuned to a soap opera, seeming to forget DeMarco was in the room. The dingy apartment was hot and smelled of smoke, stale beer, and rapidly ejected stomach gases.

  DeMarco walked over to the television set and punched the off button.

  “Hey! What’d you do that for? I was watchin’ that.”

  DeMarco looked around for someplace to sit and concluded that his dry-cleaning bill would be less if he stood.

  “I want to talk to you,” DeMarco said, “and I want your undivided attention.”

  “So talk, but make it quick. That’s my favorite show.”

  “You have a tenant in 2B named D. Estep. I want to know about him.”

  “What for?”

  “Because I’m investigating him.”

  “Yeah, but ain’t this invasion of privacy, or a violation of his civil rights, or some such shit?”

  “Right now, I’m just invading his privacy. How would you like it if I started invading yours? For example, I’ll bet you get a few tips at Christmastime or maybe you have another job, one that pays cash. I’ll bet you don’t report everything you make to the IRS. Am I right?”

  “Okay, okay. I get the point. So whaddaya wanna know? I never liked him anyway, the cornpone asshole.”

  “Cornpone?”

  “He’s from way down South. Talks that goofy Southern way.”

  “You have a file on him? He must have filled out some paper when he rented the apartment.”

  “Yeah, lemme get it.”

  With a grunt he heaved himself out of the recliner, made the futile gesture of tugging up his pants, and walked slowly over to a battered olive-green filing cabinet. He rummaged through the cabinet for a few moments and finally pulled out a single, wrinkled sheet of paper.

  DeMarco took the paper from him. It was a standard rental agreement and it identified the occupant of apartment 2B as Dale Estep, no middle initial, and gave as a prior residence an address in Folkston, Georgia. DeMarco had no idea where Folkston was. He copied down the address and Estep’s social security number. The space for references was blank. Rental terms were for a three-month lease, paid in advance, and a five-hundred-dollar damage deposit.

  “Isn’t a three-month lease unusual?” DeMarco asked.

  “Yeah, but he said I could keep the damage deposit when he moved out.”

  “What’s he doing that he only needed a place for three months?”

  “Beats me. When I asked, just trying to be friendly, he told me to mind my own business.”

  “What do you think he does?”

  The apartment manager shrugged; the T-shirt rose. “I don’t know,” he said. “He comes and goes at odd hours, sometimes he’s not here three, four days at a time.”

  “He live alone?”

  “Yeah. He’s had a few babes over, different one every time. Most of ’em look like hookers.”

  “Has he ever had a man over?”

  “You mean is he queer?”

  “No, I mean is there anyone, male or female, who’s a regular visitor?”

  The man’s brow furrowed as if DeMarco had asked him to define gravity. He finally said, “Ther
e’s one guy I seen, maybe three times. Don’t know his name. Blond guy. Short hair, like maybe he’s military. Young. Neat.”

  “Does Estep keep a car here?”

  “Yeah. A Vet. Cherry red. It’s got Georgia plates, those, you know, vanity plates. His says GATOR.”

  DEMARCO THREATENED THE apartment manager with dire federal consequences if he talked to Estep, and drove to his office. There was a message on his answering machine from heart-pained Alice. “He called a Maxwell Taylor in Folkston, Georgia.” She gave DeMarco Taylor’s address. She paused before saying, “I’m sure you don’t give a shit, but the doctor said my heart’s okay.”

  Indigestion, just like DeMarco had thought.

  DeMarco called Emma next. He gave her the Georgia addresses for Maxwell Taylor and Dale Estep, Estep’s social security number, the GATOR license plate, and asked her to see what her extended federal family might know about the men.

  “We gotta find out who these guys are, Emma,” DeMarco said. “They just popped up out of the blue. They’re obviously connected to Billy but we need to know if they’re linked to Harold Edwards in some way. This could have nothing to do with the assassination attempt.”

  DeMarco spent the rest of the morning trying to get a line on Maxwell Taylor in his own way. Sammy Wix said Billy had called him Uncle Max but a glance at Billy’s personnel file showed there was no mention of a relation named Taylor. The file was inconclusive, however, as the only relatives required to be listed on government personnel records are immediate family and family employed by the government—Uncle Sam’s airtight method for controlling nepotism.

  In going back over Billy’s file he did see something he hadn’t noticed before: no father. Billy’s file had the cryptic initials “NA” in the block where he was supposed to write his father’s name. Unless immaculate conceptions were back in vogue, he doubted “Not Applicable” was applicable. He knew the Secret Service performed extensive background checks on its employees and would have thought that the absence of paternal information would have raised an eyebrow. But then this was the government, an entity infrequently applauded for accuracy.