Dead Man’s List. Mike Lawson

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СКАЧАТЬ a good man; I’ve known him for years.” Then Morelli asked DeMarco a question that he thought was odd: “Are you and Harry close, Joe?”

      “Uh, no, sir, not anymore. We were when I was a kid, but since I live here now and Harry lives in New York…”

      “I understand,” Morelli said. At that moment Burrows returned with coffee for DeMarco and the senator. Morelli thanked Burrows, took a sip from his cup, then said, “So, Joe, what can I do for you?”

      “Mr. Mahoney got a call from an old friend, an ex-congressman named Dick Finley who retired about ten years ago. Finley’s son just died and the police ruled the death as accidental, but Finley thinks his son may have been killed because of something he was working on.”

      “What did his son do?” Morelli asked.

      “He was a reporter. He worked for the Washington Post.”

      “Oh, that guy,” Burrows said.

      “You knew him, Abe?” Morelli said.

      “Yeah, I knew him,” Burrows said, then made a face that led DeMarco to conclude that Burrows wasn’t a Terry Finley fan.

      “What makes Mr. Finley think his son was killed?” Morelli said.

      DeMarco told him.

      “Hmm. Sounds rather speculative. But then, I imagine Mr. Finley is quite distraught by his son’s death. I assume he’s also a rather elderly gentleman.”

      “Yes, sir,” DeMarco said, but he was thinking that Morelli was very good. Without having said anything negative, he’d just implied that Dick Finley was not only out of his mind with grief but possibly senile.

      “At any rate,” Morelli said, “what does this have to do with me, Joe?” Before DeMarco could answer the question, the door to the den swung open and the senator’s wife entered the room.

      DeMarco had seen newspaper photos of Lydia Morelli posing at the senator’s side at various Washington galas, but the photos hadn’t captured her frailty. She was petite, no more than five-two, and painfully thin. DeMarco had read that she was five or six years older than her husband, but in the same room with him, their age difference appeared closer to a decade. Nonetheless, she was still an attractive woman with large, blue-gray eyes and blond hair cut in a style that framed good cheekbones. Unlike the senator, she wasn’t dressed casually. She was wearing a beige-colored pantsuit, a pink blouse with a wide collar, and high-heeled shoes.

      Lydia’s eyes widened momentarily in surprise when she saw DeMarco sitting in the den but she recovered quickly, smiled at him, and said to her husband, “I’m sorry, Paul. I didn’t know you had company.”

      “Hi,” Morelli said to his wife. “Where’ve you been?”

      Morelli had asked the question casually but DeMarco noticed a slight edge to his tone, as if he was annoyed that his wife had gone out or that she hadn’t told him where she was going.

      “Oh, I had dinner with an old sorority sister,” Lydia said. She then raised her right fist into the air in a halfhearted manner, muttered “Go Alpha Pi,” and walked over to an armoire on the far side of the room. When she opened the armoire, DeMarco could see that it was actually a liquor cabinet filled with bottles of booze, glasses, and decanters. “I’ll be out of your way in just a shake,” Lydia said, her back to the men as she looked into the cabinet. “I just want to make myself a drink to take into the tub.”

      DeMarco could see that the senator was somewhat embarrassed by his wife’s behavior. When she had said “sister,” she’d slurred the word slightly, and he noticed that as she walked toward the liquor cabinet she’d moved carefully, as if she was making an effort to maintain her balance. She’d obviously had several drinks with her sorority pal and was a bit tipsy.

      Bottles in the cabinet clanked together loudly as Lydia searched for the one she wanted. A bottle of scotch clutched firmly by the neck, she turned and smiled at DeMarco again. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to this handsome gentleman, Paul?” she said.

      “Oh, of course,” Morelli said. “Joe, this is my wife Lydia. Lydia, this is Joe DeMarco. Joe’s an investigator for the House.”

      “Really,” Lydia said. “Like a private eye?”

      Burrows laughed, probably thinking that Lydia was making a joke, and she immediately shot him a look that wiped the smile off his face. DeMarco had noticed that she’d ignored Burrows when she entered the room, and judging by her reaction to his comment, it was apparent she didn’t like the man.

      Feeling the need to respond, DeMarco said, “No, ma’am. I’m just a lawyer. I’m…” Then he stopped. He didn’t think he should be discussing the reason for his visit with the senator’s wife, and Paul Morelli, immediately sensing DeMarco’s discomfort, said, “Joe’s just looking into a matter concerning a reporter, Lydia. Nothing significant.”

      Lydia arched an eyebrow and said, “Well, it would have been much more interesting if he’d been a hardboiled private eye. He looks like one.”

      “Lydia,” Morelli said, his impatience evident, “we need to…”

      “Oh, all right. I’m out of here. I’ll let you boys get back to whatever you’re doing.” As she passed through the doorway, her right hip bumped the door frame slightly, and she muttered, “Oops.”

      Morelli stared at the open door for a moment, then looked at DeMarco and said, “I assume you know what happened to our daughter, our Kate. It’s had horrible impact on us, particularly on Lydia. We’re both still recovering.”

      Again, DeMarco couldn’t help but be impressed with Morelli’s diplomacy. Without saying anything derogatory, he’d just explained why his wife might have had a couple of drinks too many and had acted a bit silly in front of a complete stranger.

      “Yes, sir,” DeMarco said, “and I’m sorry for your loss.”

      DeMarco knew that Kate Morelli had actually been Paul Morelli’s stepdaughter—Lydia’s daughter from her first marriage—and that Paul had adopted her when she was less than two. She had been sixteen years old when she died in an automobile accident six months ago. DeMarco remembered a newspaper picture of the senator at his daughter’s funeral, supporting his wife, tears streaming down his handsome face. The photo had been a portrait of the perfect family with the center gouged out.

      Morelli shook his head, as if scattering memories he didn’t want to recall, and said, “Where were we, Joe?” Then answering his own question, he said, “Oh, yes. You were about to tell me what Terry Finley’s death has to do with me.”

      DeMarco started to tell him about the three men on Finley’s list—Bachaud, Frey, and Reams—and when he did, Abe Burrows erupted.

      “Not this bullshit again,” Burrows said. “You know, DeMarco, this stuff with those three guys happened anywhere from five to fourteen years ago. Fourteen years! But people still keep talking about it. These men, they all did something dumb, but just because their mistakes helped Paul’s career there’s always some asshole implying that Paul caused their problems. And the Republican Party…Those bastards have spent thousands, maybe millions, investigating these three incidents, coincidences, whatever the hell they are—and they spent the money because they were hoping to find СКАЧАТЬ