House Rivals (13 page)

17

“We're fucked,” Bill said.

Marge had been sitting there, about to call Heckler to tell him to stick with DeMarco. Now she shot up from her chair like it was spring loaded. For just an instant, she considered picking up the stapler on her desk and flinging it at Bill's head as hard as she could.

“Listen to me, Bill.” She almost said,
Listen to me, you idiot.
“That little speech that DeMarco just made was total bullshit, and the only reason he made it is because he's hoping one of us will panic. DeMarco has nothing! And the FBI will find nothing. The kind of things we do for Curtis are nowhere near as bad as the crap that goes on in D.C. They have more lobbyists in Washington than they have politicians, and they throw
millions
at those politicians. When was the last time a D.C. lobbyist was arrested? And what the hell have we done? Arranged for some guy to get his septic system fixed without a permit? Big fucking deal. Nobody's going to jail.”

“Yeah, but he knows who we are.”

“Shut up and come outside with me.”

“Can't you wait until we've finished talking to have a cigarette?”

“That's not why we're going outside.”

Once they got outside, Marjorie did light up a Marlboro, however. “We need to be careful about what we say in the office. Thanks to DeMarco, those FBI weasels might try to tap our phones or bug the office.”

“But they'd have to get a warrant to do that.”

Marjorie just looked at him for a moment, then shook her head. “Sometimes I wonder what planet you live on. The FBI will use the Patriot Act or anything else they can think of to get a warrant if John Mahoney is pressuring them. So I don't want you to say anything on the phone or in the office about Sarah Johnson or Murdock or Curtis or anything else that somebody could consider the least bit illegal. We're going to keep doing what we've always done but we're going to be as squeaky clean as . . . Well, as I don't know what, but squeaky clean. Do you understand?”

“Yeah. But what do we tell Curtis?”

“I don't know. I have to think about that. But at some point, we need to let him know about DeMarco.” She dropped her cigarette on the ground and crushed it out. “It's Curtis's fault we're in this mess. We never would have done anything about Johnson if he hadn't forced us. But that's water under the bridge, so you get your head on straight. You don't do anything out of the ordinary. You just go about your business. If the FBI tries to talk to you, you don't talk. They can't force you to talk to them. If they drag you in for questioning, you say you want a lawyer, then you call me and after that you keep your mouth shut.”

Bill went back inside looking uncertain and queasy. Marjorie lit another cigarette—she was smoking way too much lately—and called Heckler. She told him to stick with DeMarco then asked, “You know anybody who can tell if our phones or our office is bugged?”

“Maybe. There's a guy I know in Minneapolis who used to do stuff like that. I mean, he used to bug phones and offices for the cops. He was a contractor, I guess. You want me to call him?”

“Yeah, do that.”

Marjorie knew, however, that their office being bugged wasn't her biggest problem. Even DeMarco and the FBI weren't her biggest problems. The big problems were Bill and Curtis. Bill was a weak link. He was drinking too much and he was a nervous wreck because he was an accomplice to Johnson's murder and was terrified he might get caught.

Curtis was a different story. There wasn't anything weak about him. He might call Murdock himself if he thought she and Bill had become liabilities.

18

“Agent, it's Joe DeMarco. I was thinking maybe we could meet for lunch and compare notes.”

“Is that right?” Westerberg said. “Does this mean you're going to tell me why you wanted Bill Logan's address?”

“Yeah, sure,” DeMarco said, like he was the most reasonable guy in the world.

“Well, we may as well meet because if I keep reading this blog my eyes are going to start bleeding.”

DeMarco met Westerberg at a place called the Blarney Stone Pub on Main Street, about a mile from the Capitol. The Blarney Stone had redbrick walls, old hardwood floors, a long, dark bar, and twenty different beers on tap. Behind the bar was a painting of a cheerful-looking bearded Irishman wearing a red beret and toasting the patrons with a frothy pint of Guinness.

DeMarco arrived before Westerberg, took a seat at a table near the bar, and she arrived five minutes later. As she came toward him, DeMarco couldn't help but appreciate that she had a nice, trim figure and outstanding legs. She was probably a jogger. She also looked tired, and DeMarco suspected she was working hard because she wanted to go home. She was wearing the same clothes she'd been wearing the evening DeMarco first met her: dark suit, white blouse, except the tie-like scarf was absent. She was probably wearing the same clothes because when she flew or drove to Bismarck from Minneapolis she hadn't been expecting to stay for long.

DeMarco ordered a cheeseburger for lunch; Westerberg asked for a chicken salad. As much as DeMarco wanted to sample one of the many beers the Blarney Stone offered, he followed Westerberg's lead and had an ice tea. After the waitress had taken their order, she said to DeMarco: “So? What's going on?”

DeMarco told her about Janet Tyler and how Logan convinced her to stop pursuing a lawsuit against Curtis in return for keeping her son out of jail, and that Tyler was the one who gave him Logan's name. He concluded, saying: “Bill Logan and Marjorie Dawkins are Curtis's go-to guys. They're the ones who have been going around bribing people.”

“Yeah, I figured that might be the case when I found out they were lobbyists and worked for Curtis. But what Tyler told you isn't proof that Logan did anything illegal or that he conspired in Johnson's death?”

“I realize that,” DeMarco said. “But I talked to Dawkins and Logan, and I told them that you were going to find some proof.”

“You what! Goddamnit, DeMarco! If by some remote chance we—and by
we
, I mean the FBI—can actually build a criminal case against these people, you could screw things up by talking to them. I told you before: you are
not
law enforcement.”

“Yeah, yeah,” DeMarco said, then went on to tell her about his conversation with Bill and Marjorie. He didn't tell her that he'd referred to her as a pit bull with a badge. He concluded by saying that Logan and Dawkins naturally denied being anything more than innocent political consultants, but Logan had looked particularly nervous, like he was about ready to come out of his skin.

“So in other words,” Westerberg said, “all you did was forewarn them that they're being investigated.”

“What have you got?” DeMarco said to change the subject. “Do the Bismarck cops have anything on Sarah's murder?”

“No. There was no incriminating evidence at the crime scene. One thing that was a bit unusual was that the shooter didn't leave any brass behind. I mean, it's possible he used a .22 revolver, but folks don't usually buy .22 revolvers. And what this means is that whoever killed Sarah had the presence of mind to pick up the shell casings before he left, which is not what you'd expect if the shooter was some hopped-up meth addict. The other thing is, I thought we might be able to find Sarah's phone. What I'm saying is, if a tweeker stole her phone he would have started using it or sold it to somebody and that person would have used it. But we couldn't locate the phone so whoever stole it disabled or destroyed it, which again, isn't typical meth-head behavior. So this shooting has the earmarks of a professional hit but there's no evidence leading to the shooter.”

“Okay, but that's not exactly big news,” DeMarco said. “I never did think she was a victim of a random home invasion. Did you get anything else?”

“Yeah, two things. The first is that Logan took a trip to Denver a few days before Sarah was killed.”

“What made you look at his travel records?” DeMarco asked.

“I was just checking him out after you gave me his name, looking at credit card records, tax returns, criminal records, whatever I could look at.”

“So what about this trip to Denver? Why's that significant?”

“Because in looking at Logan's travel history, he doesn't usually go to Denver. In fact, until last week, the last time he'd been in Denver was six years ago. Normally he flies to Houston, where Curtis has his headquarters, a PR firm in LA, and Washington D.C.”

“Could you figure out what he was doing in Denver?”

“No. He checked into a hotel, spent one night there, and flew out the next day. His credit card charges were just for normal things like dinner and booze and snacks. If I had to guess, I'd say he went there for a quick meeting.”

“By any chance, was anybody connected to Curtis killed right after Logan went to Denver the last time?”

“Not that I could find,” Westerberg said.

“Huh,” DeMarco said. He sat there for a moment, turning his ice tea glass in his hands. “Can you get a warrant to tap Logan's phones?”

“Are you crazy? No judge is going to give me a warrant because the man flew to Denver. I have nothing to indicate that Logan has committed a crime. And what good would tapping his phones do anyway?”

“I'll tell you what good it would do,” DeMarco said. “I think if you lean on Logan, you'll scare the shit out of him. You handcuff him, drag him into an interrogation room, read him his rights, then you tell him that Janet Tyler is willing to testify against him and . . .”

“Testify to what?”

“That Logan said he could keep her son from going to jail if she dropped the lawsuit against Curtis. In other words, she can testify that Logan admitted to her that he could influence her son's prosecutor.”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“Then you start lying. You lie like a son of a bitch. You say that the prosecutor who Logan paid off to make sure Tyler's son didn't go to jail, confessed. You say he confessed because you nailed him on some other bullshit and he gave up Logan for a reduced sentence. You say that you've also got two or three politicians—people named in Sarah's blog—who've admitted that they took bribes from Logan. They admitted this because you're a badass federal agent and scared them.”

Before Westerberg could interrupt him, DeMarco continued. “Then you hit Logan between the eyes with his Denver trip. You say you know he went to Denver and he hired somebody to kill Sarah. You say that you're about ready to arrest the killer, who you can prove was in Denver at the same time as Logan. In other words, you lie some more and say you found evidence at the crime scene or a picture on a surveillance camera. Whatever you can think of. I mean, you're going to need a pretty good script before you interrogate Logan, but I think you can write one and maybe he'll fall for it.”

“And you think if I tell him all these lies, he'll confess?”

“Probably not. His lawyer will tell him to keep his mouth shut. But after you interrogate him and tell him the lies, Logan might panic and call somebody and say something that will incriminate himself or Curtis. So. Let me ask again: do you think there's any way you might be able to get a warrant to tap Logan's phones?”

“Forget it. No judge will give me one unless I lie to the judge, which I'm not about to do.”

“Well, then—and I mean hypothetically—could you tap his phones without a warrant?”

“DeMarco, there is no way in hell that I am going to break the law, no matter who you work for.”

“Okay, be that way,” DeMarco said. “But I'm curious about something. Didn't you need a warrant to find out that Logan flew to Denver?”

Westerberg looked away—and she looked sheepish. She cleared her throat before she said, “There are a lot of databases out there, databases that legally collect information on people who purchase things—like airline tickets. I just happen to know somebody who has access to the right database.”

“All right, Agent! I'm proud of you.”

“Shut up, DeMarco.”

“You said you learned two things. The first was Logan's trip to Denver. What was the second?”

“When Sarah was assaulted by those three men in April, she called the cops and I talked to the two cops who responded to the call. They told me that Sarah couldn't positively identify her attackers because they wore ski masks, but she said one of the men had full sleeves.”

“Full sleeves?”

“Tattoos covering his arms, from shoulder to wrist. She couldn't see his face but she could see the tattoos because he was wearing a T-shirt. And his arms were right in her face because he sat on her chest, holding his hand over her mouth so she couldn't scream. The problem is that she couldn't remember anything distinctive about the tattoos: no image of a screaming eagle or a skull and crossbones or anything like that. The other thing was, this same guy was wearing beat-up old cowboy boots and the boots had silver caps on the toes.”

The image of Sarah being pushed to the ground and three goons in ski masks, standing over her and threatening her, made DeMarco want to kill somebody. “So how are the tattoos and the boots important if Sarah couldn't ID her attackers?”

“Bismarck isn't a big city, and this means that the local cops know most the local assholes. As soon as Sarah said full sleeves and silver-tipped cowboy boots they thought of a guy named Roy Patterson.”

“Did they question Patterson?”

“Of course. Patterson's alibi for the time Sarah was attacked was another asshole named Mark Jenkins. Jenkins and Patterson said they were sitting in Patterson's double-wide watching a ball game when Sarah was attacked. And the cops couldn't break Patterson's alibi and you can't arrest somebody for having tattoos and cowboy boots. The other thing was their attitude. Patterson and Jenkins both acted smug when the cops questioned them, like they knew they were getting away with something. But you can't arrest anyone for attitude, either. At any rate, based totally on cop instinct and a couple of tattooed arms, the Bismarck cops think that Patterson and Jenkins may have been two of the men who attacked Sarah but they can't do anything about it.”

“Are there any surveillance cameras you can look at to see if Jenkins and Patterson were running around town during the time they were supposedly watching this ball game? You know, maybe a red-light camera that might have taken their picture.”

“There aren't all that many public surveillance cameras in Bismarck. This isn't London. And the cops here aren't complete idiots. They actually did check out places between Patterson's trailer and the parking lot where Sarah was attacked. You know, a couple convenience stores and bars where these mutts might have stopped for a beer after they did the job—but they couldn't find anybody who saw them and the surveillance cameras in those places didn't show anything.”

“But the cops are sure these guys were involved?”

Westerberg shrugged. “Are they sure? Well, they'd tell you that they're sure but as Denzel said in that movie: It's not what you know, it's what you can prove.”

“Yeah, I guess,” DeMarco said, as if he agreed with Westerberg—which he didn't. But rather than argue with her—and maybe tip his hand—he decided to change the subject. “Did you find anything in Sarah's blog you might be able to pursue?”

Westerberg laughed. “Let me tell you about the last thing I read in Sarah's blog. There was a North Dakota state senator who changed his vote on a bill related to disposal of wastewater from fracking. This got Sarah's attention because the guy had always been on the right side of environmental issues in the past and his vote was inconsistent with his voting pattern. So Sarah . . .. She was really good, DeMarco. I wished she'd applied for a job at the Bureau. Anyway, Sarah somehow found out that the sewer line from the senator's house got clogged up by tree roots, and the sewer backed up and flooded his basement. Well, the senator's insurance company, being a typical insurance company, refused to pay for the water damage, which amounted to eight thousand bucks. Then, low and behold, this insurance company—who coincidentally provides insurance for a whole shitload of things connected to Leonard Curtis—has a change of heart.

“Sarah concluded, of course, that somebody paid the senator a visit and said they might be able to get his insurance company to pay his claim if he quit being such a pill about this wastewater legislation. Then this person—who we now suspect was Logan or Dawkins—made a call to the insurance company, telling them that Curtis was going to find somebody else to insure his many homes and businesses, and the insurance company decided to pay the claim.

“I mean, everything in her damn blog is like that, DeMarco! Like in this case: An insurance company paid off on a claim they probably should have paid in the first place, and a politician simply changed his mind. There's no way to prove the guy was bribed. You remember that congressman in Louisiana we busted with ninety thousand bucks in cash in his freezer? Now you can
do
something with ninety grand in a freezer. You can't do anything with an insurance company that just decides to do the right thing for once.”

Westerberg stood up. “I gotta go, DeMarco. I have work to do.” She turned to walk away, then turned back to face him. “I don't like the situation I'm in right now. I don't like it at all. Mahoney's got his boot on my boss's neck and my boss won't assign me to another case until I can convince him that there's nothing I can legally do to catch Sarah's killer. The operative word there being
legally
. And then my boss will have to convince Mahoney and Mahoney will probably ask you if I've done everything I can. So I want you to know that I'm busting my ass on this case, but at some point you and Mahoney may have to accept the fact that I can't find the evidence needed to convict someone. I also want you to know it really pisses me off that I have to satisfy you that I'm doing my job.”