House Secrets (37 page)

Brenda’s head was lying on his chest, her blond curls damp from their efforts. DeMarco was admiring the curve of her rump when the doorbell rang. He looked at his watch and cursed himself for not paying attention to the time. He jumped out of bed, ran to the front door, and looked through the peephole. It was Emma. Shit. He yelled through the door for her to wait, then ran back to the bedroom and
told Brenda to hurry up and get dressed, and for Christ’s sake, to comb her hair.

“Geez!” she said. “I could tell you weren’t the type who liked to cuddle afterwards, but this is ridiculous.”

“Hurry up,” DeMarco said.

When he opened the door, Emma just stood on the stoop for a moment looking at him. She knew exactly what he’d been up to. And it wasn’t just because of his tousled hair, or the fact that his shirt was half-untucked, or that he wasn’t wearing a tie. Emma knew because . . . well, because she was Emma.

As she walked past DeMarco and into the living room of the townhouse she said, “Considering what’s at stake here, I would have thought—”

“Aw, gimme a break,” DeMarco said.

Before Emma could chastise DeMarco further, Brenda walked into the living room. Her clothes weren’t disheveled like DeMarco’s and her hair was in place, but she had that unmistakable, good-sex glow about her. She and Emma studied each other for a moment, Brenda wondering who Emma was, Emma inspecting Brenda like a side of beef.

“Who are you?” Brenda said to Emma.

“She’s an associate of mine,” DeMarco said. Before Brenda could ask more questions, he added, “Brenda, you need to buy some clothes suitable for a Senate aide. Why don’t you go shopping now and meet me back here in about four hours.”

Brenda’s eyes narrowed and she opened her mouth to tell DeMarco to quit being such a bossy SOB, but before she could, DeMarco said, “And don’t worry about the cost; you won’t be paying for the clothes.”

A minute after Brenda left, and just as Emma began to lecture him on the inadvisability of screwing the help, the doorbell rang again. It was Bobby Prentis, Neil’s assistant. Bobby was a slightly-built young black man with rust-colored dreadlocks who rarely spoke. He communicated best, and most often, through keyboard and modem. From Bobby’s small hands dangled two objects: a thin black leather briefcase and a medium-sized metal suitcase.

Emma and Bobby made a quick tour of the apartment, returning to the living room area where they started. The living room was adjacent to the kitchen, separated by a countertop used for informal dining.

“We want it to happen in this area,” Emma said to DeMarco. “Make sure Goldilocks understands.”

“Why—,” DeMarco started to say, but Emma ignored him.

“Bobby, I want them no higher than this,” Emma said, placing a hand on the top of a window frame, “and no lower than this,” she said, touching the bottom of the window frame. “Understand?”

Bobby nodded.

“So put one here, one here, one over there, and one near the bedroom window, which I hope we won’t need.”

Bobby nodded. He set the two cases on the kitchen countertop, opened the black leather briefcase, and took out four video cameras that were not much bigger than packs of cigarettes. He opened the metal suitcase next, which was actually a portable hardware store, crammed with tools, fasteners, and wire. DeMarco was surprised Bobby had been able to lift the suitcase by himself.

As Bobby began to work, Emma said, “You have the cop lined up?”

“Yeah.”

“And the photographer?”

“Yeah.”

“Think they’ll be able to keep their mouths shut?”

DeMarco shrugged. “I’m not too concerned about the cop; if he talks he’ll get in trouble. It’s the photographer who worries me.”

“So have Murphy give him a tip,” Emma said.

It took Bobby less than two hours to install the video equipment. When he was finished he nodded his head and left, having spoken no more than two sentences the entire time he was in the apartment.

DeMarco examined the places where Bobby had hidden the cameras. You could see them if you stood close to them and knew where to look, but a person casually taking in the décor would never spot them. Bobby’s little spy shop in a box had even contained small vials
of paint and he’d touched up the walls and molding wherever he’d made any marks.

Yes, Bobby was a professional when it came to things like this, as was Emma. DeMarco was not. As he stood there looking at the nearly invisible cameras he could imagine a million things going wrong. The batteries in the cameras would die; sunspots would interfere with the equipment; an electrical storm . . .

“Oh, yeah,” Emma said, looking at Bobby’s handiwork, a killer gleam in her eye, “we’re gonna nail this bastard.”

Gary Parker, the cop, moved into the apartment building. He was delighted with his new digs.

DeMarco toured Arnie Berg around the apartment building. Showed him exactly where to stand. “No sweat,” Arnie said.

Bobby, Neil’s mute apprentice, gave DeMarco the keys to the surveillance van and showed him how to work the equipment. To make sure he understood, they did a dry run with Emma standing inside the apartment, talking for the microphones. The sound was crystal clear.

DeMarco called Brenda at Morelli’s office to make sure that the senator’s schedule hadn’t changed.

“I caught him staring at my boobs when I stretched today,” Brenda said. “I stretch a lot.”

“Good. Keep him staring. But are you sure he’s still on for Thursday, that his schedule’s the same?”

“Yep. And speaking of schedules, I seem to be free tonight. How ’bout it, honey bunch? Wanna roll in the hay with a future movie star?”

He did.

Wednesday night DeMarco met Sam Murphy in his suite at the Hyatt on Capitol Hill. Murphy was wearing the pants and vest from a black
three-piece suit, the collar of his white shirt undone. He sat, relaxed, in an overstuffed armchair, his cowboy boots propped on the coffee table in front of him. His ugly dog lay on the bed, snoring. The critter smelled like a wet doormat.

“Well, Joe Bob, I’m all set to see the man tomorrow as planned.”

“Did he agree to meet you in his office?” DeMarco asked.

“Yeah. Told him I didn’t wanna meet no place public.”

“What reason did you give him for the meeting?”

“Son, don’t try to teach your daddy to suck eggs. I gave him a reason that made him feel good, one that made him think he had the upper hand.”

“You gotta get some booze into him, Sam.”

“Quit frettin’, boy. I could get the Pope drunk and laid if I put my mind to it.”

Sam Murphy looked over at DeMarco, his eyes flat and unsmiling and serious. “I’m gonna owe you one if you pull this off, Joe Bob. I want you to know I realize that.”

“No, Sam, you will definitely not owe me one. If I had my way you wouldn’t be running for president either.”

Brenda was to wait until Sam Murphy left, then catch the senator just as he was leaving the office. DeMarco had told her it was important she meet Morelli in the hallway, and not inside his office. She was to tell him that she had missed her ride and would ask him if he would mind taking her to the Metro stop at Union Station, which was only a couple of blocks from the Russell Building. DeMarco was positive Morelli would offer to drive her home. He didn’t like her being alone with Morelli in a car, but she was wired for sound and he would be directly behind her in the surveillance van.

At seven-thirty DeMarco heard Brenda over the headset: “Oh, Senator, I didn’t know you were still here. I just came back to call a cab.”

Goddamnit, Brenda, don’t improvise
. DeMarco was afraid Morelli might let her into his office to use the phone. Even worse, he just might let her take a cab home.

“What are you doing here so late, honey?” Morelli asked.

Honey? It sounded as though Sam Murphy had done his job.

“Well, you know,” Brenda said, “being new and everything, I have to stay late sometimes to keep up.”

“Where do you live?”

“By the Eastern Market Metro stop. I usually get a ride home from one of the other girls, but they all left early tonight. I was going to
walk home—it’s not that far—but when I went outside, I got scared. I don’t like walking alone here at night, so I came back to call a cab.”

DeMarco heard a long pause, then Morelli said, “Come on. I’ll give you a ride.”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t impose on you like that, Senator.”

Don’t protest too much, Brenda.

“Darlin’, it won’t be any trouble at all. Let’s go.”

On the drive to Brenda’s apartment, Morelli was the perfect gentleman. In fact, other than asking for directions, he hardly spoke at all, which made DeMarco worry that Sam Murphy hadn’t gotten enough booze into the man.

Arnie Berg, the photographer, and Gary Parker, the cop, were in the surveillance van with DeMarco. They weren’t able to hear Brenda and the senator talking because DeMarco was listening to the transmission through a headset. At this point, neither Arnie nor Gary knew who they were about to encounter.

When they arrived at the apartment Brenda said, “Senator, would you like to come in and have a cup of coffee, or something? I don’t mean to sound disrespectful, but I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve been drinking. I’d hate to see you get stopped by the police on the way home.”

Morelli didn’t respond immediately and as the silence grew, DeMarco sat in his car, muttering to himself: Come on, you bastard, come on.

“Yeah, a cup of coffee might be a good idea,” Morelli said at last.

“Get in position,” DeMarco told his small team. “And Arnie, when Gary tells you to give him the camera, give it to him. And Gary, if Arnie doesn’t give you the camera when you ask for it, hit him with your stick.”

“Hey!” Arnie said.

“I’m serious, Arnie,” DeMarco said. “If you don’t give Gary the camera, if you take off with it, I’ll hunt you down and kill you.”

DeMarco wouldn’t kill him, but he looked like a guy who might. Arnie swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I’ll do what I said; you don’t have to threaten me. But I wanna know who these people are.”

“You’ll find out soon enough. Now get in position.”

Arnie and the young cop left the van. Arnie snuck up to the front window of Brenda’s apartment, crawled behind some bushes, then pointed his camera at the interior of the apartment. The cop just stood on the sidewalk in front of the apartment building, fidgeting.

Over the headset DeMarco heard Brenda say, “Would you like tea or coffee, Senator?”

“You’re sure a pretty little girl, Brenda,” the senator said.

The phrase “little girl” made DeMarco’s skin crawl.

“Thank you, Senator, but what would you like to drink?” Brenda’s tone made it clear she was in no way encouraging Morelli.

“You live alone?” Morelli asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Have a boyfriend?”

“No, I just moved here. Now I’ve got some nice Darjeeling tea. How would you like that?”

“You must be lonely, a tiny thing like you, not having someone around to cuddle you. And I’ve seen you looking at me in the office.”

The polished sophistication DeMarco had always heard in Paul Morelli’s voice had disappeared completely. Drunken sailors approach hookers with more subtlety than he was displaying. The change in his character resulting from a few drinks was astounding.