House Secrets (43 page)

Brenda staggered slightly as she walked, feigning either intoxication or some state of advanced psychosis. Her lips were moving, but DeMarco couldn’t hear most of what she was saying; he assumed the dialogue would be dubbed in later. Damon and the other actress pantomimed shock when Brenda pointed her gun at them, then stood up and made don’t-shoot-me gestures with their hands. When Brenda narrowed her eyes and pointed the gun at Damon’s heart, Damon’s leading lady jumped forward and grabbed Brenda’s arm.

The two actresses fell to the floor and rolled about, wrestling for the gun, the skirts of both women rising nicely to expose sleek, creamy thighs. DeMarco assumed that what would happen next would be the old movie ploy where a shot would be fired as the women struggled, followed by a long, suspenseful moment to allow the audience time to bite their nails and wonder if it was the heroine who’d been plugged—which instantly made DeMarco wonder about the gun. What if it contained real bullets and not blanks?

It turned out DeMarco was wrong: the gun didn’t go off while the women were wrestling. Katy, Kathy, whoever the hell she was, put
some sort of kung-fu wrist lock on Brenda and managed to win the weapon. Katy then jumped to her feet and backed cautiously away from crazy Brenda, aiming the gun at her—and at that point a man wearing a Yankees baseball cap yelled “Cut.”

The damn gun
really
made DeMarco nervous. “Didn’t someone get killed with a movie gun once?” he said to the cameraman. “Some actor’s son?”

“Yeah,” the cameraman said, “Bruce Lee’s kid. But that can’t happen now. The union gotta bunch of safety rules put in place after that.”

The director said something to Brenda then yelled “Action” and the actors picked up the scene from where they’d been when it was interrupted. Kathy-Katy stood, legs apart, holding the pistol, and Brenda backed away from her toward the windows that looked out toward Elliott Bay.

Brenda stood still for a moment, a strand of hair hanging down, partially covering one eye. She looked menacingly from Damon to the brunette, then her mouth began moving as she lip-synced demented things. Damon responded with some words of reason which Brenda apparently found irritating, because she picked up a steak knife from a nearby table and charged toward Damon. The other actress screamed “No!” and fired the pistol three times. The noise in the small room startled the spectators, and DeMarco saw flame leap realistically from the barrel of the gun.

As the cameraman had predicted, bright red movie blood flew in all directions from electronically assisted wounds, then, to DeMarco’s amazement—his heart almost stopped—Brenda crashed through the window behind her and disappeared from view. It appeared that she’d been thrown backward by the force of the shots; in reality she had launched herself backward by thrusting off her right foot.

An instant later Brenda’s head popped up into view as she looked in through the shattered glass. The director yelled, “Fantastic, Brenda. That’s a take.” Brenda held her hands above her head in a victory gesture and beamed liked she’d just scored a perfect ten in a gymnastics routine.

Just as DeMarco let out the breath he’d been holding ever since the scene had started, he heard the sound of nails or screws tearing from wood. The smile on Brenda’s face was replaced by a look of horror and her hands started to wave as if she was trying to maintain her balance—then she screamed and disappeared from view.

DeMarco stood there paralyzed but the movie people surged en masse toward the window opening. The cameraman who had been talking to DeMarco looked down once then yelled over his shoulder, “Call for an ambulance.” DeMarco fought his way frantically through the crowd, over to the window, and looked down.

Because the Pike Place Market is built on a bluff overlooking Seattle’s waterfront, it was a six-story drop from the second floor of Lowell’s restaurant to the street below. Brenda lay on the asphalt, unmoving, her limbs twisted. Near her was an inflatable airbag, and scattered about were pieces of wood. Cars had stopped on the street, their headlights shining on Brenda’s body, and a man was standing, looking down at her. The fact that the man was standing rather than kneeling down to aid her said it all.

It didn’t take long for DeMarco to understand what had happened. Staging had been built outside the window, a platform about six feet square, complete with safety rails. Brenda was supposed to have landed on the airbag placed on the platform and the safety rails would have prevented her from rolling off. But something had failed, and one end of the platform had torn loose from its mountings.

DeMarco, his mind numb, an icy feeling spreading through his chest, went down to the street where Brenda’s body lay. Her face wasn’t marred but her lips were twisted in shock or pain, and the blood from the damage to the back of her head had created a dark puddle that looked black in the light from the street lamps. The cops and medics wouldn’t allow him to approach her, so he just stood there, feeling hollow inside, watching helplessly as they eventually zipped her into a black body bag and took her away.

He couldn’t believe that she was dead. Just a short time ago, she’d been in bed next to him, warm and bright and lovely and alive. She’d had her whole life in front of her and it had looked as if she was going to finally realize her dreams. DeMarco hadn’t known her long and he hadn’t been in love with her, but he’d liked her and cared about her and had considered her a friend. And now all the dreams were gone and a beautiful young woman was nothing more than broken, mangled flesh—and it was his fault.

After the ambulance drove away, DeMarco began to walk, not knowing or caring where he was going, just needing to be in motion. His thoughts gradually turned from grief and guilt, and he began to think about the way Brenda had died. S
omebody
was helping Paul Morelli kill people and whoever this person was, he had a long, vicious reach, all the way from D.C. to Seattle. And there are very few people who have the money, influence, and talent to penetrate the security of a movie set and turn scaffolding into a lethal weapon. Since he was certain that Charlie Eklund and the CIA were not involved, he could think of only one other answer: whoever was helping Morelli was someone in organized crime. He knew he was making a leap to come to this conclusion but he was sure he was right: everything that had happened both recently and during Morelli’s political ascendancy smelled to him like the mob. But then he also realized that there were major problems with this theory.

Lydia Morelli, the day they had walked along the C&O Canal, had made the strange remark about monsters eating their young. And when DeMarco had asked Harry about Morelli’s whereabouts, Harry had said that one of the two people close enough to know where Morelli might be hiding was a relative. But what fucking relative? DeMarco just couldn’t imagine how Paul Morelli or a federal judge or his daughter could have mob connections. The Morellis’ past had been turned inside out by the FBI—and the Republican Party—looking for ties to the Mafia. There just weren’t any—at least none that anyone had been able to find.

And there was one other thing that still didn’t make sense: If the mob was helping Morelli kill people, why didn’t he use them to kill
Lydia? Why did he take the risk of being arrested for her murder? The people who had killed Gary Parker, Brenda Hathaway, and Clayton Adams had already proven that they could make any death look like an accident. So why didn’t they do something similar to remove Lydia Morelli? DeMarco was missing something—something huge—but he didn’t know what it was.

Then something else occurred to him, something that if he’d thought of it earlier might have saved Brenda’s life. He stopped and pulled his cell phone off his belt and made a call.

“Emma,” DeMarco said, “Brenda’s dead.” He told Emma what had happened and then he said, “I need you to do something for me. Right away.”

It was 11 p.m. when Emma hammered her fist on Charlie Eklund’s front door.

The door was eventually opened by Eklund’s bodyguard and he was holding an automatic in one hand. Emma had apparently woken the man up: he was wearing only a T-shirt and boxer shorts. She noticed the muscles in his legs, and bet that the guy could do fifty-pound curls with his toes.

“What do you want?” he said in a voice that was surprisingly high for a man his size.

“I need to speak to Mr. Eklund. Immediately,” Emma said.

From behind the bodyguard, Emma heard Eklund say, “It’s all right, Stan, let her in.”

The bodyguard stepped back and allowed Emma to enter.

“Go back to bed, Stan,” Eklund said. “I’ll be all right.”

Eklund was wearing a red terrycloth bathrobe, white pajamas, and slippers. His soft white hair, in spite of his being roused from sleep, wasn’t the least bit tousled. Emma wondered how Eklund managed that, to sleep without mussing his hair, which made her think of a vampire lying motionless in a coffin.

Eklund gestured Emma toward a couch in his living room. “Would you like a drink?” he said.

“No,” Emma said. “And I’m sorry for bothering you so late.” She wasn’t, but that sounded like the right thing to say to a man whose help she needed.

“So why are you here?” Eklund said. “I thought our business with each other was concluded.”

“Someone acting on Paul Morelli’s behalf is killing people,” she said.

“Really?” Eklund said. He sounded surprised, but Emma couldn’t be certain if he actually was.

Emma told him as rapidly as she could what they had done to destroy Morelli’s political career. She didn’t want to tell him, but she knew that if she didn’t share information, he wouldn’t help her.

“What a marvelous operation,” Eklund said, completely sincere in his compliment. “But now you say that all the people who helped you are dead or dying.”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate, but what do you expect me to do about it? Why don’t you call the police or the Bureau?” Eklund smiled slightly when he said this.

“The police won’t do a damn thing and you know it.”

“But you think
I
can help? As I’m sure you know, the agency doesn’t involve itself in domestic matters.” Eklund was having a wonderful time.

“Don’t toy with me, Charlie. I’m not in the mood and I don’t have the time. I know you were keeping Paul Morelli and his wife under surveillance for some time. I want you to tell me if he’s associated with anyone in organized crime.”

Eklund didn’t say anything; he just studied Emma’s face.

“People are dying, Charlie,” Emma said. “Civilians. And I think you know who might be killing them.”

Eklund just stared at Emma, his little doll’s-button eyes bright with mirth. “I think I will have a drink,” he said. “Are you sure you won’t have one?”

“No,” Emma said, struggling to control her temper.

Eklund walked over to a cabinet in his dining room and took out
a bottle of brandy and a snifter and poured himself a drink. He returned to his seat, sipped his drink, then swirled the brandy in the glass and pretended to examine its color.

“Goddamnit, Charlie,” Emma said, “quit sitting there trying to figure out how this situation can help you and the Company. For once in your life, just do the right thing, the
simple
thing. Paul Morelli’s a sexual predator and a murderer and he’s finished in politics. He’s of no use to you anymore. Now tell me what I need to know, or I swear to God, I’ll make your life a living hell.”

Eklund’s small fingers tapped the side of the brandy snifter.

“Will you give me the photographs of me talking to that reporter?” Eklund said.

“Yes,” Emma said, her teeth clenched.

“And will you use your sources to help me find the drug lord who wants to kill me? I’m fond of Stan, but I’m really tired of him living in my house.”

“Yes,” Emma said again. And if Eklund helped her she’d do what she said, but at some point, somehow, some way, she’d find a way to remove Charlie Eklund from the CIA. He was just too dangerous to leave in place.

Eklund sat there a minute more looking like someone’s cuddly old grandpa with his white hair and his twinkling eyes and his red bathrobe. At last he spoke.

“Senator Morelli took a trip to New York after his wife was killed. He went there ostensibly to consult with a doctor about his injured shoulder. While he was in New York, a man named Harry Foster picked him up at his hotel and took him to an office building in lower Manhattan. My men said that Morelli was in the building for half an hour. The meeting occurred late in the evening, after most of the people who worked in the building had gone home for the day. Upon my instruction, my men identified everyone who exited the building after Senator Morelli left.”

Eklund stopped speaking and took a sip of his brandy.

“One of those people was a man named Dominic Calvetti.”

The red-eye from Seattle to New York landed at 9 a.m., and DeMarco walked into Harry Foster’s office forty-five minutes later. He barged past Harry’s blond secretary without saying a word and threw open the door to Harry’s office. His godfather was talking to two men and he looked up in irritation at the interruption, but when he saw the look on DeMarco’s face he dismissed his guests.