House Reckoning (30 page)

“Joe’s in trouble?” Mary Pat said when she opened the door.

“Yes,” Emma said, “and I’m hoping you can help.”

Emma liked Mary Pat Mahoney the moment she met her. Like her husband she had snow-white hair and blue eyes, but that was where the similarities ended. Mahoney had a good-sized gut and a broad butt; Mary Pat was slender. Mahoney had the eyes and complexion of a drinker, and he smoked, as well; Mary Pat seemed to glow with good health. Mary Pat was a vegetarian—Mahoney a meat eater. Mary Pat exercised daily—Mahoney considered lifting a tumbler filled with alcohol to his lips all the exercise he needed. She was also different than her husband in that she was kind and generous whereas John Mahoney, in Emma’s opinion, was a selfish scoundrel.

“Please come in,” Mary Pat said. “Would you like some coffee or tea?”

“No, I’m fine.”

They took seats in the living room. It was nicely but not ostentatiously decorated. Prominently displayed were pictures of Mary Pat’s three daughters.

“I’m assuming you know that your husband fired DeMarco,” Emma said.

“What!” Mary Pat said.

Mary Pat had known DeMarco for a long time and a few months ago, DeMarco had saved Mary Pat’s middle daughter, Molly, from going to prison for insider trading. So Emma knew that she and her husband owed DeMarco. One of the things Emma also liked about Mary Pat was that when she discovered her daughter was avoiding a prison sentence for a crime she’d committed—a crime that was partly due to Molly’s gambling and alcohol addictions—she insisted Molly go to work for UNICEF for three years, about the amount of time she would have spent in prison.

“Why did John fire him?” Mary Pat asked.

Emma told her the story: DeMarco had recently learned that Brian Quinn had killed his father and he was planning to destroy Quinn’s reputation during the confirmation hearing. However, when he went to Mahoney to tell him what he was doing—and essentially to ask for Mahoney’s help avenging his father’s death—Mahoney had ordered DeMarco not to do anything until he’d conferred with the president.

“In other words, your husband was considering the political ramifications of exposing Quinn, and Joe didn’t care about the political ramifications. Then I’m afraid Joe lost his temper. He said he was going to reveal some of the things your husband had done in the past if he took any action that would hinder Joe’s vendetta against Quinn.”

“I see,” Mary Pat said—but the look on her face said that if she had to choose between protecting DeMarco and protecting her husband, she would choose her husband.

“Congressman Mahoney naturally took offense at being threatened by Joe and fired him. And then things got worse after that.”

Emma then explained how DeMarco had decided to kill Quinn, and almost succeeded, but fortunately she was able to keep that from happening.

“He was going to shoot the man?” Mary Pat said.

“Yes.”

“My God. But I’m confused,” Mary Pat said. “What do you want me to do?”

“Your husband can still help Joe if he wants to and I’m hoping you can talk some sense into him. When he fired Joe, they were both pretty emotional and I’m hoping the congressman has calmed down since then.”

“I don’t know,” Mary Pat said. “John can be rather stubborn and he’s not known for his forgiving nature.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t understand how John can help Joe at this point, either.”

Emma explained.

Mary Pat looked at her watch. “He’s supposed to be home in an hour. I was just about to go for a walk. Why don’t you come with me—John and Joe have told me some interesting things about you and I’d like to learn more. When we get back, John should be here and we can talk to him then.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Mahoney said when he saw Emma sitting in his living room drinking tea with his wife.

Unlike his wife, Mahoney had encountered Emma several times when she’d worked cases with DeMarco. He didn’t like her, because she was the sort of person—unlike himself—who always did the right thing and he couldn’t control her.

“John,” May Pat said, “why didn’t you tell me you fired Joe?” Before Mahoney could answer she said, “Now sit down and stop being rude and listen to what Emma has to say.”

“Humpf,” Mahoney said, and walked over to a liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Wild Turkey and poured two ounces into a glass without adding ice.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink for one day,” Mary Pat said. Emma had smelled the booze wafting off Mahoney the minute he stepped into the apartment and his wife apparently had, too.

“No,” Mahoney said. “Especially not if she’s here.”

Mahoney sat down.

“Let me tell you what’s been going on since you fired DeMarco,” Emma said.

She then went through the whole story again for Mahoney: how DeMarco had gotten a video statement from Tony Benedetto that he’d planned to spring on Quinn at his confirmation hearing; how Tony had betrayed DeMarco and how Quinn had stolen the video from DeMarco’s house; and then how Quinn had disappeared the teacher who could have talked about Quinn covering up Connors’s death.

Mahoney’s reaction to all this was to lift a white eyebrow in surprise and take another sip of his drink.

“Then after Joe decided he had no other choice, he got a silenced weapon from somebody and was about two seconds away from killing Quinn the other night,” Emma said, and told him all that had transpired in New York.

“Jesus,” Mahoney said. “I can’t believe he’d do something so stupid.”

“Quinn killed his father, Congressman,” Emma said.

“Yeah, but . . .”

“And he’s going to be the next FBI director unless you do something.”

“Like what? What the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Do you know a New York politician named Stephanie Hernandez? She’s the borough president in Queens.”

“Yeah, I know who she is. She’s a little pain in the ass who’s always busting Chris Barlow’s balls.”

“In addition to being a ballbuster,” Emma said, “she’s also Carmine Taliaferro’s daughter.”

“You gotta be shittin’ me,” Mahoney said.

Emma then explained what DeMarco suspected about Stephanie Hernandez. When she finished speaking, Mahoney sat for a moment, finished the drink he was holding in his hand, then got up and poured another.

“For God’s sake, John,” Mary Pat said.

“So are you going to help DeMarco?” Emma asked.

“I don’t know,” Mahoney said.

“Well, I do,” Mary Pat said. “You’re going to help him and that’s all there is to it. He’s a good man and you owe him and you know it.”

Mahoney glowered at the two women. He was being double-teamed and he didn’t like it. His wife was bad enough but Emma . . . Emma was downright dangerous.

36

Stephanie Hernandez had no idea why John Mahoney wanted to see her. All she knew was that she got a call from his secretary last night and was basically ordered to come to Washington this morning. She could have told Mahoney to go to hell but knew it would be stupid to thumb her nose at the most powerful Democrat in the House without at least hearing what he had to say. She suspected he was going to tell her to quit going after Chris Barlow’s head—and his seat in the House—and then he’d give her a bunch of bullshit about how her day would eventually come.

Mahoney scared her. She’d never met him face-to-face, but she’d seen him on TV. On TV, he was all bullshit and blarney, charming everyone, telling jokes, getting teary-eyed if he talked about the vets, acting like he was the champion of the common man. He was full of crap, and he usually looked like he was half in the bag. But she’d heard other stories, too, about how if you crossed him he’d stab you in the back—or maybe stab you right through the heart while he looked into your eyes. He was a tricky, vindictive son of a bitch and you didn’t want him for an enemy unless you were willing to switch parties.

“You can go in now, Mrs. Hernandez,” Mahoney’s secretary said. She’d noticed the secretary had been a little cool toward her, not offering her coffee or anything, not apologizing that Mahoney had kept her waiting half an hour. She wondered if there was some sort of message in the secretary’s behavior or if the woman was just naturally rude.

Mahoney didn’t bother to stand when Stephanie Hernandez entered his office. “Take a seat,” he said, pointing to a chair in front of his desk, then he took a sip from his drink and just stared at her. She had small brown eyes, thin lips, and a combative square chin; she looked like the type that wouldn’t back down in a fight. She was short—maybe five foot two—and broad-hipped. With the green pantsuit she was wearing, she looked like a shrub.

Mahoney was actually grateful she wasn’t good-looking; he knew himself well enough to know he could be manipulated by good-looking women and sometimes the desire to get into their pants could distract him from what he knew he needed to do. That wasn’t going to be a problem this time.

Mahoney waited until the silence became uncomfortable and she spoke first. “Why did you want to see me, Mr. Speaker?”

Mahoney was no longer the Speaker of the House. He’d lost the job a few years back when the Republicans took control of the House, but he’d been the Speaker for so long that people still addressed him that way.

“I wanted to see you because I know you’ve got something on Brian Quinn, and I want to know what it is.”

“Quinn? The commissioner?”

“Yeah, that Quinn. And don’t try acting stupid with me. You know damn good and well who he is, and I’m sure you’re aware that he’s been nominated to run the Bureau.”

He could tell she didn’t know what to say next; she was trying to decide if she should be polite or tell him to go screw himself. Before she could decide, Mahoney plowed ahead. “Your old man was a mobster up there in Queens and—”

She popped up from her chair like a jack-in-the-box. “That is a lie and I will not stand for—”

“Sit down!” Mahoney bellowed. She hesitated for a moment, then sat.

“It’s not a lie. Your father was a goddamn guinea hood involved in loansharking and extortion and he made a fortune off dope. And every once in a while, he’d have someone whacked.”

“I never had anything to do with my father’s business,” Stephanie said, not looking embarrassed, just defiant.

“I know you didn’t,” Mahoney said. “You went to college just like you were a normal person instead of a mafia princess and—”

“Goddamnit, I’m not—”

“—and then you started screwing around in politics, doing volunteer work and all the usual shit. The thing that’s amazing about you, though, is that the money crowd up there loves you. You get donations from some of the biggest names on Wall Street and Park Avenue, and the person who’s helped the most is Barbara Quinn, the commissioner’s wife. So tell me how that happened, princess? How is that I’ve got pictures of you sitting at the head table at functions next to Mrs. Quinn when a person like her wouldn’t ordinarily give you the time of day?”

“I have her support, you drunken buffoon, because she knows I’m an honest person and that I’ve done good things for my borough. She also knows that I’d represent the Seventh District better than that idiot Barlow.”

That almost made Mahoney smile: Barlow was an idiot.

“Bullshit,” Mahoney said, slamming his big fist down onto his desk, slopping some of the bourbon out of the glass. “She’s supporting you because you’re blackmailing her husband. I
know
this, Stephanie. I’m not guessing.”

Actually Mahoney didn’t know and he was guessing.

“What I don’t know,” Mahoney said, “and what you’re going to tell me, is exactly what you have on Quinn.”

“This discussion is absurd and I’m leaving.”

“No, you’re not,” Mahoney said, “and I’ll tell you why. I’m going to call the president and suggest that he withdraw Quinn’s nomination. I’m going to tell the president that I know some things about Quinn that I can’t prove, but should they ever come to light, the president will wind up with egg all over his face. I’ll also tell the president that the reason I can’t prove what I know is because this lady named Stephanie Hernandez won’t tell me, and that I intend to make sure Mrs. Hernandez never holds another public office. How would you like that, Stephanie? Having both me and the president of the United States for enemies?”

“I’m telling you,” Stephanie screamed, her face as red as Mahoney’s, “that I never had anything to do with my father’s business and the only association I’ve ever had with Commissioner Quinn is because of his wife’s support of women’s issues.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mahoney said. “Let me give you a couple scenarios, Stephanie, and see which one you like better. You want Barlow’s seat and it just so happens that privately I agree with you that Chris Barlow ain’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. Now I could probably convince the DNC that you’re the gal we want up there in the Seventh District and I could probably convince Barlow that it’s time for him to move on. I’ll come up with some kind of job for him over on K Street, something that will make him happy. So then you’ll become a congresswoman and when you get down here, I’ll do my best to help you out, and then, the next thing we all know, you’re running for senator or governor or I could give a shit what.