House Secrets (41 page)

“Who was the guy you were with?”

“A bud, another journalist.”

Journalist. Now that was a joke, but this wasn’t the time to malign Arnie’s profession.

“What’s his name, Arnie?”

“Phil Morrow. Typical Aussie with a hollow leg.”

“Was it your idea to go see the pigeons, or Morrow’s?”

“Hell, I don’t know. The docs told me I had a .29 alcohol level that night. I can’t remember half the evening, much less who wanted to look at the birds.”

DeMarco didn’t say anything for a moment. He knew the question
he wanted to ask, but was trying to figure out a subtle way to ask it. Before he could say anything, Arnie said, “Why are you asking these questions? Most people come to see me, they ask how I’m doin’, how I’m feelin’, that kind of shit. You obviously don’t give a damn how I’m doin’, so why are you here?”

It was time to forget subtlety. “Could your friend Morrow have pushed you off the roof, Arnie?”

“What! Why the hell would he do that?”

“Maybe because Paul Morelli paid him to.”

Arnie’s mouth twisted in a sardonic half smile. “Ah, now I get it, you slick fuck. You’re starting to hear footsteps, aren’t you?”

DeMarco didn’t bother to deny the accusation. “Yeah, Arnie, I am. We did a number on Morelli, and I—”

“
You
did a number on him. I was just hired help.”

“Maybe so, and when I heard you had an accident, it seemed like a good idea to find out how it happened.”

Arnie snorted a laugh, amused that DeMarco was afraid, then said, “Go over to the closet there.”

DeMarco was puzzled, but did what Arnie said.

“There’s a gym bag on the floor, with a bottle of vodka in it. And a straw. Bring it here.”

“You shouldn’t be drinking, Arnie.”

“Fuck you. Bring me the bottle or get the hell out of here.”

DeMarco found the bottle, put the straw in it, and held it so Arnie could take a sip.

“Now answer my question, Arnie. Could Morrow have pushed you off the roof?”

Arnie laughed. “I was so drunk he could have cornholed me and I wouldn’t have felt it. But why the hell would he have wanted to kill me?”

“Money, Arnie.”

“No way. Phil’s no choirboy, but he’s a pal. I’ve known him for twenty years.”

Arnie sucked on the straw again, then said, “And Morelli, he’s
uptown. You jammed him good, but he ain’t the type to bump somebody off. For Christ’s sake, he cried when that cop handcuffed him that night. “

Arnie Berg didn’t know Paul Morelli as well as he did, but DeMarco didn’t argue with him. He let Arnie lower the level in the vodka bottle another inch, then over his protests, returned the bottle to its hiding place. He’d let Arnie’s next visitor help him reach oblivion.

“What’s the prognosis, Arnie?”

“Prognosis?”

“What’s going to happen to you? Will you be able to walk again?” Arnie grinned horribly. “The prognosis is death. I’ll be in this chair until I die, and the doc says it’ll probably be soon. As a result of being a wheelchair jockey, my kidneys are failing. The doctors in this place have been full of good news.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“If you’re so damn sorry, come back with a gun and blow my head off.” Tears glistened in Arnie’s eyes when he added, “I’d do it myself, but I can’t pull a trigger.”

DeMarco returned to his office and called Emma. He asked her to use her contacts to find out about Arnie’s drinking buddy, Phil Morrow, and the man who had run down Gary Parker. He wanted to know if these men were the type you could buy to do nasty things. Even if they were, he realized that Arnie was probably right: it was unlikely Paul Morelli would have hired someone to kill Gary or Arnie. Not that Morelli was above such behavior, it was just hard to imagine that he’d do such a thing so soon after what had happened to him.

If all those who participated in Paul Morelli’s demise were to die suddenly, someone would make the connection, and Morelli would become the obvious suspect. And a lot of people had been involved: Sam Murphy, Brenda Hathaway, Arnie Berg and Gary Parker. And Emma and himself, of course. DeMarco supposed he should also include Clayton Adams, the ex-congressman who had lied to help

Brenda get the job on Morelli’s staff. Yes, if Morelli was planning on maiming or killing all the people involved, it was a very long list.

Though not overly concerned about her safety, he decided to call Brenda in California.

“Sorry, meester, she no home now.”

“Do you know when she’ll be home?”

“Many day. She making peecture.”

“Do you know where she’s making the picture?”

“In Hollywoods maybe. I doan know.”

Shit.

Since he could think of no other excuse for shirking his duties, he turned his attention to the latest assignment from his boss. Mahoney had heard that a freshman congressman was using his connections to make a killing on Wall Street, and DeMarco had spent the last week trying to unravel the young gentleman’s finances. He had illegally obtained a copy of the politician’s stock portfolio and tax returns, and was comparing them to his appointment schedules, his financial disclosure statements, and his normal committee work to see if there was an illicit relationship between the congressman’s rising income and his job. It was like trying to untie the Gordian knot wearing mittens. DeMarco had concluded two days ago he needed the help of a world-class CPA with a minor in computer hacking, but he was still stubbornly plugging away at the records. His eyes were just beginning to cross when the phone rang. It was Emma.

“Berg’s drinking buddy, Morrow, is a guy just like Berg. A paparazzo without a conscience.”

“Would he kill for money?”

“It’s hard to say. He’s a photographer, not a professional hit man, but he’s a lowlife. My guess is that for enough money, he’d do anything.”

“How ’bout the one who ran down Parker?”

“Just what you heard from Murphy: he’s a small-time hood who’s been in jail half his life, and in trouble all of it. He’s definitely the type who would kill if the money was right. The cops who investigated
the accident were amazed this guy turned himself in, and even more amazed when they found he didn’t have a drop of alcohol in his system. He’s a known lush, and they figured it had to be a DWI accident. When the blood tests came back clean, they figured he must have stayed off the sauce for a week to get it all out of his system.”

“So it’s possible Murphy’s right?”

“He could be,” Emma said, “but it seems unlikely Morelli would take this kind of risk. Especially this soon.”

That was exactly what DeMarco had thought.

“But you better watch your back, Joe,” Emma added. “Do you want me to provide you with some protection?”

DeMarco hesitated. Maybe someone to cover him wouldn’t be a bad idea. Maybe he should even ask Emma for a gun. “No,” he finally said. “I’ll be okay.”

After he finished talking to Emma, he tried to get back to the congressman’s financial records but after five minutes he said to hell with it. He wanted to know where Paul Morelli was.

Packy Morris gave a languid wave as DeMarco entered his office. DeMarco didn’t see how it was possible—the human skeleton has structural limits—but Packy looked even bigger than he had the last time DeMarco had seen him. He had the phone to his ear, almost invisible in one large hand, and was nodding every few seconds, saying, “Right. Right.”

Packy looked at DeMarco and rolled his eyes in exasperation. Finally he hung up, sat back in his chair, and said, “Morons, Joe, this city is filled with morons. Washington should be floating, the empty heads of its befuddled citizens, like hot-air balloons, tugging it aloft.” Shaking his head in mock dismay, he added, “I despair for the republic.”

DeMarco waited a beat then said, “Are you through, Packy?”

Packy’s small, malevolent eyes twinkled. “So what do you want, little citizen?” he said.

“What’s Paul Morelli been up to lately?”

Packy studied DeMarco’s face, and as he did, he tapped his front teeth with the eraser end of a pencil.

“The last time you were here you asked about Morelli,” he said. “Are you the head of his I-coulda-been-a-contender fan club?”

“I’m just curious about him.”

“Just curious, my ass. You’re asking for a reason. Would you care to share?”

Packy sat there like an arrogant Buddha, his small eyes laughing. Toying with DeMarco was more fun than plucking the wings off flies.

“Packy,” DeMarco said, “would you like me to talk to your born-again boss about a member of his staff who has a thing for hookers made up like kittens?”

Packy started tapping his teeth again with the pencil, trying to gauge DeMarco’s sincerity.

“You’d be such a prick?” he asked.

“Without hesitation. Now quit pretending you’re Bill Buckley’s fat brother and tell me what Morelli’s been up to.”

“Well, since you asked nice, all right. Senator Morelli has disappeared.”

“What do you mean, disappeared?”

“Just that. He’s disappeared. His own staff doesn’t know where he’s at.”

“How do you know?”

He gave DeMarco a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look.

“Yes, and it’s been tres embarrassing for his staff.”

“Packy, if you wanted to find him, how would you go about it?”

“You’re asking me? I thought you were some kind of investigator. What the hell do you do, Joe?”

DeMarco ignored the question, and said, “I’m not talking about a missing persons search. I’m asking who you’d talk to that would most likely know where he is.”

“I’ve already talked to him. He doesn’t know.”

“Who?”

“The chief of staff in his New York office. Next to the late Abe Burrows, he was closer to Saint Paul than his confessor. If he doesn’t know, nobody does.”

“But would he tell you?”

“I’ve got more on him than you have on me. I mean, if you want to hear about something kinky . . .”

“Uncle Harry, it’s Joe.”

Harry Foster hesitated before he answered. “Yes,” he finally said, “what can I do for you?”

DeMarco was taken aback. Harry was never so formal, not when dealing with him.

“It’s about Paul Morelli, Harry.”

DeMarco thought he heard a small groan come from Harry.

“Joe,” Harry said, his voice serious, “there’s a lotta speculation that someone set Paul up. No one believes that this out-of-work actress just decided to become a secretary or that this photographer just happened to be hanging around the Russell Building. Please tell me you didn’t have anything to do with that, son. Please.”

“Of course not, Harry,” DeMarco said. He hated to lie to his godfather, but what else could he say?

There was another lengthy pause while Harry contemplated DeMarco’s response. Finally he said, “So what is it you want to know about Paul?”

“I want to know where he’s hiding.”

“You and every journalist on the planet. But why do you want to know?”

Shit, DeMarco thought. He should have anticipated
that
question. He began to think of a plausible lie, but before he could utter it, Harry said, “It doesn’t matter. I don’t know where he is. When I heard about his troubles, I called him, figuring he could use a good PR man, but he didn’t return my calls. I’ve tried to track him down, but he’s vanished.”