House Odds by Mike Lawson

behemoth with a three-car garage and had a front yard about as big as a soccer field. One of the garage doors was open, and DeMarco could see a Lexus SUV, this year’s model, which sold for seventy or eighty grand if you got all the bells and whistles. And Molly had said that Campbell also owned a boat.
    The credit checkers had told DeMarco that Campbell had an excellent credit rating. In fact, other than a couple of credit cards that he paid off monthly, he didn’t owe anybody anything. He’d purchased his Maryland home for one point seven million ten years ago, and his “cottage” on Chesapeake Bay had cost six hundred grand, and neither place had an outstanding mortgage. Molly had told him that Campbell made around a hundred and fifty thousand a year; he couldn’t imagine how he owned all the things he owned and was debt free. He either had an excellent financial adviser or a very rich wife—and DeMarco hoped this wasn’t the case. If Campbell was completely legitimate that wouldn’t help Molly.
    DeMarco rang the doorbell. The woman who answered was a forty-something blonde wearing white shorts and a pink Izod T-shirt. She had a cute, upturned nose and was fashionably thin, but her skin was leathery from too much unprotected exposure to the sun. Ex-cheerleader was DeMarco’s first impression. She’d probably been as cute as a button twenty years ago but her looks were fading, like a photograph left sitting too close to a window.
    “Is Mr. Campbell available?” DeMarco asked.
    “Doug?” she said, as if confused that DeMarco would be asking to see her husband in his own house. The woman swayed a bit as she stood in the doorway and DeMarco thought she might be drunk. The glass in her hand was another clue.
    “Yes,” DeMarco said.
    “Oh. Well, he’s out back, barbecuing. Ha!” she added, as if the idea of her husband cooking was hilarious. Not funny hilarious, but pathetic hilarious. “Why do you want to see him?” she then asked, her eyes narrowing, maybe thinking DeMarco was selling something.
    “I work for Congress, Mrs. Campbell. I need to ask your husband some questions about an ongoing investigation.”
    “Is that right?” she said, but she was already losing interest and looking back at the television in the room behind her. Entertainment Tonight was on, and Nancy O’Dell was asking some teenage actress with arms the diameter of spaghetti if she might possibly have an eating disorder.
    “Yes,” DeMarco said. “May I come in please?”
    “Nah, the place is a mess. Just walk around the side, that way, and you’ll find the master chef. Ha!” she said again and closed the door.
    * * *
    DeMarco walked around the house as directed and saw Campbell—and the kidney-shaped swimming pool behind him. The patio he was standing on was constructed from stone that looked like granite, and Campbell’s barbecue was big enough to roast a luau pig.
    Campbell, as might be expected of an ex-college lineman, was a big man, at least six five. Also, as might be expected, twenty-plus years after his playing days, he was packing forty or fifty pounds he didn’t need. He had thinning blond hair combed forward to provide the most coverage for his scalp, and his complexion was ruddy from drink, sun, and lack of exercise. He was wearing a blue apron over Bermuda shorts and a white T-shirt; the apron had a picture of a big red lobster lying on its back with X’s for eyes. Campbell was using his two-thousand-dollar barbecue to grill two hot dogs.
    “Mr. Campbell?” DeMarco said.
    “Uh, hi,” Campbell said. “What . . .”
    “Your wife told me to come back here. My name’s Joe DeMarco. I work for Congress and I need to talk to you.”
    “At this time of night?”
    It was only seven p.m. “Yeah,” DeMarco said. “When a situation involves the daughter of the highest ranking Democrat in the House, folks like me tend to work overtime.”
    “Oh, it’s about Molly.” Campbell shook his big head. “It’s