sorta stuff at the shipyards.”
“So can I talk to Berry?” DeMarco asked.
Gary’s phone rang before he could answer DeMarco’s question. “Yes, sir. Yes, sir. I’ll be right there,” Gary said into the phone and hung up. “Jesus,” he said. “That was the admiral . He wants to see me.”
The way Gary said “the admiral” it sounded like the man was seated at the right hand of God— or maybe he outranked God.
“All I want to know is where this guy Berry is,” DeMarco said.
Gary wasn’t listening. He had pulled open a drawer in his desk and was rifling through it. “Hold on a minute,” he said to DeMarco. He searched, flipping tabs on manila file folders as fast as his index finger could move. “Damn it!” he wailed. “Where is it?” A moment later he said, “There you are!” as if speaking to a pet that had been hiding under the bed, and he pulled a graph from a tattered folder. DeMarco noticed the graph had a yellow Post-it sticker on it, and on the Post-it someone had scrawled the word “Bullshit” with a red felt-tip pen.
“Bill Berry?” DeMarco said. “Can you please tell me where he is?”
Gary tore the Post-it off the graph, shoved the graph into a new file folder, and patted down a cowlick on the back of his head.
“Bill Berry’s dead,” he said to DeMarco as he walked away.
* * *
BILL BERRY HAD died in an automobile accident the day after Dave Whitfield was killed. He missed a curve and his car had plunged down a steep, wooded embankment on Spout Run in Arlington, Virginia. His blood alcohol content at the time of his death had been a whopping .25.
“But are you sure it was an accident, Sheriff?” DeMarco said.
It had taken some effort to get the Arlington County sheriff to agree to talk to him about Bill Berry’s death. When he’d first arrived at the sheriff’s office, he was told that unless he had some official status— such as being Bill Berry’s lawyer or a lawyer who worked for Berry’s insurance company— they weren’t going to tell him anything. DeMarco had been forced to call the Speaker and tell Mahoney that the sheriff was being mean to him.
“Shit,” Mahoney had said. “What’s this fuckin’ guy’s name?”
Half an hour later the sheriff escorted DeMarco back to his office.
“What do you mean, am I sure it was an accident?” the sheriff said. “The damn guy was drunk and he ran his car off the road. What the hell else could it have been?”
“Sheriff,” DeMarco said, “I can’t tell you the specifics, but Mr. Berry could have been involved in something bad. He could have been murdered.”
“Jesus Christ,” the sheriff said. “So what do you think happened, bud? You think somebody messed with the brakes on the guy’s car? Or maybe rammed him and pushed him off the road?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out, Sheriff.”
“Berry’s car bounced down a hill. He hit one tree head-on, broadsided another one, then the car rolled over a couple of times before it ended up on its top in someone’s backyard. The car was a mess, the body was a mess, and there’s no way I can tell if anybody did something to it.”
“Can’t you—”
“Television,” the sheriff said, shaking his big, bald head. “I’ll just bet you’ve been watching TV, one of them dumb-ass CSI shows. You’ve probably seen ’em strip some car down to the frame, and then the hero goes: ‘Hey, we’ve got a scratch here that came from a hacksaw made in Tijuana.’ Well let me tell you something, pal. In real life, a county sheriff’s department doesn’t have the budget or the expertise to do shit like that. We looked over the car as best we could and didn’t see anything inconsistent with a drunk runnin’ his car off the road. Now since you’re apparently some kinda big shot, maybe what you oughta do is call up the FBI and have them check out Berry’s car.”
* * *
BILL BERRY’S WIDOW was a small plump woman in her early fifties. She had
“So can I talk to Berry?” DeMarco asked.
Gary’s phone rang before he could answer DeMarco’s question. “Yes, sir. Yes, sir. I’ll be right there,” Gary said into the phone and hung up. “Jesus,” he said. “That was the admiral . He wants to see me.”
The way Gary said “the admiral” it sounded like the man was seated at the right hand of God— or maybe he outranked God.
“All I want to know is where this guy Berry is,” DeMarco said.
Gary wasn’t listening. He had pulled open a drawer in his desk and was rifling through it. “Hold on a minute,” he said to DeMarco. He searched, flipping tabs on manila file folders as fast as his index finger could move. “Damn it!” he wailed. “Where is it?” A moment later he said, “There you are!” as if speaking to a pet that had been hiding under the bed, and he pulled a graph from a tattered folder. DeMarco noticed the graph had a yellow Post-it sticker on it, and on the Post-it someone had scrawled the word “Bullshit” with a red felt-tip pen.
“Bill Berry?” DeMarco said. “Can you please tell me where he is?”
Gary tore the Post-it off the graph, shoved the graph into a new file folder, and patted down a cowlick on the back of his head.
“Bill Berry’s dead,” he said to DeMarco as he walked away.
* * *
BILL BERRY HAD died in an automobile accident the day after Dave Whitfield was killed. He missed a curve and his car had plunged down a steep, wooded embankment on Spout Run in Arlington, Virginia. His blood alcohol content at the time of his death had been a whopping .25.
“But are you sure it was an accident, Sheriff?” DeMarco said.
It had taken some effort to get the Arlington County sheriff to agree to talk to him about Bill Berry’s death. When he’d first arrived at the sheriff’s office, he was told that unless he had some official status— such as being Bill Berry’s lawyer or a lawyer who worked for Berry’s insurance company— they weren’t going to tell him anything. DeMarco had been forced to call the Speaker and tell Mahoney that the sheriff was being mean to him.
“Shit,” Mahoney had said. “What’s this fuckin’ guy’s name?”
Half an hour later the sheriff escorted DeMarco back to his office.
“What do you mean, am I sure it was an accident?” the sheriff said. “The damn guy was drunk and he ran his car off the road. What the hell else could it have been?”
“Sheriff,” DeMarco said, “I can’t tell you the specifics, but Mr. Berry could have been involved in something bad. He could have been murdered.”
“Jesus Christ,” the sheriff said. “So what do you think happened, bud? You think somebody messed with the brakes on the guy’s car? Or maybe rammed him and pushed him off the road?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out, Sheriff.”
“Berry’s car bounced down a hill. He hit one tree head-on, broadsided another one, then the car rolled over a couple of times before it ended up on its top in someone’s backyard. The car was a mess, the body was a mess, and there’s no way I can tell if anybody did something to it.”
“Can’t you—”
“Television,” the sheriff said, shaking his big, bald head. “I’ll just bet you’ve been watching TV, one of them dumb-ass CSI shows. You’ve probably seen ’em strip some car down to the frame, and then the hero goes: ‘Hey, we’ve got a scratch here that came from a hacksaw made in Tijuana.’ Well let me tell you something, pal. In real life, a county sheriff’s department doesn’t have the budget or the expertise to do shit like that. We looked over the car as best we could and didn’t see anything inconsistent with a drunk runnin’ his car off the road. Now since you’re apparently some kinda big shot, maybe what you oughta do is call up the FBI and have them check out Berry’s car.”
* * *
BILL BERRY’S WIDOW was a small plump woman in her early fifties. She had
Similar Books
