unremarkable features, a soft chin, and lifeless brown hair. She was as drab as a sparrow except for her glasses: the frames were fire-engine red and too big for her face. DeMarco bet that one of her friends had talked her into the frames, telling her they made her look young and with-it. They didn’t.
“He handled everything,” she told DeMarco. “The bills, the insurance policies, the bank accounts. I don’t know where anything is, and when I do find something, I don’t know what it means.”
“It must be pretty hard,” DeMarco said. “And I’m sorry to intrude, but I need to know a few things about your husband.”
“Why?” she said. She wasn’t being belligerent; she was just bewildered. A week after her husband’s death she found everything bewildering.
“He had a government insurance policy, Mrs. Berry. We just need to make sure of a few things before we sign off on it.”
“He did?” Mrs. Berry said.
Berry had had a standard government life insurance policy that paid his widow one year of his salary. DeMarco had determined this when he had looked at Berry’s personnel record. So DeMarco knew that Berry had had an insurance policy and was glad his wife now did, too. He also knew that her husband had thirty-seven thousand dollars in a credit union in Crystal City— and it was not a joint account. The account had been opened about the same time as Carmody was given the training contract at the shipyard. The initial deposit into the account had been fifty thousand dollars.
“What was your husband doing the night he died, Mrs. Berry?” DeMarco asked.
“Having dinner with some people from out of town,” she said. “He was always doing that. Guys would fly in from one of the shipyards for meetings and later they’d go out for dinner and drinks.”
“Do you know who he was having dinner with that night?”
“No. He may have told me their names, but I don’t remember.”
“Did your husband ever mention a man named Phil Carmody? He lives in Bremerton, Washington.”
“I don’t think so,” she said, shaking her head several times. Every time DeMarco asked another question to which she didn’t know the answer, the world became a stranger, more frightening place.
“Mrs. Berry, did you know that your husband deposited fifty thousand dollars in a bank in Crystal City a few months ago?”
DeMarco knew what she was going to say before she said it.
“What?” she said. “Where did the money come from?”
* * *
MAHONEY WAS AT the Old Ebbitt Grill having dinner with four union leaders. Autoworkers union, DeMarco thought, but it could have been steelworkers or Teamsters. It didn’t really matter.
DeMarco looked at the five men sitting at the table, stuffing rare steak into their mouths, sipping bourbon between bites. Mahoney fit right in with the union guys: they were all big, beefy men with red faces; they were all loud and crude; and they all had eyes that hinted at intellects out of proportion to their years of schooling and the grades they had acquired while in school. DeMarco suspected that if Mahoney hadn’t been a member of Congress he would have been a labor leader.
The Speaker saw DeMarco standing at the entrance to the dining room. He stood, picked up his tumbler of bourbon, swallowed whatever remained in the glass, then said something that made his companions roar with laughter. He slapped one man on the back and made his way toward DeMarco. Despite the amount of alcohol he had consumed, Mahoney moved between the tables gracefully, never bumping into a chair, never jostling the elbow of another diner. Mahoney, the dancing bear, a wide-bodied Fred Astaire.
Mahoney led DeMarco outside the restaurant so he could light up the half-smoked cigar he pulled from the right-hand pocket of his suit coat. He lit the cigar, blew smoke at the moon, and looked across the street at the massive structure that housed the U.S. Treasury Department. Floodlights lit up the white walls of the
“He handled everything,” she told DeMarco. “The bills, the insurance policies, the bank accounts. I don’t know where anything is, and when I do find something, I don’t know what it means.”
“It must be pretty hard,” DeMarco said. “And I’m sorry to intrude, but I need to know a few things about your husband.”
“Why?” she said. She wasn’t being belligerent; she was just bewildered. A week after her husband’s death she found everything bewildering.
“He had a government insurance policy, Mrs. Berry. We just need to make sure of a few things before we sign off on it.”
“He did?” Mrs. Berry said.
Berry had had a standard government life insurance policy that paid his widow one year of his salary. DeMarco had determined this when he had looked at Berry’s personnel record. So DeMarco knew that Berry had had an insurance policy and was glad his wife now did, too. He also knew that her husband had thirty-seven thousand dollars in a credit union in Crystal City— and it was not a joint account. The account had been opened about the same time as Carmody was given the training contract at the shipyard. The initial deposit into the account had been fifty thousand dollars.
“What was your husband doing the night he died, Mrs. Berry?” DeMarco asked.
“Having dinner with some people from out of town,” she said. “He was always doing that. Guys would fly in from one of the shipyards for meetings and later they’d go out for dinner and drinks.”
“Do you know who he was having dinner with that night?”
“No. He may have told me their names, but I don’t remember.”
“Did your husband ever mention a man named Phil Carmody? He lives in Bremerton, Washington.”
“I don’t think so,” she said, shaking her head several times. Every time DeMarco asked another question to which she didn’t know the answer, the world became a stranger, more frightening place.
“Mrs. Berry, did you know that your husband deposited fifty thousand dollars in a bank in Crystal City a few months ago?”
DeMarco knew what she was going to say before she said it.
“What?” she said. “Where did the money come from?”
* * *
MAHONEY WAS AT the Old Ebbitt Grill having dinner with four union leaders. Autoworkers union, DeMarco thought, but it could have been steelworkers or Teamsters. It didn’t really matter.
DeMarco looked at the five men sitting at the table, stuffing rare steak into their mouths, sipping bourbon between bites. Mahoney fit right in with the union guys: they were all big, beefy men with red faces; they were all loud and crude; and they all had eyes that hinted at intellects out of proportion to their years of schooling and the grades they had acquired while in school. DeMarco suspected that if Mahoney hadn’t been a member of Congress he would have been a labor leader.
The Speaker saw DeMarco standing at the entrance to the dining room. He stood, picked up his tumbler of bourbon, swallowed whatever remained in the glass, then said something that made his companions roar with laughter. He slapped one man on the back and made his way toward DeMarco. Despite the amount of alcohol he had consumed, Mahoney moved between the tables gracefully, never bumping into a chair, never jostling the elbow of another diner. Mahoney, the dancing bear, a wide-bodied Fred Astaire.
Mahoney led DeMarco outside the restaurant so he could light up the half-smoked cigar he pulled from the right-hand pocket of his suit coat. He lit the cigar, blew smoke at the moon, and looked across the street at the massive structure that housed the U.S. Treasury Department. Floodlights lit up the white walls of the
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