building, making it look like a monument— or a very large tomb.
It was almost nine but DeMarco could see lights burning in two windows on the third floor of the building. He could imagine a small group of people in the lighted room, staring bleary-eyed at each other as they tried to balance the nation’s checkbook.
“Those guys are scared, Joe,” Mahoney said. He was talking about the union leaders, not the people in the Treasury Department. “There was a time when a kid with a high-school diploma, a kid whose hands worked better than his mouth, could have a good future in this country. He could get a job at GM or Ford or Boeing, become a machinist or a welder or a toolmaker, and in thirty years he’d have a house and two cars and maybe a boat and be able to put his kids through college. Those days are gone, and those guys are scared. And I’m scared, too, because I can’t figure out what the hell to do about it.”
Mahoney had many faults; DeMarco knew this all too well. He drank too much, he cheated on his wife, and he bent the rules with abandon. He was selfish and self-centered and vain and inconsiderate. But he cared about the people of this country, and the ones he cared about the most wore steel-toed boots and hard hats.
“Shit,” Mahoney said, still thinking about the union leaders. He took in a breath and trained his drinker’s eyes on DeMarco. “So whaddya got?”
DeMarco told him.
“Goddamnit, Joe,” he said, sounding tired, “why can’t it be just the way it seems? Why can’t this bum have killed Hathaway’s nephew? Why can’t this slug Berry have had a few drinks and drove himself into a tree? Why does it have to be spies, for Christ’s fuckin’ sake?”
“Maybe it’s not,” DeMarco said, “but right now too many things don’t add up. The money in Berry’s bank account. Whitfield’s last phone call saying these two clucks were up to something. The timing of Whitfield’s death. And this guy Carmody— he just doesn’t fit the mold of a training consultant.”
“So why would they— whoever the hell they is— kill Berry? Whitfield I can understand, maybe. He saw something he shouldn’t have so they killed him. But why Berry?”
“I called Emma and asked her the same question. She thinks that whoever’s running this thing may be wrapping up loose ends, trying to protect Carmody and his men.”
“Emma,” Mahoney said, shaking his big head. “Because she’s an ex-spook she sees spooks under every rock.” Mahoney shook his head again, and a white lock fell down onto his forehead, almost into his eyes. He looked like a big angry sheepdog. “So what do you want me to do?” he asked DeMarco.
“Nothing. I just thought I’d better let you know what was happening. And I have to go back out to Bremerton.”
“Great. I don’t have enough problems, I got you giving me mysteries to worry about, and then you’re not going to be here in case I need you.”
“We have to get to the bottom of this thing, boss. If Emma’s right—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Mahoney said. “Go back to Bremerton.”
Mahoney tossed his cigar stub toward the gutter and a passing woman gave him a dirty look for littering— or maybe just for being a large, sloppy drunk. Mahoney smiled at the woman, a smile that said: Go screw yourself, honey.
“I gotta get back inside,” Mahoney said. “If I can’t help those guys, I can at least buy ’em enough booze to make ’em forget their problems for one night.”
DeMarco would have bet his pension that the union guys were picking up the tab— but he could have been wrong. With Mahoney you just never knew.
18
W e’re at a dead end here,” DeMarco said.
He and Emma were sitting in a car, parked half a block away from Carmody’s office in Bremerton. They’d been parked in the spot for more than an hour. Emma sat behind the steering wheel, sunglasses masking her eyes and her thoughts.
“I know,” Emma said.
But that didn’t keep
It was almost nine but DeMarco could see lights burning in two windows on the third floor of the building. He could imagine a small group of people in the lighted room, staring bleary-eyed at each other as they tried to balance the nation’s checkbook.
“Those guys are scared, Joe,” Mahoney said. He was talking about the union leaders, not the people in the Treasury Department. “There was a time when a kid with a high-school diploma, a kid whose hands worked better than his mouth, could have a good future in this country. He could get a job at GM or Ford or Boeing, become a machinist or a welder or a toolmaker, and in thirty years he’d have a house and two cars and maybe a boat and be able to put his kids through college. Those days are gone, and those guys are scared. And I’m scared, too, because I can’t figure out what the hell to do about it.”
Mahoney had many faults; DeMarco knew this all too well. He drank too much, he cheated on his wife, and he bent the rules with abandon. He was selfish and self-centered and vain and inconsiderate. But he cared about the people of this country, and the ones he cared about the most wore steel-toed boots and hard hats.
“Shit,” Mahoney said, still thinking about the union leaders. He took in a breath and trained his drinker’s eyes on DeMarco. “So whaddya got?”
DeMarco told him.
“Goddamnit, Joe,” he said, sounding tired, “why can’t it be just the way it seems? Why can’t this bum have killed Hathaway’s nephew? Why can’t this slug Berry have had a few drinks and drove himself into a tree? Why does it have to be spies, for Christ’s fuckin’ sake?”
“Maybe it’s not,” DeMarco said, “but right now too many things don’t add up. The money in Berry’s bank account. Whitfield’s last phone call saying these two clucks were up to something. The timing of Whitfield’s death. And this guy Carmody— he just doesn’t fit the mold of a training consultant.”
“So why would they— whoever the hell they is— kill Berry? Whitfield I can understand, maybe. He saw something he shouldn’t have so they killed him. But why Berry?”
“I called Emma and asked her the same question. She thinks that whoever’s running this thing may be wrapping up loose ends, trying to protect Carmody and his men.”
“Emma,” Mahoney said, shaking his big head. “Because she’s an ex-spook she sees spooks under every rock.” Mahoney shook his head again, and a white lock fell down onto his forehead, almost into his eyes. He looked like a big angry sheepdog. “So what do you want me to do?” he asked DeMarco.
“Nothing. I just thought I’d better let you know what was happening. And I have to go back out to Bremerton.”
“Great. I don’t have enough problems, I got you giving me mysteries to worry about, and then you’re not going to be here in case I need you.”
“We have to get to the bottom of this thing, boss. If Emma’s right—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Mahoney said. “Go back to Bremerton.”
Mahoney tossed his cigar stub toward the gutter and a passing woman gave him a dirty look for littering— or maybe just for being a large, sloppy drunk. Mahoney smiled at the woman, a smile that said: Go screw yourself, honey.
“I gotta get back inside,” Mahoney said. “If I can’t help those guys, I can at least buy ’em enough booze to make ’em forget their problems for one night.”
DeMarco would have bet his pension that the union guys were picking up the tab— but he could have been wrong. With Mahoney you just never knew.
18
W e’re at a dead end here,” DeMarco said.
He and Emma were sitting in a car, parked half a block away from Carmody’s office in Bremerton. They’d been parked in the spot for more than an hour. Emma sat behind the steering wheel, sunglasses masking her eyes and her thoughts.
“I know,” Emma said.
But that didn’t keep
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