Morelli’s stepdaughter—Lydia’s daughter from her first marriage—and that Paul had adopted her when she was less than two. She had been sixteen years old when she died in an automobile accident six months ago. DeMarco remembered a newspaper picture of the senator at his daughter’s funeral, supporting his wife, tears streaming down his handsome face. The photo had been a portrait of the perfect family with the center gouged out.
Morelli shook his head, as if scattering memories he didn’t want to recall, and said, “Where were we, Joe?” Then answering his own question, he said, “Oh, yes. You were about to tell me what Terry Finley’s death has to do with me.”
DeMarco started to tell him about the three men on Finley’s list—Bachaud, Frey, and Reams—and when he did, Abe Burrows erupted.
“Not this bullshit again,” Burrows said. “You know, DeMarco, this stuff with those three guys happened anywhere from five to fourteen years ago. Fourteen years! But people still keep talking about it. These men, they all did something dumb, but just because their mistakes helped Paul’s career there’s always some asshole implying that Paul caused their problems. And the Republican Party…Those bastards have spent thousands, maybe millions, investigating these three incidents, coincidences, whatever the hell they are—and they spent the money because they were hoping to find something to pin on the senator. Like maybe he paid that little faggot to climb into bed with Reams.”
“Abe,” Morelli said, apparently not happy with his aide’s choice of words.
“Well, it’s such horseshit!” Burrows said. “And I’ll tell you something else. I hate to speak ill of the dead, but Terry Finley…He was like one of those snappy little dogs you see. You know, those mutts about six inches high that are always straining against the leash, trying to get at you like they’re pit bulls. That was Finley. He was always searching for the next big scandal, the next Watergate, the next Lewinsky—and he never found it. He worked at the Post fifteen years, and like you just heard, people like the senator didn’t even know he existed.”
“I can’t confirm Abe’s impression of Terry Finley,” Morelli said to DeMarco, “but I have to agree with him about one thing: these allegations that I engineered the tragedies that befell those men is a subject that’s not only baseless but one that’s been completely discredited.”
DeMarco had the impression that this was the way the two men worked together: Burrows was the one who made the violent, emotional frontal attack while Morelli came across as being cool and reasonable. Or maybe he was cool and reasonable.
“There were two other names on the list, Senator,” DeMarco said. “Two women. A Marcia Davenport and a Janet Tyler.”
“Who?” Morelli said. “Do you recognize those names, Abe?”
“No,” Burrows said.
“Davenport is an interior decorator. You or your wife apparently consulted with her regarding this house when you first moved to Washington.”
“Is that right?” Morelli said. Then he snapped his fingers, “Wait a minute. A small, blond woman?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Right. I remember her now. She came to the house a couple of times, but as I recall, she and Lydia weren’t able to work together. But that’s all I remember. I don’t think I even spoke to the woman.”
That pretty much matched what Marcia Davenport had told DeMarco.
“And the other woman?” Morelli said. “What was her name again?”
“Janet Tyler. She worked on your staff when you were the mayor.”
“Well, shit,” Burrows said. “The entire New York city government was part of the senator’s staff back then.”
“So you don’t remember her either, Abe?” Morelli said.
“No,” Burrows said.
“Joe, I’ll tell you what,” Morelli said. “Why don’t you stop by my office tomorrow and Abe’ll see what we have in our files on the Tyler woman. I mean, I’m just as curious as you are as to why her name would be linked to mine.”
“Aw, come on, Paul,” Burrows said. “This guy Finley, he’s got a bug up his ass about his kid’s death, but it doesn’t have anything to do with us.”
“Richard Finley was a distinguished member of Congress, Abe,” Morelli said, “and his son died tragically. If we can do something to help make sense of what happened, I want to help.”
DeMarco had to admit: he was pretty impressed with Paul Morelli.
It took half an hour to set up the phone call.
Paul Morelli couldn’t call the old man directly. He first had to call another man, and that man would tell the old man that they had to talk. He gave the middleman the number of a phone booth at the Guards restaurant on M Street in Georgetown. He had picked the Guards because it was close to his home and not usually frequented by the hordes of college kids who invaded every other drinking establishment on M Street. His other reason for selecting that particular place was that it had a phone booth—an actual booth where you could shut the door—and the booth wasn’t too close to either the dining room or the bar.
He arrived at the restaurant wearing glasses with heavy black frames and clear lenses, a baseball hat, and a light jacket. The jacket wasn’t necessary for warmth; he wore it because he could turn up the collar to further obscure his face. He knew, however, that if anyone studied him closely he’d be recognized. He entered the restaurant and immediately proceeded to the phone booth. The bartender was engaged in a conversation with a good-looking brunette and barely noticed his arrival.
Two minutes later the phone rang.
“Your people may have screwed up with that reporter,” Morelli said. “The reporter’s father found a number of suspicious things about his son’s death, and now there’s a guy from Congress looking into it.”
“What sort of things?” the old man said. His voice, as usual, was calm and completely devoid of emotion. Morelli had always admired this about him: he never allowed emotions to cloud his judgment. Emotions were counterproductive. Or maybe, he thought, the old man didn’t have any emotions.
Morelli quickly told him about Dick Finley’s concerns.
“None of that’s significant,” the old man said.
“True,” Morelli said. “But your guys missed something. They didn’t check Finley’s wallet, and inside it were five names written on a cocktail napkin.” Morelli quickly discussed the three men on Finley’s list. The old man was familiar with the names so the discussion didn’t take long.
“That’s old news,” the old man said. “You said five names. Who were the other two?”
“A couple of women, a Marcia Davenport and a Janet Tyler.”
Morelli hadn’t wanted to tell him about the women but finally decided that he had to. Dick Finley knew their names and now so did DeMarco and whoever DeMarco had talked to. Maybe even the police. The old man’s ability to acquire information was incredible—his tentacles spread in all directions—and it was always possible that he might learn about Finley’s list from some other source. But Morelli knew that he was on very dangerous ground here.
“Who are they?” the old man asked.
“Davenport’s a decorator who did some work on my house here in D.C. Tyler was on my staff in New York.”
“What do these women know?” the old man said.
“They don’t know anything,” Morelli said.
This was the only time Paul