The Inside Ring

‘We’re not sure, but this thing the President did every year with Montgomery always got plenty of ink. And obviously lots of people here in D.C. knew when the President was leaving and where he was going. The other thing is, we found out the other day that when Montgomery was at some book signing he talked about going down to Georgia to do some fishing with the President. We got that from his publicist. So to answer your question, we don’t know exactly how Edwards figured out the President’s schedule but we do know that planning for the trip wasn’t controlled like the Manhattan Project.’

After Prudom left, Banks and DeMarco sat together in silence a moment thinking about what Prudom had told them.

‘You know,’ Banks said, ‘Mattis being in the reserve, same as Edwards, you need to follow up on that armory break in.’

‘If the FBI can’t find anything, I doubt I’ll be able to.’

‘Yeah, but you gotta check it out.’

‘Sure,’ DeMarco said.

He had no intention of checking it out.

11 (#ulink_452a2ee2-eba0-5615-b97d-1be406727cb2)

The man sitting at the bus stop across from Secret Service headquarters wore a blue polo shirt, chinos, and sandals with white socks. He was in his sixties, had iron-gray hair, and a face that DeMarco could envision, for some reason, behind the plastic face shield of a riot helmet. This was Emma’s man Mike, last name unknown.

‘Hi,’ DeMarco said as he sat down next to Mike on the bench.

‘Hey, Joe,’ Mike responded, but he didn’t look at DeMarco. His eyes continued to scan the building across the street, moving from exit to exit, and occasionally over to a nearby parking lot. When you got a guy from Emma, you got a pro.

‘How’s it going?’ DeMarco asked.

‘Like watchin’ paint dry,’ Mike replied. ‘He leaves his house at six thirty and gets here at eight – 395 was a fuckin’ parking lot this morning. He goes directly to this building where he stays all morning. What he’s doin’ in there, I don’t know. At twelve he comes outside, grabs a burrito from a street vendor, takes a walk around the Mall, then goes back inside the building.’

‘Did Mattis see you tailing him?’

Now Mike looked at DeMarco; his stare answered DeMarco’s question.

‘And I take it no one approached him while he was taking his lunchtime walk.’

‘You take it right,’ Mike said.

They sat in silence for a while, Mike watching the building, DeMarco watching the women walk by. As he sat there, DeMarco thought back to the FBI briefing. What Edwards had done fascinated him. He couldn’t imagine a man lying in a dark, claustrophobic space for two days waiting for the opportunity to take a shot and then having the balls to stay in the shooting blind while the FBI scoured the bluff above him for evidence.

Which made DeMarco think of something else: Why did he take the shot he took? There must have been an easier shot Edwards could have taken while the President was fishing. Instead he waited until the day the President was departing, surrounded by his bodyguards. Then he remembered that Prudom had said that while the President was on the river the Secret Service had patrolled the bluff, so maybe that’s what had prevented Edwards from shooting earlier.

The skill it had taken to sneak into and out of the area was also remarkable. Prior to the shooting Edwards had to get past a Secret Service cordon to get to the shooting blind he had previously dug. After the FBI’s forensic people arrived on-site, Prudom said they worked sixteen hours a day, and when they weren’t there, the area had been patrolled to keep out sightseers and protect the crime scene. Yet the assassin had left the shooting blind, probably the day after the shooting, reconcealed the blind, and either climbed back up to the top of the bluff or down the bluff to the river, carrying his waste and all his gear with him. Then he waltzed past all the people guarding the site.

The rifle also intrigued DeMarco. Why would Edwards have taken the assassination weapon back to his house? Why didn’t he just dump it the first chance he got? It was almost as if …

‘You ever seen pictures of Mickey Mantle, Joe?’ Mike said. ‘I don’t mean right before he died of cancer, but when he was playing.’

‘Sure,’ DeMarco said.

‘Well that’s who this kid looks like. He looks like the Mick, ol’ number seven. Why am I tailing a guy who works for the Secret Service and looks like Mickey Mantle, Joe?’

DeMarco rose from the bench. ‘I’ll check in with you again tomorrow, Mike. Thanks for helping out on this.’

‘Sure, Joe,’ Mike said, ‘but if I gotta spend another day sittin’ in the sun on a concrete bench, I’m gonna go crazy. And when I do, you’re gonna be the first person I kill.’

DeMarco lived in a small town house in Georgetown, on P Street. The town house, a carbon copy of several others on the block, was a narrow two-story affair made of white-painted brick. Wrought-iron grillwork covered the windows; ivy clung to the walls; azaleas bloomed in the flowerbeds in the spring. It was a cozy place, and he and his neighbors pretended the artfully twisted black bars barricading their lower-floor windows were installed for aesthetic reasons. He had purchased the house the year he married.

The interior of DeMarco’s home looked as if thieves had backed a moving van up to the front door and removed everything of value – which, in a way, is exactly what had happened. A house once filled with fine furniture, Oriental rugs, and pricey artwork now contained only a few haphazardly selected pieces that DeMarco had bought at two yard sales one Saturday morning. The entertainment center in his living room had been replaced with a twenty-four-inch television on a cheap metal stand. A lumpy recliner sat a few feet from the television and on the floor near the recliner was a boom box that served dual purpose as a radio and a place to set his drink when he read or watched TV.

DeMarco tossed his suit coat on the recliner – the antique oak coat stand that had been by the door was gone – and walked toward his kitchen. Each step he took on the bare hardwood floors echoed throughout the house like punctuation marks in a sonnet to loneliness.

When DeMarco’s wife left him she decided not to take the house. Her lover had a house. She didn’t, however, like her lover’s furniture so her lawyer made DeMarco a deal: if he didn’t contest the divorce he would pay no alimony and get to keep his pension and a heavily mortgaged house. In return, his wife would get all the furniture and furnishings – and all the money in their joint savings account, the cash value of his insurance policies, and DeMarco’s best car.

DeMarco’s dinner was two slices of cold pizza eaten while standing in front of the refrigerator. Dinner the night before had been the same pizza, except hot from the box. DeMarco was a good cook and he enjoyed cooking, but he didn’t enjoy cooking for one.

He felt restless after his supper and the pizza sat like a cheese boulder in his gut. He changed into a pair of shorts, a sleeveless Redskins T-shirt, and a pair of scuffed tennis shoes and trudged slowly up the stairs to the second floor of his home. For a brief period, DeMarco’s ex had used one of the two upstairs bedrooms as a studio, ruining yards of perfectly good canvas while whining that the windows didn’t let in the northern light. This hobby, like others that followed, lasted only a short time before she returned to those activities at which she excelled: shopping and adultery.

Now the bedrooms were empty and the only thing in the upper story of DeMarco’s home was a punching bag, a fifty pounder that swung black and lumpy from a ceiling rafter like a short, fat man who had hanged himself. When asked why he had installed the heavy bag he would shrug and say it was for aerobic exercise, but the truth was that he loved to beat the shit out of an inanimate object when the mood struck him.

He put on his gloves, warmed up with a little shadowboxing, and attacked the bag. The bag took the first round but by the second he was drenched with sweat, pounding leather with a vengeance, imagining his wife’s lover’s ribs cracking like kindling with each blow. His wife’s lover had been his cousin. He was so into violent fantasy that he almost didn’t hear the doorbell ring.

Standing on his porch was a compact man in his thirties wearing a gray suit. When DeMarco noticed the pistol in the shoulder holster beneath the man’s suit jacket, he gave the stranger his full attention. Behind the man was a black limousine with government plates parked at the curb.

‘Are you Joseph DeMarco?’ the man asked.

‘Yeah,’ DeMarco said, still trying to catch his breath. ‘How can I help you?’ DeMarco thought it prudent to be polite to armed men.

‘Patrick Donnelly, director of the Secret Service, would like a word with you, sir. Would you mind joining the director in his car?’

Ah, shit, DeMarco thought. Shit, shit, shit. On the case less than two days and the Secret Service already knew he was involved. He thought of slamming the door in the agent’s face and running to hide under his bed.

‘Please, sir, would you mind coming with me,’ the man prodded.

Dignity prevailed over the ostrich defense. ‘You bet,’ DeMarco said, his voice sounding more confident than he felt.

Donnelly’s driver opened the rear door of the limo for him. Feeling foolish in his shorts and Redskins T-shirt, DeMarco stepped into the car and took his place on the jump seat so he could face Patrick Donnelly. The armed driver closed the door behind DeMarco then remained standing outside the limo, several feet away; apparently Mr Donnelly didn’t want his man to hear their conversation.

Lil’ Pat Donnelly stared at DeMarco, his eyes projecting his hostility. He was a slender man in his late sixties, no more than five feet six inches tall. His hair was dyed glossy black and parted so precisely on the left side that DeMarco could imagine him using a straightedge to guide his comb. He had small features, close-set ears, and narrow black eyes with drooping lids. His mouth was a cruel slash and his face was covered with a smear of five o’clock shadow. DeMarco thought he looked like a fencer, slim and wiry and nasty – the type who would use real swords if allowed the opportunity.

DeMarco ignored Donnelly’s glare and looked casually around the limo, at the leather upholstery, the small TV, the bar inset into the back of the front seat. The jump seat of the limo was more comfortable than his recliner, and he bet Donnelly’s TV got better reception than his did.

‘Afraid I’m gettin’ sweat on your upholstery,’ he said to Donnelly. ‘I was working out.’ Ya little shit, he added silently.

‘Shut up,’ Donnelly said. ‘You were in Middleburg today where you interrogated a retired Secret Service agent. What in the hell makes you think you have the authority to do such a thing?’

DeMarco gave Donnelly the same line he’d fed John Engles. ‘Congress is concerned about the President’s security, Mr Donnelly, and—’

‘Congress my ass,’ Donnelly said. ‘You talked to Frank Engles because Banks told you that jackass idea of his about Billy Mattis.’

DeMarco’s face gave away nothing but inside his gut was a small mad animal, gnawing at the lining of his stomach. He knew how Donnelly had found out about him: Engles, still loyal to his old outfit, had called some pal and told him about DeMarco and his questions. The word immediately went up the chain of command to Donnelly. Donnelly knew, even if no one else did, about Banks’s concern with Mattis. And maybe Donnelly had someone check Banks’s appointment calendar and found out that DeMarco had met with him. DeMarco should have used a phony name with Engles.

‘What happened at Chattooga River is a matter for the FBI and the Secret Service, mister, and you are going to stay out of it. Do you understand? Not only have they found the guy who did it, there are still three hundred goddamn FBI agents investigating the assassination attempt! Even if you had the authority, what in the fuck do you think you could possibly do that the FBI and my people aren’t already doing?’