Mike Lawson - Dead Man’s List

Lydia arched an eyebrow and said, “Well, it would have been much more interesting if he’d been a hardboiled private eye. He looks like one.”

“Lydia,” Morelli said, his impatience evident, “we need to…”

“Oh, all right. I’m out of here. I’ll let you boys get back to whatever you’re doing.” As she passed through the doorway, her right hip bumped the door frame slightly, and she muttered, “Oops.”

Morelli stared at the open door for a moment, then looked at DeMarco and said, “I assume you know what happened to our daughter, our Kate. It’s had horrible impact on us, particularly on Lydia. We’re both still recovering.”

Again, DeMarco couldn’t help but be impressed with Morelli’s diplomacy. Without saying anything derogatory, he’d just explained why his wife might have had a couple of drinks too many and had acted a bit silly in front of a complete stranger.

“Yes, sir,” DeMarco said, “and I’m sorry for your loss.”

DeMarco knew that Kate Morelli had actually been Paul 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.

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