On a glorious day in mid-June, Mahoney met with Emma and DeMarco at Emma’s house. It being Mahoney, DeMarco knew there was some selfish reason for this. Mahoney may have been in the neighborhood for some other purpose—a lot of wealthy Democrats lived in McLean—or he may have been on his way to Dulles to take off on some taxpayer-funded boondoggle. All that DeMarco knew for sure was that Mahoney had selected the location because it was best for Mahoney and not because it was convenient for anyone else.
Emma, DeMarco, and Christine—and Christine’s dog—were sitting on the patio, drinking lemonade and enjoying Emma’s garden, which was in full bloom. When Mahoney arrived, the first thing he did was charm the pants off Christine as well as any philandering, chauvinistic, lecherous male can charm the pants off a lesbian. He took Christine’s little dog from her hands, held it up like a campaign-stop baby, bussed it on the head, and proclaimed the animal to be the cutest little bundle of fur he’d ever seen.
“What’s his name?” Mahoney asked, correctly identifying the dog’s gender. He must have spotted the minuscule organ hidden amid all the hair.
DeMarco immediately swiveled his head to hear what Christine would say.
Christine looked at DeMarco, smiled slightly, then said, “It’s Jo-Jo. I had a dog named Jo-Jo when I was a little girl.”
“Well, he’s just as cute as a bug’s ear,” Mahoney said.
Christine excused herself by saying that she had to practice. As she walked away, Mahoney, oblivious to the daggers that Emma was looking at him, admired Christine’s legs and backside. He flopped down on the chaise lounge that Christine had vacated and said to Emma, “You got anything to drink around this place?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Emma muttered. But she got up and said, “What do you want, bourbon?”
“With a wee bit of ice, that would be lovely,” Mahoney said.
When Emma returned with Mahoney’s drink—and a bottle of bourbon that she placed on the patio table next to him—he said, “So you guys think Fine set this whole thing up?”
“Yeah,” DeMarco said. “I never considered him for one simple reason. He didn’t have the money. Somebody had to pay Pugh and Lincoln big bucks to do what they did, so I figured it had to be Dobbler or Edith Baxter or even Broderick. But not Fine.”
“But it turns out he did have the money,” Mahoney said.
“Yep. He had access to all Broderick’s contributions. In other words, Fine did exactly what he accused Broderick of doing, but he set it up so if something went wrong, it would appear that Broderick had organized the whole thing.”
“So what was Fine’s motive?” Mahoney said.
“I think at first it was money,” DeMarco said. “This is all conjecture, but I think Fine’s the guy that sucked Dobbler in. If Broderick’s bill had passed, Dobbler would have gotten a contract worth a few billion, and I think Dobbler would have given Fine his cut. I think, in the beginning, Nicky Fine said, ‘Screw it. These white bastards won’t let me be a senator, and I’m sick and tired of working for chicken feed.’
“So I think what happened is this,” DeMarco went on. “The two guys in Baltimore tried to blow up the tunnel, and Fine, not Broderick, came up with the Muslim registry idea. He talked Broderick into launching his bill, and then he tells Dobbler how they can both get rich if the bill is passed and convinces Dobbler to give him a bucket of cash to grease the wheels.
“He knows, however, that two guys trying to blow up a tunnel won’t be enough. So Fine, who knew about Lincoln—he lied to the media when he said he didn’t—hatches the idea to coerce Muslims to do things like fly planes into the White House and paid Lincoln to execute his plan.”
“But why did he have Broderick killed?”
It was odd, DeMarco thought, but Mahoney appeared completely relaxed as he asked his questions. Maybe it was the bourbon, but he didn’t think so.
“To get the bill passed,” DeMarco said, in response to Mahoney’s question. “Broderick’s bill almost had the support it needed. It had already passed in the Senate, it looked like it might pass in the House, but there you were, gumming up the works. Fine figured he just needed one more little thing to get it over the hump: kill Broderick and turn him into a martyr. Remember, all Fine wanted at this point was the money he’d make off Dobbler. But then Fine thinks, Why not go for the whole enchilada? Why not replace Broderick in the Senate? The Republicans almost gave him the job when Wingate retired, so Fine cozies up to the governor of Virginia and in return for appointing him to fill the Senate seat, he gets the governor a teaching job at UVA. Or, for all we know, maybe Fine gave the governor an even bigger payoff.”
“But then the bill doesn’t pass because you nailed Jubal,” Mahoney said.
“Right,” DeMarco said, “but Nick Fine still got the consolation prize. He got to be a U.S. senator.”
“So why can’t they get to Fine through Dobbler?” Mahoney said.
“Because Dobbler would have to admit he was in collusion with Fine to rig a government contract. Dobbler’s gotta be madder than hell right now, about all the money he invested to get Broderick’s bill passed, but he’s not gonna incriminate himself by pointing the finger at Fine.”
“Well, dang,” Mahoney said, and rattled the ice around in his glass. “So you got any ideas for how to get Fine?”
Well dang? What was with Mahoney?
“No,” DeMarco said.
“How ’bout you, hotshot?” Mahoney said to Emma. “You’re the one who always comes up with cute ideas, like letting that Cuban gal kill that yokel so the Bureau could get to Lincoln.”
Emma stared at Mahoney like she wanted to throttle him, either for the hotshot tag or for implying that she had deliberately allowed Pugh to get killed. Mahoney, however, was oblivious to Emma’s stare. Partly he was oblivious because he was Mahoney, and partly he was oblivious because after he made the remark he reached over and picked up the bourbon bottle to refill his glass.
“No, I don’t,” Emma said. “I was hoping—for once—that you might use your influence to get the FBI to take a harder look at Fine. I’m sure a statement to the media would be too much to ask for …”
“You got that right,” Mahoney said.
“… but you could at least sit down with the Bureau in private and tell them what you think.”
“I already did,” Mahoney said, surprising both DeMarco and Emma. “But I don’t have a lot of confidence in their nailing him, particularly now that the bastard’s so popular. The polls are showing he’ll get Broderick’s seat when they hold the special election in Virginia.” Mahoney laughed. “I heard the other day that Oprah’s gonna have him and the guy from Illinois on her show at the same time. Anyway, bottom line, the Bureau’s gonna walk on eggs around Fine. There’s no way they’re gonna take him into a room and whack him with a rubber hose until he talks.”
“So that’s it?” Emma said. “Fine gets a seat in the United States Senate after everything he’s done?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Mahoney said, his tone incredibly laid back.
For some reason, and DeMarco couldn’t understand why, Mahoney was not at all upset that Nick Fine wasn’t going to go to prison for his crimes.
Emma must have been having a similar problem with Mahoney’s nonchalant attitude. She sat there studying him for a minute, biting her lower lip as she thought. Then she said to Mahoney, “Are you thinking that—”
“Yep,” Mahoney said.
Thinking what? What the hell were they talking about? DeMarco wondered.
Mahoney tossed the bourbon remaining in his glass down his throat. Then, with some effort, he rose from the chaise longue. “I gotta get goin’,” he said. But before he left, he winked at DeMarco and said, “Don’t worry. I think things are gonna work out just peachy.”