He needed a plan.
But he didn’t have a plan.
He looked back at the ball field and noticed nobody was paying any attention to him; they were all focused on Hopper’s body. Dillon’s people obviously thought DeMarco would just sit there like the good puppet he was until somebody came over and told him what to do.
Then he came up with a plan. Well, actually, half a plan. But half a plan was better than no plan at all.
He pulled the earbud out of his ear and chucked it out the car window. When he did, he felt like he’d just pulled a tick out from under his skin. Then he started his car, stomped on the gas pedal, and drove away-wondering how long it would be before they noticed he was gone.
All he needed was a five-minute head start.
Perry Wallace, Mahoney’s chief of staff, was an unattractive, disagreeable genius whose only reason for living was to keep Mahoney in office. He also lived in Falls Church, a little more than a mile from Tuckahoe Park. DeMarco had been to Wallace’s home twice before and he knew he could drive there in two minutes-but he also knew he was infested with listening devices and suspected his car had a tracking device installed on it as well. So he needed to dump the car and get rid of all the bugs before he went to Perry’s place.
He drove as fast as he could and less than a minute later pulled into an alley that was halfway between Tuckahoe Park and Wallace’s house. He jumped out of the car, leaving the door open, and started throwing things into the car. He tossed his cell phone and watch in first and started to throw in his wallet, then realized he would need money. He took all the cash from his wallet and when he saw he didn’t have much, he pulled out his ATM card. He spent a few seconds-he couldn’t afford to spend more than a few seconds-running his fingers over the card looking for some kind of bug or tracking device, then gave up. He had no idea how the NSA could bug a plastic card. He’d just have to hope for the best. He put the ATM card and his cash on the hood of his car and started stripping off his clothes. He figured the last time he’d taken off his clothes that fast was when he was seventeen and lost his virginity to a girl named Patty Donatelli.
Less than ninety seconds after he’d arrived in the alley, he was standing next to his car wearing nothing but boxer shorts and socks. Holding his cash and his ATM card in his hand, he started running.
He had no idea what he’d say to a cop if one saw him.
Alice and the two agents designated as Bravo and Charlie stood there looking down at Hopper’s body. Alice spoke into her mic. “Claire, what do you want me to do with-” She almost said Hopper’s name, then realized Bravo and Charlie didn’t know his name and didn’t need to know it. “With Black,” she concluded.
Claire was alone in the ops room at Fort Meade, waiting to hear back from the agents who were tailing Cadillac. Dillon had gone home and her techs were taking a break, having a cup of coffee. In answer to Alice’s question, Claire said, “Take the body back to Fort Meade. I’ll decide later what I want to do with it.”
Hopper was a problem. Killing him may have been justified but he was still an FBI agent, and the last thing she and Dillon needed was a major FBI investigation into the death of one of their own people. So Claire didn’t want the body found immediately, but she hadn’t made a decision yet on whether she wanted Hopper to disappear forever or if she wanted to create some scenario to explain his death. Whatever the case, she’d figure it out tomorrow, after she had a chance to talk to Dillon and after they had identified Cadillac. To Alice, she said, “Have your men transport the body. What I want you to do is drive back to the safe house with DeMarco. I want him someplace where we can keep an eye on him.” Claire hadn’t figured out what they were going to do with DeMarco, either.
“Roger that,” Alice said, looked over to her shoulder toward DeMarco’s car-and saw the car wasn’t there.
“Goddammit!” she said. Thumbing her radio to change the frequency, she screamed, “DeMarco! Where are you?” When DeMarco didn’t respond, she changed frequencies again. “Claire, DeMarco’s gone. He took off.”
“Oh, shit,” Claire said. She ran to the door of the operations room and yelled to her techs, “Get back in here!” It had never occurred to her that DeMarco would run. As soon as her technicians were back in the room, she said, “Find DeMarco.” The techs returned to their monitors and Claire said to one of them, “Is the satellite still down?”
“Yeah,” the tech said, “and it’s gonna be for quite a while.”
Claire muttered a curse and turned to another tech, “Well? Where the hell is he?”
The tech said, “He’s approximately half a mile from the park, in an alley near the corner of Washington Boulevard and Quantico Street. He’s not moving.”
Alice heard what the tech said and began sprinting toward her car. As she ran, she was thinking: That goddamn Demarco. She knew he was going to be trouble the first time she met him.
Three minutes later, Alice called Claire. “I’m standing right next to his car, and he’s not here. Where is he?”
Claire turned to one of the techs. “Well?”
“The GPS in his cell phone says he’s right there, right where his car is.”
Alice said, “Well, he’s not here.” Then Alice looked into DeMarco’s car and said, “Claire, he dumped everything. His clothes, his cell phone, his wallet, everything he had on him is in his car. He’s gotta be on foot, he’s not wearing any clothes, and he can’t be too far from here. I’ll start driving around and see if I can spot him.” Alice paused before she said, “It would sure be nice if we had a satellite that worked.”
It took DeMarco five minutes to run to Wallace’s house and when he got there he was breathing like he was two seconds away from a heart attack and his feet hurt from running without shoes on the hard sidewalk. He pressed down on Wallace’s doorbell and then started hammering on the door with his fist. Wallace had no social life and DeMarco was positive he was home sleeping.
Finally, Wallace answered the door. He was dressed in purple pajamas constructed from enough cotton to build a circus tent and he was naturally surprised to see DeMarco standing there on his porch, semi-naked. “What the hell?” he said.
DeMarco pushed his way into the house and closed the door. “Perry, I need clothes, shoes, and your car-and I can’t tell you why,” he said.
“What?” Wallace said.
“Perry, wake the fuck up! I’m being chased by some of the scariest guys you’ve ever seen in your life, and I need-”
“What guys? And where are your clothes?”
“It involves Mahoney, Perry, and I need you to do what I’m telling you. And I need you to move fast.”
DeMarco had invoked Mahoney’s name because he knew by doing so Wallace would be more inclined to help him. Wallace also knew that Mahoney often asked DeMarco to do things that Wallace knew were in his own best interest not to know about, and the fact that Mahoney was lying in a hospital bed did not mean DeMarco had stopped working for him.
While Wallace was getting the clothes, DeMarco peeked out the front window and saw a black SUV driving slowly down the street-the kind of SUV that Alice drove. It was dark outside and the windows in the SUV were tinted, so he couldn’t tell who was driving, but his gut told him it was Alice or one of her gun-toting friends.
Wallace came back with a pair of sweat pants and a sweat shirt. The sweat shirt had an XXXL label and the tennis shoes were a size smaller than DeMarco wore. DeMarco had no idea why Perry Wallace owned sweat clothes as he had never-judging by his waistline-exercised in his life. Wallace refused to give him the keys to his good car, but he also owned a beat-up Mazda pickup that had about two hundred thousand miles on it.
As he was leaving, DeMarco said, “If anybody asks you about me, you haven’t seen me.”
“You got that right,” Perry said.
34
Dillon was shoeless, standing on the carpet in his office, tapping golf balls at a drinking glass using a long- handled putter, a belly putter. When Claire entered his office, he glanced over at her and said, “Have you ever used one of these before? I know Vijay Singh used one for a while. I rather like it.”
“The name of the man who was driving the Cadillac last night is John Levy,” Claire said.
