couldn’t find what you needed to know with a simple bribe, he and his small staff were capable of hacking through firewalls and bugging phones and offices. The only reason Neil wasn’t the corpulent prison bride of a tattooed man named Bubba was because he was often employed by agents of the federal government, agents who didn’t have the patience or the inclination to get the necessary warrants.
“Neil and his wife are on an island somewhere,” Emma said, “taking a second honeymoon. He doesn’t want to be found. He wants to make love on the sand at sunset.”
“Oh, please!” DeMarco said. The thought of Neil naked and having sex was beyond revolting.
“He had to cancel his first honeymoon,” Emma said, still examining the wicked weed, “when they arrested him for . . . well, for something. He was never convicted, of course, but he had to postpone his honeymoon to deal with the problem.”
He was never convicted, DeMarco thought, because he was probably working for you and Uncle Sugar .
“Well how ’bout that little dweeb he works with?” DeMarco said. “What’s-his-name, Bobby something, with the dreadlocks.”
Emma stopped pulling weeds and turned to look at him. “Bobby Prentiss is not a dweeb ,” she said. “He’s brilliant.”
Everyone was brilliant but DeMarco. “Good,” he said. “So since he’s so brilliant, maybe he can help me.”
“Have you ever tried to communicate with Bobby, Joe?”
“Yeah, once.” Bobby was a man who could go for days without uttering a word. It seemed as if it was almost painful for him to talk to other members of his species.
“And?” Emma said.
“And it’s easier to gossip with God,” DeMarco admitted.
Emma stood up and emptied her small box of dead weeds into a larger container full of dead weeds. A genocide, of sorts, was in progress.
Emma was tall and slim and regal—even wearing a goofy hat. She had short hair that DeMarco thought was gray until the light struck it from a certain angle and then he thought it was blonde. She was several years older than him, but she could run him ragged on a racquetball court, which she did every couple of months when she couldn’t find anyone else to beat. The marathon T-shirt she wore was from a race she ran in three years ago.
DeMarco wasn’t sure he could even walk twenty-six miles.
“I don’t understand all this insider trading stock crap,” DeMarco said. “You’re rich. Help me out here.”
“What makes you think I’m rich?” Emma said. “I’m a retired civil servant living on a pension.”
“Yeah, right. A pensioner that drives a new Mercedes and has a home in McLean that I’m guessing would sell for about two mil.”
“Maybe I inherited my home,” Emma said.
“Well did you?” DeMarco asked.
“Maybe,” Emma said.
Emma delighted in being enigmatic. She was a retired civil servant: retired from the Defense Intelligence Agency. She’d been a spy—and maybe she was still a spy. She’d kept so many secrets during her career that she continued to keep secrets even when they didn’t matter; it was habit she could not break.
“So are you going to help me or not?” DeMarco said.
“No. I have to get bulbs into the ground, I have bushes to prune, and this lawn . . . My God, look at it!”
DeMarco thought her lawn looked like one of the putting greens at Augusta National, but then he had fairly low standards when it came to yards and gardens. He wanted to replace the grass in front of his Georgetown home with Astroturf.
Before DeMarco could say that keeping Molly Mahoney out of jail was more important than tulip bulbs, Emma said, “But let me see if I’ve got all this straight. The SEC says that they have a trail of stock purchases originating from an Internet café. The stocks were purchased using half a million dollars that was mysteriously placed in Molly’s new bank account. Molly claims she doesn’t know where the money came from, claims she didn’t buy any stock,
“Neil and his wife are on an island somewhere,” Emma said, “taking a second honeymoon. He doesn’t want to be found. He wants to make love on the sand at sunset.”
“Oh, please!” DeMarco said. The thought of Neil naked and having sex was beyond revolting.
“He had to cancel his first honeymoon,” Emma said, still examining the wicked weed, “when they arrested him for . . . well, for something. He was never convicted, of course, but he had to postpone his honeymoon to deal with the problem.”
He was never convicted, DeMarco thought, because he was probably working for you and Uncle Sugar .
“Well how ’bout that little dweeb he works with?” DeMarco said. “What’s-his-name, Bobby something, with the dreadlocks.”
Emma stopped pulling weeds and turned to look at him. “Bobby Prentiss is not a dweeb ,” she said. “He’s brilliant.”
Everyone was brilliant but DeMarco. “Good,” he said. “So since he’s so brilliant, maybe he can help me.”
“Have you ever tried to communicate with Bobby, Joe?”
“Yeah, once.” Bobby was a man who could go for days without uttering a word. It seemed as if it was almost painful for him to talk to other members of his species.
“And?” Emma said.
“And it’s easier to gossip with God,” DeMarco admitted.
Emma stood up and emptied her small box of dead weeds into a larger container full of dead weeds. A genocide, of sorts, was in progress.
Emma was tall and slim and regal—even wearing a goofy hat. She had short hair that DeMarco thought was gray until the light struck it from a certain angle and then he thought it was blonde. She was several years older than him, but she could run him ragged on a racquetball court, which she did every couple of months when she couldn’t find anyone else to beat. The marathon T-shirt she wore was from a race she ran in three years ago.
DeMarco wasn’t sure he could even walk twenty-six miles.
“I don’t understand all this insider trading stock crap,” DeMarco said. “You’re rich. Help me out here.”
“What makes you think I’m rich?” Emma said. “I’m a retired civil servant living on a pension.”
“Yeah, right. A pensioner that drives a new Mercedes and has a home in McLean that I’m guessing would sell for about two mil.”
“Maybe I inherited my home,” Emma said.
“Well did you?” DeMarco asked.
“Maybe,” Emma said.
Emma delighted in being enigmatic. She was a retired civil servant: retired from the Defense Intelligence Agency. She’d been a spy—and maybe she was still a spy. She’d kept so many secrets during her career that she continued to keep secrets even when they didn’t matter; it was habit she could not break.
“So are you going to help me or not?” DeMarco said.
“No. I have to get bulbs into the ground, I have bushes to prune, and this lawn . . . My God, look at it!”
DeMarco thought her lawn looked like one of the putting greens at Augusta National, but then he had fairly low standards when it came to yards and gardens. He wanted to replace the grass in front of his Georgetown home with Astroturf.
Before DeMarco could say that keeping Molly Mahoney out of jail was more important than tulip bulbs, Emma said, “But let me see if I’ve got all this straight. The SEC says that they have a trail of stock purchases originating from an Internet café. The stocks were purchased using half a million dollars that was mysteriously placed in Molly’s new bank account. Molly claims she doesn’t know where the money came from, claims she didn’t buy any stock,
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