Made To Account

By Bill Johnstone

A vicious attack on a Capitol Hill lobbyist in Washington, DC and the ransacking of an apartment in Boston, Mass. are two crucial incidents which develop into a tale of robbery, murder, conscience and blackmail involving the FBI, the police, the security agencies and basic human nature.
Journalist Mike McCabe investigates.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bill Johnstone
• Release date: Feb 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310525292

Bill Johnstone

The author has been a journalist for more than 30 years and has taught the subject in the USA and the UK.He was born in Glasgow, Scotland and lived in London and Washington where his novels are set.He is an avid animal lover and a trusteee of a cat sanctuary in Somerset, England.He travels frequently between the UK and the USA.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Mike McCabe wasn’t sure if the noise was part of his dream. It was in the background. He was half asleep and barely conscious, trying to work out where it was coming from, what day it was and the correct time. The cell-phone buzzed its way across the bedside table and landed softly on the carpet. With one eye open he identified it as the source. He squinted at it but could barely decipher the digits on its face. He managed to read the display. It had just gone five o’clock and there was no caller ID.

He stretched across to the edge of the bed, dangled his hands towards the floor, and pressed the green button. The voice on the phone sounded in a panic. The line crackled badly; the muffled voice broke up with the noise. He pulled the phone closer, in time to hear her call his name. He was half awake now and pulled the phone even closer until his ear was almost flat. He caught the remains of the message. It was clearer. ‘They took him to the hospital,’ it said, almost at screaming pitch.

He tried to put the words in some order, so they made some sense. His first attempts weren’t too successful. The words were unambiguous but the message and the voice were still garbled. The news didn’t penetrate. The voice he recognized but couldn’t place. It was out of context, like those faces you see in the street but walk by because they’re not where they should be. Her voice was talking to him in a similar way; it wasn’t where it should be. Why was she calling him at this hour? Why was she calling him at all?

McCabe struggled to his feet, slipped out of bed with cell-phone in hand and made for the lounge. The houseboat swayed a little as it caught the wake of one of the small fishing boats on its way past the moorings.

He glanced out of the window. The estuary, on the edge of the Potomac River outside Washington, was bleak and beautiful today; winter was hanging on stubbornly. Its wrath was supposedly over but that judgment was premature. After a few tantalizing days of spring weather, it had returned as if it had never left. Clearly, no-one had told the wind which now blew across the estuary that it had outstayed its welcome. There had been a freezing storm the night before and the power cables were encased in a covering of ice. The morning light shone through it in a myriad of colors as it began to slowly melt in the early sun.

‘Lynda,’ he said quietly, still staring at the display.

‘He was on his way home,’ she continued. The crackle on the line had gone and her voice was clearer now. ‘Sorry to wake you so early. I didn’t know who else to call.’

Half hour later, McCabe pressed the elevator button for the fifth floor. Given it had just gone 6 a.m., the hospital was as busy as an interstate. Trolleys, wheelchairs, patients, medics and workmen were all on the move. McCabe walked to the back of the elevator as the crowd piled in. It appeared that the majority was on its way to the third floor.

He was a little more relaxed by the time he got out, as he headed for a private room three doors from the elevator. He stood by the door looking at his friend who was attached to a matrix of apparatus and tubes. Gus Malloy looked in a bad way.

His wife, Lynda, stood beside McCabe, just a few feet away. She was one of the most attractive people McCabe had ever known. She had a certain obvious classical beauty about her but it was much more than her physical features. She seemed to affect the people around her with her radiance; some would call it good karma. Whatever, it was infectious.

Her husband, Gus Malloy, was of Irish origin, a friend and a long-time colleague. As two ambitious young journalists, he and McCabe had worked together on several stories in their earlier days in London. Their paths had crossed in Washington. Recently, Malloy had left the front line of journalism to become a prominent public relations consultant on Capitol Hill. McCabe was now US Editor-at-Large for the newspaper, the London Daily Herald.

Malloy was an easy man to remember and difficult one to forget; a big man whose physical presence was matched by his robust and flamboyant personality. He was an accomplished rugby player in his day, and he still had a liking for the odd skirmish or two. McCabe could never remember the Irishman being without some cut or bruise to his face. It seemed almost natural. As they said in his native tongue ‘We’d hate to see the other fella.’

Perhaps this episode was just one of those sporting exchanges that had gone terribly wrong. Usually they occurred at the end of some long drinking bout which tested the resilience of any drinker. Malloy was a member of a hard school where there were no places for the amateurs.

However that theory was short-lived. According to his wife, Malloy was perfectly sober when she found him.

‘I can tell when he’s been drinking. I couldn’t smell a thing; no hint of booze. He was slumped across his desk,’ she said suddenly, staring through the window towards the patient in the bed. ‘At first I thought he was asleep. There were a number of things on his desk; a book and open folder and his computer was logged on to his email. The door to the garden was open. I spoke to him. He didn’t answer. I stared at him and called his name again. It was only then I noticed the blood. It was on his head and across the desk. There was a trail of it from the open door.’

She moved closer to McCabe. He put his arms around her and pulled her towards him. He could feel her head moving as she cried into his shoulder.

The river looked even bleaker, by the time McCabe got back to the quayside. At this time of year, living on the river questioned his sanity or lack of it. There was little doubt that in winter, his resolve was seriously tested. There was nothing attractive about freezing water-pipes, endless worries about hot water, concerns about electricity supply, discomfort in stormy weather and the ubiquitous river swell. However, he loved the lifestyle, one he felt marked him out as different, as someone removed from the herd, as a maverick, an individual who needed to make his own statement.

Perhaps it was part of his vanity, a monument to his ego, an image of himself and no more? Maybe he was just as conservative as anyone living in the high-rise apartment blocks two streets away and the boat was just cosmetic and meaningless? However, when the winter had gone and in its place came the beauty of the other seasons, any doubts were dispelled. Then the morning views across the river, the breath-taking vistas that came with the evening sun and the colours that painted the sky with every sunset erased the painful memories of freezing winters.

He’d bought a houseboat in London years earlier as a refuge and antidote to a desperately stressful divorce. It helped him refocus his life. An old coal barge, converted to some level of comfort, was his emotional and financial distraction which helped him re-invent a new self. He’d caught the nautical bug; a bohemian lifestyle in the middle of urban insanity. That London home he now rented out to some young city slicker who helped finance his DC houseboat tenancy.

McCabe pulled his car into a parking slot. He pushed the door open. As always, he could smell the fish market to his right which was now open for business. He walked briskly through the cold to one of his favorite local restaurants.

This was a morning for smoked haddock and poached egg. He ordered with a round of toast, orange juice and a pot of coffee.

He poured himself a cup and tried to take stock of what had happened. What he’d put together didn’t have much detail. Malloy’s wife, normally a calm and level-headed academic had been totally thrown by her experience. She couldn’t add any more to the story than she had already disclosed. Her husband had been attacked somewhere near to their house, she’d said. ‘But he managed to get himself back,’ she added. ‘According to the doctors, he then suffered a heart-attack at his desk, brought on by his wounds and the shock of the experience.’

The breakfast arrived. The fish was superb.

He’d taken his time. It was late morning now. He nodded to the waiter and gave him a signal.

The waiter smiled back, nodded a confirmation, brought a miniature of Black Label to the table and poured half into McCabe’s cup of coffee.

McCabe needed it and he wished his friend was with him to share it. They’d consumed many a bottle of Scotch and Irish in the time they’d spent together. He smiled at the memory.

Malloy was a character and as much an eccentric as he was a presence. His parents had quit Ireland when he was a child and gone travelling with no particular purpose other than to avoid the poverty consuming the country. They seemed to settle in Africa for a while and when that turned sour they turned to America. Unwittingly, Malloy brought with him attitudes that were old world, if not colonial and imperial. His appearance also reflected that age; a liking for tweeds and checked shirts. Hollywood wouldn’t have portrayed their version of an English squire differently. He even had an old Rolls Royce that he occasionally gave an airing, usually around Capitol Hill, part of the repertoire which was meant to impress potential clients.

And he had those in abundance. There were few corporations, sports stars and movie moguls who hadn’t sought his political lobbying skills when they were trying to influence the power brokers in Congress. So what had brought this giant of a man literally to his knees?

‘I didn’t know who else to call,’ his wife had said. McCabe was glad she’d thought of him.

CHAPTER 2

Martin Deveraux poured a mug of black hot coffee from a freshly made batch. It was the first of the day, it was strong and it tasted damn good. He felt the hot wave slide down inside him and it wasn’t long before the effect was obvious too. The caffeine-fix triggered his sleepy body into response. He had another gulp.

He could see from his first floor apartment the well-wrapped pedestrians fighting their way along the sidewalks into an unrelenting wind; typical Washington winter day. Where had the promise of the early spring gone?

He had another mouthful as he flipped through his calendar for the day. Business had been slow but latterly it had begun to pick up. The property market was in a difficult phase. Some sellers were frightened to move in case they got a better deal. The buyers were equally nervous for fear of paying a price which, a few weeks later, might be considered too much.

He was caught in between; the man who made money from house clearances. Downsizing to a smaller property or disposing of it entirely with all its contents was when he came into the frame. There was nothing too large to handle and in this climate nothing too small. He couldn’t be fussy about any contract; domestic or commercial, small margins or large profits. He threw his hat into any ring. He couldn’t afford to do otherwise.

Sometimes he handled the sale of the contents. On other occasions they were disposed of via an auction at the property or sometimes packed without much care or ceremony into bags and sold unseen. Then dealers took their chances. Some contents barely covered their costs, an assortment of bric-a-brac more fitting for a garage sale. Others, when seen, were ditched as worthless. However now and again, though very rarely, they came across a prize of which every dealer dreamed.

It was an interesting job. His father had started the business, in the years during the Depression, salvaging all sorts of merchandise while scavenging for items to furnish their modest two bed-room house. Old chairs, beds, mattresses, tables and every conceivable household item was a collectible. In no time at all their front room looked like a storeroom. His father could and did talk at length about the history of any piece of furniture and why appreciating it was important. He guessed that’s where he’d got the collector’s bug. He’d listened to his father for hours and missed him dearly now that he had gone.

Deveraux browsed the calendar. The last contract had been the clearance of a three bedroom family home. Inevitably it was a divorce and he had to package the goods in two separate lots; one for her and one for him. He was particularly careful with these contracts or else, unwittingly, he’d end up having to turn up as a witness during a predictable lengthy and infantile legal squabble over something totally worthless. He usually avoided those clearance contracts, given any choice.

He ran a finger over the calendar to the appropriate square on the chart, read the name of today’s vendor, entered the zip code into his computer and watched the result appear on screen. The details looked strange. Perhaps it was an error? He checked the zip code, re-entered it into the computer and watched to see if the result was the same. It was; a twenty-roomed property that had once been a school, then a book depository and at one time, albeit briefly, a religious house. Now he remembered. It had slipped his mind. The clearance items would be auctioned off by one of his contractors.

He read the basic legal details from the screen. It was situated north-west of Washington city centre, a prime location, just outside Georgetown. The school and the religious order had relocated two years earlier but since then the building’s future had been uncertain. For months there had been plenty of speculation while the redevelopment sharks circled, each one unashamedly eyeing the property. Its future still remained unresolved but the owners wanted the contents cleared. That had been his job. Now they were just another auction lot.

An email alert screamed across the top of his computer screen. He logged into his directory. It was a notification from the auction house to all interested parties that there may be a problem with today’s schedule, more details would follow. It wasn’t the first time he’d received similar frantic notices. He would need to wait and see.

He switched off his computer, gathered up his gear and made for the parking lot. He pulled his collar up and walked quickly to his car. The email had made him unsure whether he went ahead as planned or made for his office. It didn’t matter now. He was on automatic pilot and within ten minutes he was almost at the property. But he didn’t need to be a genius to know that there was a problem. The flashing colored lights of the police patrol cars were unmistakable. He slowed down at the crime-tape stretched across the road.

Outside the crime-tape about a hundred yards from the school house, Pat Kovarik, Lieutenant DC Homicide tore the top off a packet of chewing gum with his teeth. He spat out the piece of wrapping paper stuck in his mouth then pulled out a strip of gum. He took the last swig from the coffee carton in his hand, dumped the empty container in the trash-can on the sidewalk, tore the wrapper off the gum then threw the content into his mouth. He let it moisten for a moment, stepped over the crime-tape then walked into the cemetery which bordered the school house.

‘Who found him?’ he asked; his question directed at no one in particular. The nearest patrolman from the crowd responded immediately. He pulled out a small and torn notebook, flipped through a few pages then read from it. ‘That’s him over there,’ he said, pointing to an elderly man by the fence.

‘What time was that?’

The young man read from his notes again. ‘We got the call just after six, Lieutenant, and we were here almost immediately.’

Kovarik looked across at the man by the fence. Invariably people out at that time of the morning were either joggers or dog-walkers. There wasn’t much doubt what category the old man was in. Kovarik looked round for the dog.

‘He’s a dog walker,’ said the patrolman, sensing the unspoken question.

Kovarik stared at the elderly man then the young cop. ‘I think I’ve worked that out for myself. Where’s the dog?’

‘The dog has been taken home.’

‘Is there anything interesting in his statement, apart from the obvious?’ asked the detective quickly.

The patrolman shook his head. ‘No, sir; nothing.’

‘Did you ask him why he was walking his dog in a cemetery?’

The young cop looked a little awkward but said nothing; he just stared ahead.

‘I’ll be in that coffee shop over there,’ said Kovarik, pointing towards the other side of the street, as he began to walk in its direction.

Kovarik got served quickly and grabbed a table by the window from where it was easy to watch the crime scene opposite. The forensic team had just arrived and his young assistant John Henry was making his way towards the coffee shop. As usual, the girls in the shop gave him as second take. His African-American good looks were a show stopper. It was quite predictable and a damn good asset to the department.

Kovarik chuckled to himself and gave some of the admirers a sympathetic smile.

John Henry got served without much trouble. He had at least three willing servers to choose from.

Kovarik had another chuckle.

‘According to his driving license and credit cards, he’s called Harry Blackmore. He’s got a couple of letters in a briefcase with an address in Boston. Forensic are checking out the details but it looks as if he was shot in the back of the head. A dog walker found him about six this morning. He looks about five ten and I’d say mid to late fifties. He had something else of interest in the case.’ John Henry stopped to have a drink of his latte.

‘In your own time,’ said Kovarik impatiently. ‘I feel confident you’ll tell me eventually.’

John Henry wouldn’t be hurried. He finished the sample of his coffee and smiled. ‘That’s good’. He would deliver at his own pace. That was his style. But he could see Kovarik was getting restless. ‘He had an auction catalogue in his case’.

‘Significance?’ queried Kovarik instantly.

John Henry’s response was measured again. He sipped his coffee then answered before Kovarik erupted again. ‘There’s a building next to the graveyard, a schoolhouse. Its contents are being auctioned this morning. I know you don’t like coincidences, Lieutenant.’

Kovarik said nothing for a moment. ‘No, I don’t. I definitely don’t.’

Twenty minutes later Kovarik had finished his coffee-fix.

John Henry stood beside him at the entrance to the old schoolhouse.

It was quite a substantial building on two floors. There was a double-fronted doorway with an arch and an outer gate with a lock which was hanging loose.

Kovarik slipped off the lock, undid the chain and pulled the gate open. Two steps and Kovarik had his hand on the door. It gave way at the first turn and creaked open. The dark room smelled damp and musty. ‘Did you bring the catalogue with you?’ asked Kovarik, walking into the centre of what looked like a reception room.

John Henry didn’t say a word as he darted out of the door.

The room was filled with tables, chairs, pictures, lamps and all sorts of items. They were arranged in piles on top of each other, on the floor and in almost any space available, each with a numbered label attached.

John Henry was back in no time with the catalogue. He handed it to Kovarik.

The detective flipped through some of the pages, read the label of the lamp at his side and matched it against the item listed in the booklet. ‘Would you believe it has a reserve price of two hundred dollars?’

John Henry smiled an acknowledgement but said nothing.

‘Have this place cordoned off too,’ said Kovarik, walking towards the door.

John Henry looked a little uncomfortable. ‘I had a call from the auctioneers. I didn’t think there would be a problem.’

‘There isn’t,’ replied Kovarik bluntly.

‘The auction is scheduled for this morning’ responded John Henry, pointing to the front of the catalogue.

‘I can read. Put one of those