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something done that he didn’t want traced back to his office—like investigating congressmen taking mysterious weekend trips. He was Mahoney’s voice when he wanted messages delivered to people he couldn’t be seen talking to and, on more than one occasion, DeMarco had found himself in life-threatening circumstances when Mahoney had sent him down some dangerous political rat hole. He was also, to his great shame, Mahoney’s occasional bagman, the one rich constituents passed the cash to when they wanted Mahoney’s help navigating—or, more likely, circumventing—the legislative process. He should have quit working for the insensitive, conniving bastard years ago, but at this juncture of his life he couldn’t afford to. He was neck-deep in debt and it was going to be impossible to find a better-paying job, particularly when he couldn’t put down on his résumé most of the things that he had done for his last employer.
    Mahoney drained the bourbon in his glass and said, “Just figure out how to get Sandy Whitmore out of jail before she turns me into a headline.”
    DeMarco was the man walking behind the elephant: the guy with the high boots, a shovel, and a big bucket.

Chapter 9
     
    The bar was two blocks from the Metropolitan Correctional Center in Manhattan, almost the first drinking establishment you came to upon leaving the jail. It was a gloomy, depressing place, and its clientele—five men and one woman—uniformly ignored each other and the muted television behind the bar. These were people who were only interested in the glass in front of them as they sat there brooding about what life might have been.
     
    The florist had gone to the jail that morning and asked to speak to someone about the procedure for visiting the prisoners. He was directed to a heavyset, red-faced guard with a small mustache who reminded him of an angry Oliver Hardy. When he spoke to the guard, he smelled tobacco, breath mints, and alcohol on his breath. It was no surprise that a bar was the guard’s first stop after leaving work.
    The florist watched as the guard ordered a second drink. He had finished the first one in a single swallow. He was drinking straight vodka, having waved off the ice and lemon slice offered by the bartender. He wanted cheap, high-octane alcohol and nothing else.
    The florist took a seat on the stool next to him. Signaling the bartender, he said, “Another one for my friend.”
    “Who the hell are you?” the guard asked. Then he recognized the florist. “Hey, you were at the jail this morning. What do you want?”
    “Wait until he brings your drink and I’ll tell you.”
    The guard shrugged; he wasn’t going to turn down a free drink.
    The bartender placed the vodka in front of the guard, and the guard placed both hands around the glass as if he was afraid the florist might snatch the drink away. “Okay, so now tell me why you’re buying me drinks.”
    The florist took out his wallet and spread five one-hundred-dollar bills on the bar.
    “Jesus!” the guard said, and his head spun around to see if anyone else had seen the money. “You shouldn’t go flashin’ money around in a place like this.”
    “No one’s watching,” the florist said. “Pick it up. It’s yours.”
    The guard didn’t reach for the money—but he did place his forearm over the bills so they were partially hidden.
    “What do you want?” the guard asked again.
    “I’m a journalist,” the florist said, “and I want you to call me every time Sandra Whitmore—”
    “That reporter broad? The one who got that spy killed?”
    “Yes, that one. Tomorrow, I want you to look at your records and tell me the names of everyone who’s visited her since she was jailed. And starting tomorrow, whenever she receives a visitor, I want you to call me immediately. If her visitors represent an organization, like a law firm or another paper, I want to know that as well.”
    The guard looked down at the money peeking out from under his