House Odds by Mike Lawson

Sawyer’s office, he was informed that Sawyer was attending a conference in Las Vegas. It had become fashionable for government agencies to hold conferences in Vegas, not because the bureaucrats wanted to gamble and see bare-breasted showgirls, but instead because the city gave them good deals on hotel rooms. Yeah, you bet. So because Sawyer was on a taxpayer-funded boondoggle, and since Neil wasn’t available to help him, he was forced to talk to Kiser.
    “I got it from a pretty good source,” DeMarco said, possibly selling Randy Sawyer right down the river, “that somebody over at Reston Tech was involved in three big insider swindles in the last twenty years, and that the SEC never caught the folks involved. And since I know from this source that you’ve probably looked at everybody working at Reston, I was just wondering if Douglas Campbell was ever a person of interest.”
    “Who told you about those cases?” Kiser said.
    “I probably shouldn’t tell you,” DeMarco said, “but it was a guy over at Justice.”
    DeMarco was a much better liar than Kiser. In fact, if lying ever became an Olympic event, DeMarco figured he had a pretty good chance of making the American team. Mahoney would get the gold medal, of course, but still . . .
    “And if you don’t tell me what I want to know,” he said, “Molly’s lawyers are going to ask the same question in a long, formal subpoena. And you know what a hassle that can be.”
    Lawyers would submit a subpoena asking for the contents of an entire library when all they wanted was one book.
    Kay Kiser stood a moment without moving, her teeth clenched, a little muscle jumping in her jaw. DeMarco could tell that she was the type who hated to compromise—and she didn’t like being threatened either.
    “So give me a subpoena,” she finally said. “I’m not going to help Molly Mahoney’s lawyers develop their case.”
    “Oo-kay,” DeMarco said. “But you’ve already confirmed the main thing my source told me, which is that something screwy has been going on over at Reston for a long time—long before Molly ever worked there. And I think you’ve investigated Campbell before, too.”
    Kiser’s dark eyes flashed, emitting enough heat to melt steel.
    “You people make me sick,” she said. “Molly Mahoney is a privileged little brat who’s committed a crime. But she has a big shot for a father who can afford a high-power defense team, and her lawyers are going to throw up a smoke-and-mirrors defense. They’ll say that somebody stole little Molly’s identity and opened accounts in her name, and that somebody else over at Reston is really the bad guy. And maybe they’ll win, DeMarco, but I’ll be damned if I’ll help them. I’m going to do everything I can to put Molly Mahoney in a federal prison.”
    DeMarco was stunned by the force of her anger; she was acting like Molly had mugged her grandmother. “Jesus, Kay,” he said, “can’t you concede that it’s even remotely possible that she could have been framed?”
    “No! She wasn’t framed. She did it!”
    “Then what was her motive? Why would she do something like this?”
    Kiser laughed. “You need to get to know your client a lot better, DeMarco.”
    What the hell did she mean by that?
    * * *
    DeMarco returned to his office, which was in the subbasement of the U.S. Capitol. Not the basement, the sub basement—and his work space was smaller than some walk-in closets. Located down the hall from him were the janitors, and across the hall was the emergency diesel generator room. His was not a power office. He did have a title, though. The flaking gold paint on the frosted glass of his office door proclaimed him Counsel Pro Tem for Liaison Affairs.
    The title was John Mahoney’s invention—and complete nonsense.
    DeMarco had worked for Mahoney for a long time but there was no organizational chart that showed this to be the case. Mahoney preferred this in part because of DeMarco’s family history and