Timmons described Francones’s “slush fund.” It was the Mad Man’s mad money, which amounted to quite a lot: ten thousand a month, which bumped to twenty grand a month in his latter years as a player, and bumped again to thirty K a month after he landed the gig with Monday Night Football.
“Even if he spent twenty percent of that, it’s a lot of blow,” I said.
“Yes, but that’s not what I’m…” The manager stopped, then said, “Beginning shortly before Christmas, Mad Man started burning through money and asking for supplements. Ten, sometimes twenty thousand.”
“In cash?” I asked.
“Transferred to his cash accounts, yes,” Timmons said.
“He a gambler?” Sampson asked.
“Well, before today I would have told you not a chance,” said Snyder, shrugging. “But now? Who knows?”
“Gambling wasn’t the issue, in my opinion,” the manager said, glancing at Snyder. “Mandy was the—”
On the table in front of him, his cell phone rang. He sat forward, frowned. “I’m sorry, this must be an emergency of some kind. I asked them not to call unless it was.”
Timmons picked the phone up, answered.
“He was talking about Mandy Bell Lee?” Sampson said to Snyder.
The agent’s face soured, but before he could reply, Timmons roared, “That conniving bitch!”
He slammed his phone down, his face beet red. “Mandy Bell’s holding a live press conference out at the house. She’s claiming that she and the Mad Man were married secretly last month, and that she plans to contest the will!”
Chapter
22
We got to the gates of Francones’s sprawling manor in McLean, Virginia, around four p.m. Satellite TV trucks were parked up and down the road, with reporters gushing into cameras about the latest turn of events.
A Fairfax County deputy sheriff sat in a patrol car to the left of the gate, facing the road. She climbed out when we pulled up and showed her our badges.
“She’s in there, waiting for you,” the deputy said. “Mandy Bell.”
“Wait, you let her in?” I demanded.
“Not like it’s a crime scene,” she replied defensively. “And she has a marriage license that’s clear: she was the Mad Man’s wife, which means she has a right to be in her home.”
Sampson said, “What, did she give you an autograph, or promise you concert tickets?”
The deputy reddened, then said, “She’s a widow, Detective. I tried to show her some respect in her grief.”
I sighed. I didn’t like the fact that Francones’s alleged wife had had access to the house, but it was water under the bridge. “Let us in, please.”
The deputy nodded, walked to the right side of the gate, and pressed a button. The gate swung back. We drove up a winding driveway to a house Tony Soprano would have loved. I half expected to see Carmela opening the front door. Instead, a long, lanky man answered. He wore a dark suit, no tie, and black cowboy boots, and sported a jaw that looked straight out of central casting.
“Tim Jackson,” he said in a Tennessee twang, extending his hand. “I’m Ms. Lee’s attorney. How can I help you, Officers?”
“We’re running the investigation into Mr. Francones’s death,” Sampson said. “We’d like to ask Ms. Lee some questions.”
“Is Ms. Lee a suspect?”
“She claims to be the deceased’s wife,” I said.
“She is the deceased’s wife,” the attorney said, bristling. “We’ve got documents, witnesses. It’s iron-clad.”
“All the more reason for us to want to talk to her,” Sampson said.