Mike Lawson - Dead on Arrival

He concluded by saying, ‘What I’m asking is this: Do you think Pugh is the type that would threaten to kill Reza Zarif’s children to make Zarif crash his plane into the White House?’

DeMarco realized how ridiculous that sounded the minute the words left his mouth.

‘Not for political reasons,’ Hall said. ‘Jubal couldn’t care less about politics. For money he might do something like that — he’d do anything for money — but what you’re saying … Well, I just can’t imagine Pugh getting involved in something so high profile. He’d know that the FBI and Homeland Security and God knows how many other federal agencies would be coming after him. I mean, I may not be able to get the priority to nab him, but those guys sure as hell could. No, for Jubal to get mixed up in this terrorist stuff, the payoff would have to be huge .’

‘Yeah, but who would pay him?’ DeMarco said.

‘Hey, it’s your theory not mine,’ Hall said.

DeMarco was silent for a moment before he said, ‘There’s one other thing. The bomb the cabdriver had — it didn’t explode. The Bureau said a wire came loose, but it’s hard to believe with as much bomb-making experience as al-Qaeda has that they’d screw up like that. But maybe someone like Pugh would make that kind of mistake.’

Hall shook her head. ‘I think you’re totally off base thinking Pugh’s involved in any terrorist stuff. I mean, he’s fire-bombed other meth dealers’ labs, I know that for a fact, but I just can’t see him making a bomb out of C-Four with a dead man’s switch. No. That’s just way too high tech for Jubal. He’s a bottle-of-gas-and-a-rag kinda guy.’

The First Amendment of the Constitution may dictate a separation between Church and State but the fact is, when preachers preach, their congregations listen to what they have to say and tend to vote and contribute accordingly. So when Mahoney got a call from a preacher he too listened, and the preacher he was currently listening to was none other than Cardinal Patrick Mackey, head of the archdiocese of Boston.

Cardinal Mackey had called to discuss a bill in the House having to do with health insurance. As the Catholic Church had its fingers in a number of hospitals in the Boston area, and as the bill might affect the profitability of those hospitals, Cardinal Mackey wanted to make sure that the speaker understood the cardinal’s perspective on the matter. Mackey, of course, being a man of the cloth, believed in treating the sick and giving alms to the poor; he just thought such acts of charity should come through private donations and not through enterprises that funded the Church’s many other endeavors. Mahoney thanked the good cardinal for his input and concluded the call by saying that a man named DeMarco would soon be visiting the fair city of Boston. Cardinal Mackey knew exactly what Congressman Mahoney meant and said he’d say a special mass for his favorite politician.

Mahoney picked up the phone to call his chief of staff and discuss the cardinal’s concern. His chief, a diabolical genius named Perry Wallace, would help him decide if they should do what the cardinal wanted and, if not, how they would make it appear that it wasn’t Mahoney’s fault that the cardinal hadn’t gotten his way. But before Mahoney could punch the button on his phone to summon Wallace, Wallace walked into the room.

There are two types of fat men. There are those who carry their added poundage well, men whose girth gives them an imposing stature and creates an impression of bull-like robustness. Mahoney was one of those men. Wallace was the other type of fat man. He just looked fat, his stomach flopping over his belt, his face bloated into a small white moon.

Before Mahoney could tell Wallace about the cardinal’s phone call, Wallace said, ‘Broderick’s bill just passed in the Senate.’

‘Shit,’ Mahoney said.

‘Eighteen of our guys voted for it.’

‘Goddammit,’ Mahoney said.

Now Broderick’s bill would come to the House — Mahoney’s House.

‘You guys know where Rollie’s at?’ DeMarco asked.

DeMarco wanted to talk to Rollie Patterson, the U.S. Capitol police officer who had killed Mustafa Ahmed, but Rollie wasn’t at his normal post. The two men he was speaking to — one black, one white, door guards who worked with Rollie — didn’t answer his question immediately because they were busy admiring the backside of a female lobbyist who was passing through the metal detector.

‘Why you asking?’ the white guard finally said. ‘They wanna give him another medal?’

The day after preventing the Capitol from being turned into rubble, Rollie had been presented with a medal. Meritorious something-or-other for valor. The presentation had been made in the House chamber, and Mahoney had personally pinned the medal on Rollie’s stout chest. House members, the hundred or so who had bothered to attend the ceremony, had all risen and clapped their hands in tribute to Rollie’s heroism.

‘Nah, I just want to talk to him,’ DeMarco said.

‘Yeah, but who are you ?’ the black guard said.

‘I handle media inquiries,’ DeMarco lied. ‘Got a question from some reporter that I’m tryin’ to get answered.’ Before the guards could ask another question — not because they cared, but because screwing with DeMarco was as good a way as any to kill time — DeMarco said, ‘So is he here today or not?’

‘No,’ the black guy said. ‘He’s been off since he popped that guy. I guess havin’ to stand up for all those pictures was hard on his feet.’

The white guy laughed.

Rollie, even after killing a terrorist, still got no respect.

Rollie had a small single-story home with a detached garage not too far from the Fort Totten metro stop in northeast D.C. DeMarco noticed that the mailbox was stuffed with envelopes, and three days’ worth of newspapers were stacked up near the door. It appeared that Rollie was out of town and that’s why DeMarco hadn’t been able to reach him by phone.

DeMarco knocked on the door. No one answered. He knocked again and looked in the nearest window but couldn’t see anyone in the house. It was beginning to look as if he’d wasted his time driving out to Rollie’s place, but he walked around to the rear of the house, stood on the back porch, and looked in through the backdoor window, into the kitchen of Rollie’s home. There were dishes on the table, and a carton of milk was sitting on the counter near the stove.

‘Hey, whatcha doin?’

DeMarco turned and saw, peering over the fence that separated her house from Rollie’s, an elderly white woman, bright-eyed as a robin. She was wearing an army fatigue jacket over a blue bathrobe, and there was a red stocking cap on her head, gray hair sticking out from beneath the cap.

‘I’m looking for Rollie,’ DeMarco said.

‘How do I know you weren’t planning to break into the house?’ the woman said, then jiggled her eyebrows up and down.

DeMarco smiled. ‘What would you have done if I had been?’

The woman smiled back and raised her right hand, which had been obscured by the fence. She was holding a revolver. She didn’t point it at DeMarco, she just sort of waved it.

Jesus!

She laughed. ‘Don’t worry. It’s not loaded,’ she said.

‘Good,’ DeMarco said. ‘So have you seen Rollie? I work with him, over at the Capitol. Been trying all day to get ahold of him.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘and to tell you the truth, I’m kinda worried about him. The papers on his porch, you know.’

‘You think we should call the cops?’ DeMarco said.

The woman nodded, but then she said, ‘Nah. Look under that flowerpot, the one with the dead plant in it. The key to the front door’s there. We’ll go in together.’ Then she held up her gun again. ‘And if there’s anybody in there-’