Dead on Arrival

wanted one, he said, ‘Joe, what about you?’

‘No, I’m okay,’ DeMarco said. He knew that’s what Mahoney expected him to say. Plus — sheesh! — it was only ten in the morning.

‘How’s your father doing?’ Mahoney said.

‘Not well, sir. He’s in intensive care. It was his second heart attack. We’re not sure he’s going to make it.’

‘But they’re taking good care of him?’ Mahoney said.

‘Yes, the nurses at the hospital, they have souls. And at least, where he is, the press can’t bother him.’

Mahoney didn’t say anything for a minute. ‘So,’ he finally said. ‘What can I do for you? When you called-’

‘Excuse me, Mr Mahoney, but is this gentleman,’ Hassan said, looking over at DeMarco, ‘one of your assistants?’

DeMarco knew Hassan might have asked the question simply because he wanted to know who DeMarco was before he spoke. But DeMarco also suspected that the question may have had to do with the way he looked. DeMarco had dark hair that he combed straight back, a strong nose, and a big, square, dimpled chin. He was broad-chested and had thick shoulders and heavy, muscular arms. He was a good-looking man, but he looked tough and hard — he didn’t look like some congressman’s assistant.

Most congressional staffers were eager young kids just a few years out of college. Or, if not kids, they looked like crafty old negotiators, wheeler-dealers who spend all their time in dimly lit bars making the trade-offs that pass the laws. DeMarco didn’t look like someone from either of those groups. He looked instead like the guy a casino boss might assign to have a word with a card counter or a man the Teamsters might deploy to talk to a trucker who was behind on his dues. He looked, in other words, a lot like his father — and DeMarco’s father had been a hit man for the Italian Mafia.

In response to Hassan’s question, Mahoney made a motion with his head — a little bit of a shake, a little bit of a nod — a motion that could have meant anything, and said, ‘Sorta. When you called, I figured it might be good if Joe sat in on this meeting. He’s a guy who helps out with things around here.’

That was sorta clear as mud, DeMarco thought, and Hassan seemed to think so too.

‘I only ask because-’

‘Joe’s okay, Hassan. Now tell me why you’re here. Is it because the FBI’s hassling your family?’

‘No. I mean we are being hassled — the FBI’s questioned me and my sister and searched our houses — but I don’t need your help with that.’

‘So what is it, son?’ Mahoney said.

‘I want some answers!’ Hassan said, his voice rising. ‘This thing is killing my father. I want to know what really happened.’

‘Answers?’ Mahoney said. Then he added, in a surprisingly gentle voice, ‘Reza was flying the plane, son. There’s no doubt about that.’

‘Sir, I know he flew the plane, but nothing makes any sense. The FBI claims they found links between Reza and al-Qaeda, but they won’t say what they are. The information’s classified, they say. At the same time they’re implying that Reza was working with al-Qaeda, they’re saying he just went crazy because of all the pressure he’d been under lately. And he was under pressure, but he wouldn’t have tried to crash a plane into the White House because money was tight or because he’d lost a few cases in court. And no matter what kind of pressure he was under, he wouldn’t have killed his family! You knew Reza, Mr Mahoney. Can you imagine my brother killing his own children?’

‘Not unless he went off the deep end like the Bureau’s saying,’ Mahoney said.

But DeMarco was thinking, This guy’s the pilot’s brother!

Hassan shook his head. ‘I talked to Reza three days before he … before he died. He was angry about everything going on — this bill of Broderick’s and what happened on Meet the Press — but he didn’t have some kind of nervous breakdown. I don’t care what the FBI says.’

Mahoney just sat there for a moment, not sure what to say. ‘What do you want me to do, Hassie? You know how I feel about your dad, but I can’t change what happened. And you might not like what the Bureau’s saying, but those guys are pretty sharp. And for something this big … well, you know they didn’t do some half-assed investigation.’

‘The Bureau’s wrong!’ Hassan said. Before Mahoney could debate the point, he added, ‘Mr Mahoney, all I want are some answers that make sense. I want to know why this happened. I want to know about these so-called links to al-Qaeda. I want to know why my brother killed his wife and kids. The FBI won’t talk to me, sir — but they’ll talk to you.’

Hassan Zarif left Mahoney’s office a few minutes later, after extracting from the speaker a promise that he would look into Reza’s death. As Hassan was departing to fly back to Boston, Mahoney tried desperately to think of something to say to comfort the man. The best he could come up with was, ‘If that hospital’s not treating your dad right, you let me know.’

And Hassan’s response had been, ‘The doctors can’t do anything for my father, sir. He’s lost his will to live. You’re the only one who can help him.’

After the door had closed behind Hassan, DeMarco said, ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Shit, I don’t know,’ Mahoney said. He poured more bourbon into his glass and took a deep swallow. ‘But I sorta agree with him on a couple things.’

‘Like what?’ DeMarco said.

‘Reza was always a hothead, but I can’t imagine him getting hooked up with terrorists. So I’d like to know myself what this supposed connection is between him and al-Qaeda. And as for killing his family — I mean, you read all the time about some fruitcake deciding he wants to end it all but instead of just shooting himself he takes his whole family or a bunch of strangers with him. Like that wacko down at Virginia Tech. But those kind of people, they usually have a history of mental illness or they’re loners and losers. Reza wasn’t like that.’

DeMarco wasn’t too sure about Reza Zarif’s sanity, but he didn’t say so. Instead he said, ‘But he did kill his family, boss. And it’s like you told Hassan. The FBI’s not staffed with fools, and from everything I’ve read they did a pretty thorough-’

‘Yeah, yeah, I know,’ Mahoney said, sounding tired.

‘So what do you want me to do?’ DeMarco asked again. ‘Go talk to somebody at the Bureau?’

‘I guess. Poke around a little, but keep my name out of it.’

‘Aw, come on,’ DeMarco said. ‘You know the Bureau’s not going to talk to me unless you tell them to.’

Mahoney shook his big head. ‘I go back a long way with Hassan’s father, but the press doesn’t know that yet — and I don’t want ’em to know. I don’t feel like dealing with a bunch of goddamn reporters asking me how come I’m such good pals with a guy whose kid tried to park a plane on the president’s desk. And if I talk to the Bureau, the press’ll find out. So you do some diggin’, but keep my name out of it.’

‘Just how am I supposed to-’

But Mahoney wasn’t listening. He’d already picked up the phone and was punching buttons. It was time for him to make someone else’s life miserable.

4

Mahoney tried to get back to work, to get everybody moving in the right direction on the damn transportation bill, but he couldn’t concentrate. He couldn’t stop thinking about Hassan Zarif’s visit. The other thing nagging at him was he couldn’t help but wonder what impact Reza Zarif’s act would have on Bill Broderick’s cockamamie bill. He finally decided he had to get out of the office to clear his head.

He put on his topcoat, muttered something to his secretary that she didn’t hear, and left the Capitol. He’d been thinking about going for a walk on the National Mall, but when he got outside he realized it was way too cold to be doing that. He’d freeze his fat ass off. Then he saw a U.S. Capitol police car, the cop inside it drinking coffee and reading the Post.

Mahoney rapped a big knuckle on the passenger-side window of the patrol car and the cop jerked in surprise,