Dead on Arrival (21 page)

Upon his return from Boston, DeMarco’s small brain trust once again assembled in Fat Neil’s office to compare notes and report on what they’d learned.

Emma opened the meeting by looking at DeMarco’s bloodshot eyes and saying, ‘You look like hell.’

‘Thank you,’ DeMarco said, and proceeded to give his report. ‘Autopsies on both Rollie Patterson and Donny Cray were inconclusive,’ he said. ‘Rollie had a fresh needle mark in his left thigh, which could have been used to inject some heart-attack-inducing substance into his body. The problem is that Rollie was allergic to everything on the planet except oxygen, and he self-injected to keep from sneezing himself to death. Bottom line, no toxic substances were found in Rollie’s body.’

‘Which means nothing,’ Emma said. ‘I can think of three or four things that could cause a heart attack and not leave a trace.’

DeMarco wondered if Emma had considered using one of those ‘three or four things’ on Christine’s dog, but he didn’t ask.

‘As for Donny Cray,’ he said, ‘the ME’s report noted nothing inconsistent with an idiot not wearing a seat belt and wrecking his car. The problem here is the ME. The guy who did Rollie’s autopsy is supposed to be super good. The one who did Donny Cray’s lives in Winchester, Virginia, and is primar ily a pediatrician. Add that to the fact that Jubal Pugh is a violent character who lives near Winchester. There’s the possibility,
if
Pugh’s involved in this, that he might have influenced the ME’s report.’

‘Do you have any evidence that Pugh is involved?’ Emma said.

‘Absolutely none,’ DeMarco said. ‘Finally, the air marshal. I met with him, and it was like talking to a slab of granite. I know the guy’s planning to retire soon and when I met him he was looking at a powerboat catalog. I think he was tipped off about Youseff being on that plane and paid to blow him away, but nobody’ll ever get it out of him.’

‘Did the air marshal ask to be put on the same flight as Youseff?’ Emma asked.

‘No. I had a guy at Homeland Security ask the same question, and he was told that Blunt had been scheduled for three weeks to be on that flight.’

‘All that means,’ Emma said, ‘is that if someone forced Youseff to attempt the hijacking, they just made sure he got on Blunt’s flight.’

‘I guess,’ DeMarco said. The way his head felt, it was hard to make sense out of anything. ‘What’d you get on Blunt’s and Patterson’s finances, Neil?’

‘Nothing noteworthy, no large changes in either man’s accounts, which in the case of Rollie is problematic because it leaves open the issue of how he was able to buy his new RV.’

‘Both these guys could have been given a bucket of cash,’ Emma said. ‘And if Rollie was still alive, he’d say that he didn’t trust banks and had been saving for years to buy his RV and had been hiding the money under the bed.’

‘So in conclusion,’ DeMarco said, ‘I got shit.’ He almost added:
and the worst hangover of my life, thanks
to the Catholic Church
.

‘I talked to Mustafa Ahmed’s niece,’ Emma said, ‘a sweet girl named Anisa. She wouldn’t tell me anything, but my gut says something happened to her. And I think she was recently garroted.’

‘Garroted?’ DeMarco said. ‘You mean strangled.’

‘Yes, with a wire, a garrote. There was a deep ligature mark around her throat. I gave the girl the name of a Muslim woman who would vouch for me, and I know Anisa called the woman a couple days later, but she never contacted me afterward. So to repeat what Joe just said, I got shit.’

‘What did you learn, Neil?’ DeMarco said.

In a cooler next to his desk, Neil kept Popsicles. He opened the cooler now and pulled a grape Popsicle from the box, taking his time in removing the paper. He just drove DeMarco nuts. As he sucked on his Popsicle, Neil gave his report.

‘Let’s start,’ Neil said, ‘with the good senator, William Broderick. If our assumption is that Broderick is paying somebody to cause these terrorist attacks, an assumption I personally find hard to accept, it would take a lot of money. So in the case of Broderick, I looked for cash outflows: large blocks of stocks liquidated, CDs cashed out, bank accounts substantially reduced, et cetera. I found nothing. The problem, of course, is Broderick could have sold something, like a home or a yacht, and put the cash from the sale in an offshore account or in an account under a false name, and I wouldn’t be able to see it.’

‘Isn’t the property he owns listed on his financial disclosure statements?’ DeMarco said. People above a certain rank and holding certain positions in government are required to file financial disclosure statements that identify investments and sources of income for the person and his spouse. DeMarco, however, wasn’t of sufficient rank or importance to be required to file such a statement, so he didn’t really know what was on one.

‘No,’ Neil said, in answer to DeMarco’s question. ‘Financial disclosure statements are designed, in theory, to see if government officials have sources of income that represent a conflict of interest. In the case of property, you’re required to list assets “held for investment or the production of income.” So a coal mine he’d be required to list, but he might be able to exclude a hunting lodge in Montana. At any rate, regarding Broderick, nada.

‘Next, we have Mr Nicholas Fine,’ Neil said. ‘Although you didn’t ask me to, I decided to take a quick peek at his data. Unlike his boss, Nick appears to be a very bright fellow, magna summa whatever from Princeton, which he attended on scholarship, not having a rich grandpa like Senator Bill. Financially, he’s in okay shape, but he’s not megabucks rich. His net worth is about two million, most of that being the equity in his home.’

‘How’d he make his money?’ DeMarco asked. ‘The Senate gig doesn’t pay that well.’

‘Most of what he has came from real estate deals, buying low and selling high. Bottom line with Fine is that he doesn’t appear to have enough money to finance the kind of venture we’re talking about, and I saw no substantial financial activity in any of his accounts.’

‘What about Broderick’s big contributors? What did you get on them?’

‘I was just getting to that,’ Neil said. ‘And because the good senator’s fans have grown significantly in the last two months, I want you to know that this took some effort.’

‘You’re gonna send me a bill, Neil, so just get on with it,’ DeMarco said.

‘Fine. I’ll spare you the details, but I want you to know that this is why I charge so much. But since you don’t care …’

‘I don’t,’ DeMarco said.

‘Kenneth Dobbler and Edith Baxter,’ Neil said.

‘
The
Edith Baxter?’ Emma said.

‘Who’s Kenneth Dobbler?’ DeMarco said.

Neil chuckled; confusion in others pleased him. ‘We talked earlier about money motives,’ Neil said. ‘You asked: How could anyone make money if Broderick’s bill was to become law? Well, Mr Dobbler has found a way.’

‘Which is?’ DeMarco said.

‘The federal government, as well as state and municipal governments and private companies, spends billions each year doing background checks on employees. They look at credit reports, criminal records, scholastic history, et cetera, et cetera. Mr Dobbler has a company, a profitable one, that does such background checks. Now imagine for a moment if Broderick’s bill were to pass and the government required that a background check be accomplished on every Muslim American. And keep in mind we haven’t even defined what a Muslim American is. One who practices Islam? Someone whose ancestors came from a Muslim country? Someone married to a Muslim?

‘At any rate, according to my trusty almanac there are almost five million Muslims in this country. Now I have no idea how that number was obtained, and I’m willing to bet that it’s low and out of date, but just for the fun of it, let’s say we’re going to do background checks on five million people. A background check performed on federal employees for a very basic security clearance can take up to eight hours. Now throw in the need to check people for overseas connections, connections in places like Saudi Arabia and Iran and Pakistan and you can triple the hours, which I think would be conservative. And then we’ll assume that Mr Dobbler’s company charges a mere sixty dollars an hour, which is less than most plumbers charge and, based on my experience, less than what other government contractors typically bill. But let’s just use sixty bucks an hour for the sake of argument and multiply that number by twenty-four hours and multiply the product by five million people.’ Neil paused. ‘That’s seven point two billion dollars. That’s
billion
, with a B.’

‘Holy shit,’ DeMarco said.

‘Oui,’ Neil said. ‘Even if Dobbler had to share a seven-billion-dollar contract with other companies, he’d still be looking at millions – maybe hundreds of millions – in profit.’

‘But what makes Dobbler think he’ll get the contract for doing the screening?’ DeMarco said.

‘Connections, of course, connections to people like Bill Broderick, to whom he contributes. But, to be fair, Dobbler does have extensive experience at this sort of work and his company is reportedly very good at what it does.’

‘Yeah,’ Emma said, ‘but is Dobbler the sort of person who would have Reza Zarif’s family killed to get a contract?’

‘That I don’t know,’ Neil said. ‘On the surface he just appears to be a shrewd businessman, not a criminal. But he does have the money motive that Joe was looking for.’

‘What about Edith Baxter?’ DeMarco said. ‘Why’s she supporting Broderick? I can’t imagine that she’s interested in some contract to perform background checks, and she sure as hell doesn’t need the money.’

Even DeMarco knew who Edith Baxter was. She was the poster girl for American businesswomen. She’d been the CEO of three Fortune 500 com panies, two of which she’d been brought in to save when the companies had been on the brink of bankruptcy. She was one of the big boys, commanding compensation packages – meaning salary and stock options and various costly perks – in excess of a hundred million a year. She’d had her picture on the cover of
Time
magazine twice and she was one of the people the chairman of the Federal Reserve called when he was looking for advice from the private sector.

Before Neil could answer DeMarco’s question, Emma said, ‘I think I know why she’s supporting Broderick’s bill, but are you sure about this, Neil?’

‘Of course I’m sure,’ Neil said, offended that his research would be questioned. ‘She’s the biggest financial backer that Bill Broderick has, and she hasn’t been the least bit subtle about how she’s been giving him money. And—’

‘But why’s she supporting him?’ DeMarco asked again.

‘Because of her son,’ Emma said.

‘Her son?’

‘Edith was married once,’ Emma said, ‘and she had a son from that marriage. His name was Craig Devon; the boy kept his father’s name. As you can imagine, with Edith’s career, she wasn’t a stay-at-home mom. I suspect she was around very little when her son was young, and when she and Craig’s father divorced, he got custody of the kid and Edith paid child support. At any rate, Craig was in Madrid when Muslim terrorists blew up the trains. His wife and daughter, Edith’s granddaughter, were killed, and Craig Devon lost an arm, both legs, and an eye.’

‘Jesus,’ DeMarco said.

‘But he didn’t die. They brought him back to the States and he was hospitalized for over three years, one operation after another, setbacks due to infection and transplant rejections and everything else that could possibly go wrong. When they finally allowed him to go home with his titanium legs and a hook for a hand and a patch over his eye and somebody else’s liver, he took a pistol in his good hand and killed himself.’

Fat Neil didn’t drink, at least he didn’t drink beverages that contained alcohol. But Emma, after hearing about Edith Baxter’s connection to Broderick, decided she needed a drink, so she and DeMarco left Neil’s office and drove into Georgetown. Emma was quiet as they drove, still thinking about Edith and her son.

DeMarco cruised around for a while trying to find a place to park – it’s easier to find a virgin in a whorehouse than street parking in Georgetown – until Emma finally snapped at him and told him to park in a lot, one that charged ten bucks an hour. Emma had a money-be-damned attitude when she wasn’t paying.

They went to Clyde’s, DeMarco’s favorite bar on M Street, and took a seat, and Emma ordered a Ketel One martini. When the waitress asked what DeMarco wanted, he hesitated. After a night spent drinking with a priest, could his liver stand any more? Yes, he concluded; hair of the dog, he told himself, and duplicated Emma’s order.

Emma sighed. ‘I’ve met Edith Baxter. She’s an incredible woman.’

‘How did you meet her?’

‘
Fortune
sponsored a most-powerful-women-in-business thing. They held it at the Four Seasons in Palm Springs, and Edith, of course, was the biggest name at the conference. It was a networking orgy, all these powerful women getting together, meeting each other, and hopefully in the future helping one another and the women they were mentoring.’

‘And
you
went to this conference?’

‘Yeah,’ Emma said. ‘It was the only thing like that I ever attended. The people who arranged the event wanted a few women from government but not just politicians. I was at the end of my career at the DIA, had no pressing assignments, and the secretary of defense made me go. It was kinda funny. They printed up a little brochure for the conference that gave the attendees’ biographies. All mine said was that I worked at the DIA and everything else was classified. Anyway, I met Edith. She’s incredibly intelligent, principled, tough, driven, courageous. For some reason …’

Emma may not have realized it, DeMarco was thinking, but she’d just described herself.

‘… for some reason we took a shine to each other and had dinner alone one night. I really liked her.’

‘From what I’ve read about her,’ DeMarco said, ‘even with what happened to her son, it’s hard to believe she’d be supporting Broderick.’

Emma shook her head. ‘Imagine you’re a mother and your only son – a son you’ve probably neglected his entire life – is horribly disfigured. Then for months and months you watch him suffer as he recovers, knowing he’ll never be the same again. And then he kills himself. Don’t you think it’s possible you might be driven almost out of your mind with guilt and grief and hatred?’

‘I guess, but hatred for whom?’ DeMarco said. ‘Al-Qaeda? All Muslims? Lunatics who bomb trains?’

Emma plucked the lemon twist from her martini and nibbled off a piece. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘but let’s say Edith decided to do something to avenge her son. And being Edith Baxter, she thinks
big
. She thinks she’s going to make life miserable for every Muslim in this country and she’s going to deport every one she can who’s already here and not allow any more to come in. She’s going to do her best to make sure that no other mother experiences what happened to her son. No more towers collapsing, no more planes crashing into the Pentagon, no more subway bombings.

‘And this thing with Broderick, this bill of his, maybe that’s just the first step. Maybe the next step is … hell, I don’t know. Maybe it’s crippling economic sanctions against every Muslim government. Maybe it’s getting the European Union to pass laws similar to what Broderick’s proposing.’

‘That’s a hell of an ambitious plan,’ DeMarco said.

‘Edith made her mark in the world executing ambitious plans.’

‘But Jesus, if you’re right, she was an accomplice to killing a couple of kids.’

‘There’s nothing to show she’s had anything to do with these terrorist attacks,’ Emma said. ‘All she’s done is support Broderick. But Edith lost
her
kid. Maybe she considers what happened to Reza Zarif’s family the price that has to be paid to get what she wants. Or maybe she …’

‘What?’

‘We’re still missing something here – assuming that
anything
we’ve learned is connected to anything. If somebody is forcing these people to commit acts of terrorism, there has to be an organizer, somebody who’s doing the detailed planning, arranging for the equipment. And neither Edith Baxter nor – and I’m guessing here – this businessman, Dobbler, has that sort of … of
field
experience.’

‘Jubal Pugh?’ DeMarco said.

‘No. Pugh’s too much of a bottom feeder. He’s a
meth
dealer, for Christ’s sake. If someone is orchestrating these attacks, it has to be someone a lot more sophisticated than Jubal Pugh. That doesn’t mean that Pugh isn’t involved, but there has to be someone else.’

DeMarco drained his drink. ‘So what do you wanna do?’ he said.

‘I want to talk to Edith Baxter.’

‘Why? Do you think she’ll
tell
you she’s behind all this stuff?’

‘I don’t know, but I need to see her.’

‘Okay. You go see Edith and I’ll go see Dobbler. I like money motives.’