Dead on Arrival by Mike Lawson Read Free Book Online Page A

rapped a big knuckle on the passenger-side window of the patrol car and the cop jerked in surprise, almost spilling his coffee. Then he saw it was Mahoney, and his lips moved in a silent Oh, shit!
    The cop powered down the window. ‘Yes, sir, Mr Speaker,’ he said.
    ‘Hey,’ Mahoney said, ‘how ’bout givin’ me a lift someplace?’
    Now the cop knew he wasn’t supposed to be Mahoney’s chauffeur, and Mahoney knew he wasn’t supposed to ask the cop to drive him – but the cop was afraid to say no and Mahoney wasn’t afraid to impose on anyone.
    ‘Uh, sure,’ the cop said, and Mahoney got into the front seat of the patrol car.
    ‘Where to, sir?’ the cop asked, transitioning effortlessly into his new job.
    ‘Tell you what,’ Mahoney said. ‘How ’bout takin’ a slow spin around the Mall? I just gotta clear my head. Politicians … shit, they make my brain ache some days.’
    ‘You got it, sir,’ the cop said.
    Mahoney lit a cigar, was kind enough to crack a window in deference to the other man’s lungs, and then sat back and reflected on the political phenomenon named William Broderick.
    A year ago, it would have been difficult to find a dozen Americans outside the state of Virginia who’d ever heard of the damn guy. And even three months ago, only 23 percent of all Virginians could name their newly elected representative to the U.S. Senate. But in the last two months, since Broderick had introduced his dumb-ass bill on the Senate floor, his name had become known to virtually every American who could read a paper or turn on a television.
    It was a fluke that Broderick was even in the Senate. His predecessor had been a flamboyant egomaniac by the name of John Wingate whom Mahoney had sometimes admired but more frequently detested. Wingate had served in the Senate for forty-one years and then died suddenly and unexpectedly six weeks before the last election. At the time of Wingate’s death, Broderick had been running for a seat in the House, and there was considerable doubt that he would have been able to beat the incumbent. But when God created a senate vacancy by way of a well-timed stroke, the Republican bosses put Broderick’s name on the ballot – and he won. As there had been little time for his constituents to get to know him, all Mahoney could figure was that the majority of Virginians preferred a Republican they’d barely heard of to any Democrat running.
    Mahoney glanced out the window to his right, at the Federal Court House, and saw two cameras pointed at a guy in a suit. Someone was holding a press conference. He wondered which lawyer, prosecutor or defender, was telling lies today.
    Why Broderick had been chosen by his party was not totally clear to Mahoney. He knew Broderick had served briefly as an aide to that gasbag Wingate, he’d spent some time in the Virginia state legislature, and eight years ago he’d been a largely invisible one-term lieutenant governor. But that was about it, as far as Mahoney knew. The man certainly hadn’t cast an impressive shadow on the political landscape.
    But Broderick did have money, and quite a bit of it. His granddaddy had owned coal mines at a time when those pesky unions hadn’t been strong enough to insist that miners be paid a living wage for their dangerous labors. When Grandpa died he passed on his loot to his only son, and then Broderick’s father died at an early age and passed it on to Bill and his two brothers.
    The car was passing the National Archives. Mahoney was aware that on the other side of the building was a statue of a lady seated in a chair, and chiseled into stone at the base of the statue were the words WHAT IS PAST IS PROLOGUE . The sentiment was Shakespeare’s, from The Tempest . Mahoney had no idea what the words meant in relationship to the play, but they were certainly appropriate to the seat of government.
    Broderick had gotten considerable ink the last couple of months, so Mahoney knew something about the man’s