John said, “My name is John Trader. I got a message that you wanted to talk to a DA. Do you have a lawyer?”
“I don’t have a lawyer,” replied Madani.
“Have you been assigned a Public Defender?”
“They tried to give me a Public Defender, but I told them I did not want one. I have friends who have had Public Defenders and my friends tell me they are nothing but trouble, and not to trust them. I’ve seen enough TV to know the only people I might be able to trust are D.A.’s. Listen, I haven’t got time for this legal bullshit. I’m American and I'm Iranian and I have a problem and you do too.”
“Get to your point. No promises here.”
“My father came here in ’85. He is old school Muslim. I used to go to the Mosque occasionally but I’m just not into the strict Muslim stuff. I don’t go at all since I started college. Why should I wait for 72 virgins in heaven when I can have them now on a Saturday night after a few beers? If God is such a strict guy, why do we have alcohol, hot chicks with wild ass libidos, and football schedules that conflict with evening prayer?”
“I’m not here to talk about your social calendar. What is it you want to talk about?” said John.
“There is some kind bombing planned. It is some kind of attack that is going to kill a lot of people. You got to stop it,” said Madani.
“How do you know that?” asked John.
“My father supports those radical groups. Every year a few of them would visit us, talk to us, and try to bring us along to be martyrs.”
“Who is ‘us’?” asked John.
“My brother and me,” replied Madani. “You remember that guy that blew up the basement of the Federal building four years ago?”
“They never figured out who the guy was,” said John.
“That was my brother.”
“Oh, shit,” thought John. “This is over my head.”
“They want me to bomb something. I don't know what, but I think they want me to go the way my brother did. They always talk about martyrs and I don't want to be a martyr. I tried to take off, but these Iranian goons took me. I tried to get away and they shot me. That's how I caught the bullet,” said Omid.
“When is this attack you’re talking about?” asked John.
“I don’t know, but Tuesday night there is a meeting at my Dad’s house with the Imam who is supposed to be my contact. I am supposed to be there. I don’t know what my role is, but I can assure you it is not pretty. He goes by the name of Darby Rhodes. I don’t know his Iranian name, but he has been to my house and spoke to me and my brother at least once a year for the last seven or eight years.”
“Today is Tuesday,” said John.
“You lose track of time in jail. It is tonight,” said Madani.
“What does he look like?” asked John.
“What do you think he looks like? He’s Iranian. He looks like an Iranian. Nothing special. He dresses in suits. He’s about forty five and looks like he is in fairly good physical condition. He speaks Farsi and perfect English. He is smooth and persuasive. He scares me.”
“I’ll see what I can do. I’ll get back with you.”
“You got to get back with me right away. You can’t let me out yet.”
“I will get with you.”
John got up and opened the interview room door. He signaled to the deputy that the interview was over. He waited at the elevator. When the door opened he got in, and put up his index finger. He considered putting up his middle finger, but thought better of it. John needed to know more. How did he know this guy was telling the truth? Madani could be crazier than a loon, trying to cover his tracks to get out of a tough situation where he is accused of having a loaded gun, complicated by a cartridge in the van from a gun other than the one he had in his possession. John got back to the office and called up the file on Madani’s charge. He reviewed the file and copied the address of his college dorm and his emergency contact. He named his father as the emergency contact and gave his address. He copied down the address.
After work he went home, brewed some coffee, grabbed his binoculars, changed into his jeans and parka and drove to the address of Madani’s emergency contact. It was late in the evening. He parked down the street, poured himself a hot cup of Peet’s coffee, and watched the house. Lights were on in the house. He didn’t expect anything, but he had to determine if what Madani was telling him was anywhere near the truth. John waited for two hours when he saw light in the front doorway as the door was opened. Three men appeared on the porch. John reached for his binoculars. One man went back into the house and closed the door. The two others walked to a black Ford parked on the street. John watched it all through the binoculars. The man who went back into the house was fifty years old or more. He sported a trimmed salt and pepper beard, with a receding hairline, and had a noticeable paunch. “That’s dad,” thought John. Of the two men who walked to the car, one was dressed in a blazer and a sport shirt. He too had a well-trimmed beard. The other man was obviously Darby, if it were true that Darby was there. He was dressed in a dark suit with a white shirt and tie. He was clean shaven and definitely had Middle Eastern features. He was a good looking man who probably was a ladies man outside of Iran, and he walked with an air of worldly confidence and superiority as he got in the door of the car that had been opened for him by the other man. John had an uneasy feeling he had seen the man before, or had a premonition that their paths would sometime cross in the future. John copied down the car license plate.
CHAPTER TWENTY
DANIELLE
“The rose blooms when encouraged by light.” -Anonymous
“Flowers are the Romeos and Juliets of nature.”
--Mehmet Murat Ildan
“Good morning, Mr. Trader. I think we left off talking about Placido Domingo,” said the Doctor. “I noticed that your relationships you have told me about so far have had an element of music attached. Would you consider that a consistent quality?”
“No,” answered Trader. “Sometimes it was sex and food. But those lady friends were not so memorable, although they sure were fun.”
“Well, tell me where you would like to go this morning. Although music may not be a necessary part of your past, I can see some patterns that help define some issues.”
John replied, “I think women are terrific. It is a natural relationship men have with women you can’t help but fall into. Sometimes, unfortunately, you fall out of them too. I mean, look on any street, go to any movie, go to Safeway, or Target, or the football game, or church and you see couples. A man and a woman together, just living. At Christmas family couples get together. I remember my mom at Christmas asking if I was going to bring my girlfriend to dinner, even when I didn’t have one. It is just expected that you will have a woman next to you. Women are warm. You can be intimate with a woman in a way you can’t be with a man. Women teach you things about being compassionate, intimate, and civilized. I had a friend in school who told me that women keep men civilized. You even said that earlier, and I guess it’s probably true. Without a woman, most guys would drink beer, never shave and hang out in wife-beater shirts.”
“Yes, John, but there are gay couples who say they have close and personal relationships.”
“I have some gay couple friends. I have known them for a long time,” said John. “But when I look into their eyes there is a vacancy sign hanging out. When you look into their eyes there is something missing. I don’t know what it is, but it is not a warm gaze I see, like the warmth I could see in Danielle’s eyes.”
“Tell me about Danielle.”
“Danielle was someone I met while on duty in Alabama, Naval Reserve Training Center in Mobile. I first bumped into her while she was shopping at the produce section of a Whole Foods store. I was looking at the Brussels sprouts and I heard a voice say, ‘Brussels sprouts are very good for you.’ Her voice was low, and she had that Alabama accent that sounded like honey, if honey could have a sound. I turned in the direction of the voice
and told her, ‘I know, but I don’t know how to cook them.’ I could see where the voice was coming from. She had curly long, almost black hair, and she was several inches shorter than me. She had a body to die for and a smile that beamed and eyes that were pools of bright lights. I just about melted right there. We chatted for a moment. She told me how to steam the Brussels sprouts in her slow and delicious southern accent, and I told her it was nice talking to her. But really, it was wonderful listening to her. Whenever she got married, she would never say to her husband, ‘You never listen to what I say.’ I went shopping at that store twice a week after that, about the same time of day, and I spent a lot of time in produce.” John paused for a moment.
“What happened after that, John?”
“I did see her again,” said John. “I was pushing my cart with things in it I probably didn’t need, and I saw her headed my way. I said something lame like, ‘Fancy meeting you here.’ I told her I cooked the sprouts exactly as she told me and that they were really good. I asked her if she would like a coffee after she checked out. I don’t know what we talked about, but I do remember that she had a feminine magnetism that was quietly overpowering. We met quite a few times after that, and every time I had a nervousness, afraid that being around this flower of a woman would end when the movie, or dinner, or cup of coffee with her was over. And I didn’t want any of them to end. She made me feel that I could be valuable to her, and I wanted to have value to her. I didn’t know how to do that. She did tell me one day how to do that. It was her birthday and I brought her some flowers. I got to the door and I said, ‘Here are some flowers’. She looked at them and said, ‘Thank you, John.’ She turned and walked into her home and I followed. Later that evening, she said, ‘John, I am going to tell you how to give flowers to a woman.’ She got the flowers, brought them to me, reached out in my direction and said, ‘These flowers are for you, John. I love you.’
“I immediately got it. I have given flowers to women after that, just like Danielle told me. And it works. It makes something happen. Why didn’t I know that? Why did this warm and beautiful woman have to teach me something that should be obvious?”
“Yes, obvious.”
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
THE CONVERSATION
“How easy it is, treachery. You just slide into it.”
― Margaret Atwood, The Year of the Flood
The image of Danielle lingered after his session from that morning when he arrived at his desk. He hung up his overcoat and walked over to Tom’s cubicle. It hadn’t changed. Files were hanging from the credenza; his desk was almost wild in its disorder.
“Tom,” asked John, “how do you keep track of all these files?”
“It’s all right here.” Tom pointed to his head. “Also, the files come in and out so quickly, I don’t have a chance to forget any of them.” Tom paused. “I see you have had a few misdemeanor trials with some success. Looks good. Is there something you have for me this morning?”
John told him about his call to the jail, after which he reread the police report where Madani was brought to jail with a bullet wound, and a loaded gun with bullets that did not match the one taken from his chest. John said, “I thought he might be trying to cover himself for the crime, or maybe he was a bit mentally off-center, but that night I went to his house, and some Middle Eastern guy matching the description by Madani came out of the house. For all I know the guy could have been an insurance salesman, but he went into the back of a car, the car door was opened for him, and was driven away. It seemed he might be somebody who was important. I got the license plate and figured I would tell you.”
Tom said, “I don’t think in this day and age we can take the chance that it is nothing but mentally unbalanced talk. Give me the plate number. When you get a chance, go back to the jail with a follow-up visit. Find out everything you can about how he was shot, who shot him, what happened when he was shot, what is the location of where he was shot, and why was he shot, and ask him an open question, if you need to, such as, ‘What is this all about?’ Got it?”
“Yes sir, I understand,” replied John.
“After this gumshoe stuff, you’re going to want to become a cop,” said Tom.
“No way,” replied Tom. “I don’t want to have to carry a gun.”
That afternoon John walked again to the jail. This time he knew the procedure. “Hi, there, Mr. Trader,” said the same deputy from the day before. “You want to talk to the same guy?”
“Right,” answered John.
“Done,” said the deputy.
John got out of the elevator at the third floor and stood behind the line in front of the interview rooms. A few moments later Madani came out, shackled as he had been before, his head down. When signaled by the deputy he entered the interview room.
“What is going on?” asked Madani.
John replied, “I spoke to my boss and we need a little more information. You were brought here with a bullet wound, and a loaded gun. The bullet inside you did not match the gun you had. You were driving a van with no traceable owner. What’s going on?” he repeated. “What happened that you got shot?”
“These two guys came to my school. They waited outside my dorm in a van. When I came back from my first classes that morning they opened the side door van and stopped me. They spoke to me in Farsi and told me to get into the van. I asked them, ‘Why?’ They said the Imam instructed them. I knew what it was about. I had met with Imams and other Iranian guys for years. They drilled into my head that one day I may be called upon to sacrifice for Islam. So I’m thinking, fine, I’ll write a check. But I finally figured it out a few years ago when they came and spoke to my older brother. A few days later a bomb went off in the basement of the Federal building. I think it was my brother. My father never spoke about my brother again. He said he had gone and would not be back. When these thugs showed up, I got real scared. This martyr thing got very real for me very fast. I’m no martyr. I drink beer, chase girls, and hardly ever go home. I am about to graduate. I have been interviewing for jobs. So I said to them, ‘No way guys. I’m not doing this.’ One guy raised a gun at me with a really long barrel and said for me to get in. I told them I did not want to be a martyr and I started to back up. Then I heard a small pop, and I knew I was shot. Man, it hurt. They dragged me into the van. I was a bit out of it, but I heard them say they had to get me fixed. Then they stopped and picked up some guy in hospital clothes. I think he was a Doctor. The next thing I knew I was in a house and the Doctor was causing me a lot pain. Then he said that he had sewn me up, but I needed to go to a hospital. I was glad when he said I would live, but then one of the guys put a gun to this Doctor’s head and shot him. I figured I was dead. I tried to get up. The guy with the gun came over to me as I tried to sit up. He put his hands on my upper arms and told me to lie down. I reached with my left hand and grabbed his right hand that had the gun in it. I held his hand, and the gun, in some way I can't even remember, and the gun we were fighting over fired and I heard the pop. The gun was pointed to the other Iranian guy when it went off, and he got shot, and I think he was dead. Me and the guy I was struggling with stopped for a second. I guess we were both stunned. Then I heard another pop from across the room, and the struggle with the guy I was tangled up with stopped, and the guy went limp and fell to the floor. I looked over and the Doctor with the hole in his head, and he had the gun in his hand pointed in my direction. I guess he got the gun from the guy who was shot by his partner. Then the doctor just fell backwards on the floor. Neither one of the Iranian enforcers were moving. I took the gun from the Doctor and got the keys from the thug who was driving the van. I tried to help the Doctor up so we could get out of there. He didn’t say anything, but he could stumble when I helped him out of the house. I put the Doctor in the van and we drove off. A few minutes later the Doctor told me to let him out, so I let him out. He didn’t look too good. I drove for a little more, and the cops stopped me.”
“Where did you let the Do
ctor out of the van?” asked John.
“I don’t know, but it was no more than five minutes from the house.”
“Where were you headed when you were stopped by the cops?” asked John.
“I don’t know. I just wanted to get out of there,” replied Madani.
“Where is the house?” asked John.
“It is on Dexter, between 91st and 92nd. It had blue trim around the front windows. You can’t miss it. But I’m sure they are gone by now, one way or the other.”
“Did you recognize the two Iranians who shot you?” asked John.
“No.” replied Madani. “But they weren’t Americans. They had a thick Middle Eastern accent when they spoke English.”
“Could you recognized them if you saw them again?” asked John.
“Sure, but there was nothing special about them, no missing ears or eye patches,” said Madani.
“Again, what was the name of the guy who went to your home last night?” asked John.
Madani looked at John, and the hint of a smile crossed his face. “So you went last night to check out my story. Now you know. They are probably out looking for me right now. They guy’s name is Darby Rhodes. Just so you know, that is not an Iranian name.”
“I’ll get back with you.” John got up and left the jail.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
O’REILLY
Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy which sustained him through temporary periods of joy.
---W.B. Yeats
O'Reilly was the lead Detective in the Homicide unit. He had been in the Homicide unit for ten years, after spending some time in burglary unit and then the assault unit. Of the homicide detectives he had the most time in the unit. Others had moved in, then up to administration. He was not interested in administration and found the dogged approach to solving killings was a challenge. He had the required patience, and with some intuition, success. He wasn't the most talented or the brightest of homicide detectives, but for ten years he had been the most successful. He liked that he was successful. Now he was investigating the murder of the small time drug dealer, George Chavez. He interviewed Marty. O'Reilly had Marty as a witness. Marty could identify Zelaya as the trigger man, but the case did not have a body. Without a body a homicide was almost impossible to prove. George Chavez's body was nowhere to be found. O'Reilly had only a part of the body, and it was in liquid form, which was Chavez's blood. He also did not have a weapon. And the blood was not conclusive that there was even a murder, only an injury of some kind. O'Reilly had no weapon, no body, and no case. Although Marty said the victim's head was blown away, Marty was not the Medical Examiner. It might have been sufficient evidence to get an indictment for another kind of felony, but not murder. He needed a weapon. He had to search Zelaya and his home. O'Reilly thought he had probable cause for a search warrant, but he did not want to execute a search warrant, since the affidavit would identify the evidence that the police had in his case, and the witness. If that happened, Marty would be in danger. He picked up the phone and called the State Parole Board. After ten minutes and three transfers he finally reached a person who was identified as Zelaya's Parole officer.
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