by Joseph Flynn
Before she could do any of that, she heard a man shout at the rear of the building.
Then came a yelp, followed by the sounds of a fight.
Sweetie rushed out to investigate.
Inigo de Loyola had found an agreeable resting place in the lee of a Dumpster behind the white brick building. He’d had a moment of misgiving when he spotted a low-watt light on in a ground-floor window. He pressed himself up against the wall and took a quick peek through the window. What he saw not only reassured him, it pleased him.
Inside the building was a man sleeping on a sofa, his head on a pillow, his hands resting on his abdomen. He might have been laid to eternal rest, given his absolute stillness, but morticians as a rule did not leave a smile on the lips of the dearly beloved. Nor did they provide music to accompany them on their way to judgment.
Now, being as immobile as the man inside, de Loyola could hear the strains of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.” Qué exquisito. How delightful. The Jesuit was rarely afforded a lullaby as he lay down to sleep. He ducked under the window and moved to far side of the Dumpster.
Should he begin to snore, as he’d been told he sometimes did, the trash receptacle would muffle the sound, keep the sleeper inside from being disturbed. De Loyola found a corner of the Dumpster and the building into which he might snug himself. Better yet, he detected no odor of discarded food coming from the Dumpster. The scavengers would be busy elsewhere.
Just before he lay down, the Jesuit’s curiosity got the better of him. Such was the curse of the inquisitive mind. What was the trash bin used for if not unwanted portions of takeout meals? He thought perhaps he should know. As much for his own safety as anything else, he rationalized.
Another dim light, anchored in a screened fixture, provided adequate illumination for him to see what the Dumpster held. He eased the lid open, praying it would not squeak and raise an alarm from any quarter. What he found was large mounds of … confetti?
Shredded paper, in any event. Not having a blanket to call his own, de Loyola wondered if the paper might insulate him from a night that was growing chilly. He would, of course, return the shreds of paper to their proper place in the morning. He had never been one to abuse a host’s hospitality.
He leaned the lid of the Dumpster against the building and grabbed two large armloads of paper from its interior. He looked at his haul and mentally compared it to his height. Perhaps one more harvest, he thought, so he could snuggle in up to his chin.
He dug deep to make sure he’d seized a sufficient amount and saw something new. A leather valise, he thought. A carrying bag of some sort. Dark brown leather that gleamed in the soft light. Not a blemish on it. Round as if filled with … what?
Goose down perhaps? The perfect pillow to go with his new blanket.
De Loyola dug it out, marveled at the smooth suppleness of the leather. The valise was a work of truly fine craftsmanship. Much too nice to be thrown away. He pressed a hand against it, hoping to guess what it might hold. The closest he could come was another cloud of paper.
As penance for his relentless curiosity, he decided he would not look inside the valise until he rose at dawn. In the meantime, he would enjoy sleeping in his unexpectedly fine bed, hope that the soft strains of classical music would continue and ease him into slumber.
He arranged the shredded paper to his liking, positioned the bag as his pillow and was about to lie down when a large man stepped around the corner of the building. He looked at de Loyola and then the leather bag.
He yelled, “Hey!”
Then he advanced on de Loyola, a knife now in his hand.
The Jesuit knew from hard experience this was not how the police went about their business. Not in America, anyway. The expression on the man’s face said de Loyola had committed a mortal sin in finding the valise and claiming it for his pillow. Now, he would pay with his life.
The man with the knife had also made a grave mistake.
He’d underestimated his opponent.
Jesuits were the traditional soldiers of the Lord.
The order’s founder, Inigo’s namesake, had once been a knight.
De Loyola had borne arms, too. He kicked the knife out of the man’s hand. The man cried out in pain but did not halt his advance. The two of them exchanged a flurry of blows, kicks and on de Loyola’s part a good bite that drew blood from the man’s jowls.
That made him howl.
Then the rear door of the building opened and an angel appeared.
Or so it seemed to de Loyola.
She was tall and strong. The soft light from above made her golden hair glow. A look of righteous anger filled her eyes. De Loyola dropped to his knees and clasped his hands to his chest, thinking judgment was near. The man who had attacked him turned and ran.
It was then the Jesuit noticed the angel had a gun in her hand.
Being called away from family and home had become a far less frequent occurrence for McGill since he’d opened his private business. It had happened frequently during his early years as a Chicago cop. Wondering if he’d come home alive and unhurt had contributed to the fears of his first wife, Carolyn, that eventually led to their divorce.
McGill was not without sympathy for Carolyn, but the role of protector was in his blood. He and Carolyn made their separation as free of recrimination as possible, using the same lawyer, for the sake of their children, Abbie, Kenny and Caitie.
The irony was, not long after the dissolution of their marriage, McGill made the jump in rank to lieutenant and then captain. He became an administrator, leaving street work behind. After putting in his twenty years with the CPD and receiving his master’s degree in criminal justice administration, he became chief of police in the gilded North Shore suburb of Winnetka, Illinois.
Violent crime was rare indeed there, until Andrew Hudson Grant, billionaire philanthropist and first husband of Patricia Darden Grant, was murdered by an antiabortion extremist. McGill arrested the culprit within twenty-four hours.
Wound up marrying the woman who became the first female president.
Talk about things that were meant to be.
Leaving the White House with Secret Service Special Agent Deke Ky and Leo Levy, his personal driver, McGill felt almost young again. He was running out into the dark of night, answering Sweetie’s call to come see what she’d caught lurking out back of their office.
Knowing his longtime partner in law enforcement, the detainee might be anyone from an angel with a dirty face to R.W. Fisher, the FBI’s most wanted man, formerly known as public enemy number one. Sweetie was an all-purpose ex-cop.
When McGill, Deke and Leo hurried into the offices on P Street each of them had his gun in hand. All of them were brought up short by a sign affixed to the door of McGill’s office.
Don’t knock. Confession in Progress.
Deke, ever the skeptic, said, “Could be a fake-out.”
Leo said, “Don’t think so. Margaret could get O.J. to ‘fess up.”
A contention yet to be proved, but one McGill thought possible.
He said, “Let’s give it a minute. Deke, you cover the back of the building. Leo, you take the front.”
“Chase the bad guy, if he gets into his wheels?” Leo asked.
Leo had been a NASCAR driver before going to work for McGill.
McGill nodded.
Then he had to wait five minutes before the door to his office opened.
Sweetie smiled at him. Looked peaceful. Radiant, even.
“You’re okay?” he asked. “You look okay.”
“Fresh from confession,” she said.
That backed McGill up a step. Sweetie had given her confession, hadn’t taken one? That had to mean … “You grabbed a priest?”
Sweetie gestured someone forward. A distinguished-looking man in resale shop clothing stepped forward. He looked at McGill, nodded and smiled.
McGill half-expected to receive a blessing.
Sweetie introduced the two men.
>
McGill said, “You were named for a saint?”
“So many of us are,” de Loyola said. “You yourself, for example.”
“Got me there,” McGill admitted. “If not to the same extent as you.”
Sweetie said, “Father de Loyola was praying for you earlier tonight, Jim.”
McGill understood his role now. He was Sweetie’s foil.
The priest’s, too.
“With any particular result?” he asked de Loyola.
“As it happens, I chose to make my bed behind your building tonight.”
“Purely by circumstance,” McGill said.
“That or divine guidance, depending on your degree of faith.”
“Fair enough,” McGill said. “Now, can we get to the good part?”
Sweetie said, “Father de Loyola found a leather bag left in the Dumpster out back. In it, there was a note addressed to you by name. The note’s message was ‘paid in full.’ There was also a half-million dollars in the bag.”
McGill stepped past Sweetie and de Loyola. Took the seat behind his desk. Thought about the implications of the discovery. Patti had warned him that dirty tricks would be coming. The money might have traces of drug residue on it. It might be the proceeds of a robbery. Or it might be counterfeit. It had to be incriminating in some way.
Then someone would be alerted to the money’s existence.
Newsies, cops or both.
Wouldn’t that be fun for Patti at the start of her second term?
De Loyola took a step toward McGill.
He said, “I can see you are troubled, sir. If it would be of any help to you, I would like to claim this money as my own.”
McGill called the feds and the local cops. SAC Elspeth Kendry, as the Secret Service had the responsibility of investigating counterfeit money, if that was what it was. Captain Rockelle Bullard of the Metro PD was called to investigate the assault of Father de Loyola, and to look into the matter of making sure he was who he claimed to be.
For just a moment, Sweetie looked disconcerted by the idea that she might have bared her soul to a con-man. She shook off her doubt. She knew better than to be taken in on a matter of faith. De Loyola was the real thing, a priest.
On the outs with the church hierarchy, as he freely admitted.
The Jesuit had been taken to George Washington University Hospital to be given a physical examination, in case he’d bitten into someone toxic. He’d be kept overnight for observation and in the morning Elspeth and Rockelle would decide if he should be detained further.
“What about his claim on the money?” the Metro police captain asked McGill.
“He found it. I don’t want it,” McGill said. “If you want to be mean about things, I suppose you could consult legal counsel. Lawyers’ fees could eat up the whole amount in short order.”
Sweetie shook her head. “You know what? I say not only is the money real, it won’t have any traces of drugs on it and it won’t have come from any heist. Won’t be funny money either.”
“Your rationale being?” McGill asked.
“If the money was connected to any obvious criminal activity, it would be that much harder for anyone to believe you were connected to it. If it’s clean, it’d be easier for people to accept you were taking a kickback for something. You’d deny it, but that would only reinforce doubts.”
Elspeth nodded. “I can buy that.”
“Me, too,” Rockelle said. “If we’re right, you got somebody smart after you.”
McGill shook his head. He didn’t need this crap.
“Turning the money in to the police isn’t enough to clear me?” he asked.
Sweetie said, “For us, sure. People who don’t like you could say you just got cold feet.”
McGill asked, “When is Putnam getting back to town?”
Putnam Shady had acted as McGill’s lawyer at a Congressional hearing.
“I’ll call him,” Sweetie said. “He’ll be on the first plane.”
“Thank you.” McGill got to his feet. “If no one wants to arrest me, I’m going home.”
He needed to talk to Patti. Galia, too.
Start planning the counteroffensive.
That gave McGill an idea. He sat down again.
He asked Sweetie, “You think you could see who comes to pick up the trash in the morning? Whoever scripted this plan needs someone to discover the ill-gotten cash and raise a ruckus.”
Sweetie nodded. She was on McGill’s wavelength as usual.
She said, “After the pickup man sees the money is gone, he can’t say, ‘Hey look what I found out behind Jim McGill’s office.’ So I can follow him back to whoever hired him.”
“With a little help from the guys,” McGill said. He turned to Deke and Leo, “You guys up for that?”
Deke nodded. Leo gave a thumbs up.
Rockelle Bullard looked at McGill and Sweetie. “If you two will search your memories just a little bit, I’m sure you’ll remember the police do this sort of thing, too. In fact, most folks would say we should do it first.”
McGill sympathized. In Rockelle’s place, he’d feel the same way.
“It’s your call, Captain. But then you and your detectives will own what you find, and whatever political heat might come with it. That might not be any fun at all. If you start out the way we discussed, seeing who attacked the good father, you’ll be close enough for us to hand off the rest to you, if that’s what you want. On the other hand, maybe SAC Kendry might want to carry the load.”
Elspeth, more wily than her local law enforcement colleague, knew better.
She said, “Pardon me, but did anyone hear me ask for any favors?”
Rockelle caught Elspeth’s drift and needed no further dissuasion.
“Yeah, maybe I’ll leave things with you for the time being, Mr. McGill,” she said. “But we’ll all keep in touch, right?”
“Absolutely,” McGill said.
Galia Mindel, the White House chief of staff, sat before the makeup mirror in the master bathroom of her Dumbarton Oaks home. She turned her head to the right and to the left, keeping an eye cocked on her reflection. She pulled her hair back and studied the line it made across her forehead. Finally, she swung a second mirror out from its wall mount and examined the crown of her head.
Sighing in relief, she thought all strands were present and accounted for, and none of them had gone gray. Thank God, she’d inherited her mother’s permacolor brunette gene — even if she liked to touch it up with artificial highlights — and had dodged her father’s family history of alopecia. It had afflicted even poor Aunt Sophie and Aunt Daphna. With the stress Galia had been under since the president’s second inauguration, she felt it was a wonder that she had any hair at all.
The political battles surrounding the Electoral College vote that had put Patricia Darden Grant back in the Oval Office had been ferocious. The Supreme Court decision upholding the president’s reelection had come from a clear majority, but Galia had hoped for 7-2 or 8-1 in favor. Instead, she saw there was still a conservative rump on the court, and their dissenting opinion had been scathing. All but accusing the majority of stealing the election for the president.
Galia had been tempted to resign her position and come right out and tell those three old reactionaries, “Hey, fuck you, too.” Maybe even, “Hurry up and die already so we can put three more women on the bench.” The president had talked her out of such rash behavior.
Not that they hadn’t laughed about the idea in private.
In the end, Galia had let herself be flattered that she was irreplaceable.
The president had to have her.
At such a cost, though. Oy! She’d lost thirty-two pounds the past three months. She would never have imagined her metabolism was still capable of such a thing. It was only in the past three weeks the president had insisted that Galia adopt the presidential diet — leaves and twigs, as the chief of staff had always thought of it — and start exercising with the president, too.
My God! Getting up before the sun had risen over Iceland. Taking weights in hand. Curling her arms. Raising them above her shoulders. Lunging forward like some clumsy species of biped brushed aside by evolution as a nonstarter. The best she could say about the whole grueling experience was …
It was working. Not only had her limbs, middle and derriere been shorn of layers of fat, they were reforming into the most pleasant shapes. Sleek planes and arcs. Tone, the president had called the development. Who knew such things were even possible for a woman her age?
Between the emotional giddiness and the deep muscular pain of her makeover, she almost forgot to worry. When she did worry, the concern was met by a new response. She was going to kick somebody’s ass. She’d always felt that way emotionally, of course. Getting even was a trait inherited from both her parents. But now she felt she could really go out and do physical damage to an enemy.
After swearing Galia to secrecy, the president had even started to show her a move or two from James J. McGill’s Dark Alley system of self-defense.
Other than insuring a positive legacy for the president and keeping the ship of state from foundering on the rocks of True South obstructionism, the only thing that really worried Galia now was her face. It had lost suet, too, and there were bags under her eyes and drapes of skin on her cheeks. But there was no facial Pilates to tone those things up.
The president had said, “Try smiling more.”
After seeing Galia force a smile, Patti Grant had said, “We’ll think of something.”
What Galia was thinking, as she applied her mask of Olay Total Effects Night Firming Cream, was a facelift. She’d have to take time off for the procedure and recovery. When she returned everyone in the White House Press Room would see the change immediately. If even one of them dared to laugh at her, she would —
Answer the bathroom phone before it finished its first ring.
Only the president had the number that rang in her bathroom.
And now apparently her husband, too.
James J. McGill told her, “Sorry about the hour, Galia. But something’s come up. Can you come right over to the Residence?”
Inigo de Loyola looked at Agnes Cudahy, the nurse taking his pulse in the private hospital room where he’d been placed, and told her, “I am ashamed.”
