McGill's Short Cases 1-3, Three Jim McGill Short Stories

by Joseph Flynn

  “So it’s not yours?” Timpkins said, reaching for the bag.

  “No,” de Loyola told him.

  Officer Timpkins unzipped the bag just as the front door opened.

  A man wearing pajamas and a navy blue robe looked out at the two cops and the scruffy priest on his stoop and demanded, “What the hell is —”

  He stopped talking when he saw the bagful of cash the black cop was holding.

  The sick expression of guilt on his face reminded Timpkins of the only other time he ever saw anyone look like that. The night he’d caught his first wife in bed with the guy who lived in the apartment across the hall. Timpkins had been tempted to coldcock this sucker, too.

  Now, he asked, “What’s your name, sir?”

  “Earnest Deveraux.”

  Timpkins saw a slip of white paper among the jumble of loose greenbacks. He plucked it out and read the message inscribed on it aloud: “‘Deveraux. Payment in full.’ Looks like this is yours, sir.”

  Earnest Deveraux took a step back as Timpkins extended the bag to him.

  Before the exchange could be made, the roar of a large engine filled the air and a trash-hauling truck came racing down the block. The driver saw the flashing lights of the patrol car parked in the middle of the street and hit his brakes. The tires locked and the huge vehicle skidded forward.

  The four men on the stoop looked on in horror.

  “My patrol car,” Timpkins moaned.

  The truck climbed the trunk of the patrol unit and crushed the roof, pushing the cop car another thirty feet along the street. The driver, dazed, popped the door open. He shook his head once, saw the cops, Deveraux and de Loyola staring at him.

  Lights were coming on in homes up and down the street now.

  Timpkins, the senior officer, yelled, “Fabach, go cuff that sonofabitch who killed my car.”

  The driver leaped into the street and took off running. He didn’t stand a chance. Officer Lorenz Fabach was the 400-meter gold medalist at the Mid-Atlantic Police Olympics. He caught the truck driver before he got twenty meters.

  A car bearing a thin woman and a videographer arrived in time to get footage of Fabach bringing his prisoner back to Deveraux’s stoop. Both Deveraux and the truck driver avoided looking at each other or the videocam. The homeowner declared he had no knowledge of the money and refused to take possession of it.

  Officer Timpkins called for detectives.

  The detectives called Captain Rockelle Bullard.

  Like Father de Loyola, she pretended she didn’t know anything about the money.

  The president had left her bed. She and her chief of staff were waiting in the White House library when McGill arrived. He greeted them with a smile. Patti got a hug, too.

  “All’s well?” the president asked.

  McGill nodded. He sat on a love-seat, the open cushion beckoning to Patti.

  Galia remained on her feet.

  “What’s the latest?” the chief of staff asked.

  McGill said, “We should probably turn on the TV in a few minutes. Ellie Booker has video of a private detective named Turner Kinney being arrested after he crashed a stolen trash-hauling truck into and atop of a Metro PD patrol car. Kinney has been identified as taking a White House tour with a man named Earnest, with an ‘a,’ Deveraux.”

  Galia sat down and entered the names into her laptop computer.

  Patti asked McGill, “Deveraux was the man who planted the money behind your office?”

  He said, “The garbage truck versus cop car crash happened directly opposite Deveraux’s townhouse. I also got his name from Ellie Booker. He was working with SNAM, Satellite News America.”

  The president compressed her lips. “God, I despise those tabloid cretins.”

  “Yeah,” McGill said, “that first amendment can be damn inconvenient. Anyway, Ms. Booker kindly told me that a SNAM reporter, a fellow who drives a red Mini Cooper, recently made a visit to a local emergency room with facial bruises, lacerations and even one good bite mark. Said he’d gotten into a pub brawl and the docs and nurses should see the other guy.”

  “He was the one who got into the fight with the priest?”

  “Yeah, and Father de Loyola gave better than he got. What I figure is, the reporter knew all about the money behind my office. Figured maybe he should grab some for himself, before he splashed the news on SNAM. Who would ever call him on it?”

  “No one, if Father de Loyola hadn’t been there.”

  McGill smiled. “Elspeth told me she talked to the good father earlier last night. He was standing on Pennsylvania Avenue, facing the White House and praying. He told Elspeth he was praying for you and everyone who lived and worked here.”

  Patti’s eyes moistened. She kissed McGill. “Thank you for telling me that.”

  Galia cleared her throat. The First Couple took notice of her.

  “Earnest Deveraux is a new arrival in town. He previously worked as a lobbyist in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. People in the legislature there say he always gets his way in the end. Whether it’s a matter of spreading big money around or playing dirty tricks, it’s all the same to him. He came to Washington in February. Perhaps the most significant thing about him is that his cousin was the late Bobby Beckley.”

  Beckley had been the chief of staff and top fund raiser for the late, murdered-in-his-own-home Senator Howard Hurlbert, the president’s longtime political nemesis and the second-place finisher in the last presidential election. Politics had been a blood sport for Beckley. Aptly, he’d been found floating in his swimming pool, the victim of a snake bite.

  McGill sighed.

  The president looked at him and said, “What?”

  “I also got a call from Dikki Missirian. I was glad to hear from him because I needed a favor. But he and Max Lucey saw a Cadillac limo pull out behind the stolen trash-hauling truck and the red Mini Cooper that hightailed it away from my office building this morning. Dikki videoed the limo with his cell-phone.

  “He e-mailed the video clip to me and Elspeth ran the plate for me.”

  Patti and Galia both said, “Whose car is it?”

  McGill said, “Originally, it was Howard Hurlbert’s. Title is now held by his widow, Bettina.”

  Father Inigo de Loyola was standing on Pennsylvania Avenue outside the White House praying again that morning. The sky was cloudless and the sun warm. A soft breeze from the west kept the humidity low. A tired Elspeth Kendry waited for the Jesuit’s eyes to open before she spoke to him.

  “Beautiful morning, Father. Nice to see you again.”

  “A joy to speak with you also, my child,” he replied. “Have I overstayed my welcome?”

  The special agent in charge of the White House Security Detail shook her head.

  “Stop by anytime. You do good work.”

  “I try my best.”

  “I would feel better if I knew you had a roof over your head,” Elspeth said.

  The Jesuit beamed.

  “Oh, but I have. Mr. McGill found a place for me.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes. A friend of his owns some properties.”

  “Dikki Missirian?”

  “The very person. A kind and gentle man. He showed me his office on P Street. He offered me space beneath a staircase in another building. It’s just the place for someone like me.”

  Lost Dog

  McGill Short Case #2

  McGill never had a kid for a client before. He’d seen plenty of kids in trouble, including little ones, during his days as a Chicago Police Department patrol officer. He’d dealt with wayward affluent teenagers and college students when he was the chief of police in Winnetka, Illinois. Since going into the private investigations business in Washington, DC, though, he’d only worked cases brought to him by adults.

  Until today when a forlorn dark-haired sprite in a deep blue jacket and skirt with vaguely naval tailoring took a seat in front of his desk.

  She couldn’t be more than eight years old, McG
ill thought, if he remembered his own daughters’ growth patterns right. She was just about to speak when McGill held up a finger, stopping her. He smiled when he did it so she wouldn’t think he was a grumpy old guy.

  “One minute, sweetheart. I’ll be right back.”

  The kid took the interruption in stride. Sat with her hands folded on her lap. Her feet were a good six inches off the floor. Maybe she was only seven years old, McGill thought.

  He poked his head into the outer office. Sweetie was behind her desk, having a staring contest with a guy McGill first thought might be a European relative of Celsus Crogher. He was that white. On second look, though, this character’s pallor had a metallic tinge to it, as if he buffed himself up with silverware polish.

  “Margaret?” McGill said.

  “Yes?”

  Sweetie kept her unblinking eyes on the guy; he didn’t bother looking at McGill either.

  “The young girl in my office, she’s with this gentleman?”

  “She came in with him, asked for you. Her name is Anya, she said. This guy didn’t introduce himself. Just sat down. Gave me the stink eye. He’s been working it ever since.”

  “Good luck with that, pal,” McGill told the man. Sweetie could make the devil blink first, McGill knew. At least any devil he’d ever seen her interrogate. “I’ll leave the door open.”

  Sweetie gave McGill a slight wave of acknowledgment.

  Never breaking eye contact with the creepy guy.

  McGill went back into his office to talk with the kid. He took a seat in his second guest chair instead of sitting behind his desk. He was closer to the kid that way. Offering more of a paternal feeling than a professional one, he hoped.

  The kid called him on it.

  “Why are you sitting there instead of there?” She pointed to McGill’s empty chair behind the desk. The kid had an accent. A combination of accents, really. A British intonation overlaying something that sounded Eastern European to his ear.

  He shrugged. “This is my office. I can sit where I like.”

  Young as she was, the girl understood the assertion of authority.

  “Of course,” she said.

  McGill also didn’t want anything between him and the outer office if the competition between Sweetie and the guy out there turned physical.

  He asked the kid, “Did you come here with the man waiting outside my office?”

  She nodded. “His name is Georgi. He is my driver.”

  “Does Georgi do anything else for you?”

  Her face said he did, but she was reluctant to give it up.

  “Maybe Georgi helps keep you safe,” McGill suggested.

  “Yes, he does that, too.”

  “Does Georgi carry a gun?”

  The girl pressed her lips firmly together.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” McGill said.

  He raised his voice and passed the information on to Sweetie.

  Got a perfunctory “Uh-huh” in reply. Sweetie was still locked in visual combat.

  “So your name is Anya?” McGill asked the kid.

  “Anya Ivanova.”

  “What can I do for you, Anya?” McGill asked.

  “My dog ran away. I would like you to find him.”

  She reached into a pocket of her jacket. Brought out a picture and handed it to McGill. Her chin started to quiver. Her eyes grew moist. McGill handed her a tissue from the box on his desk; more than one client had needed them. He looked at the photo.

  The beast was black, smallish and had a pugnacious air to it despite having a face that seemed to be more fur than clearly defined features. McGill had never seen the breed before.

  Anya said, “His name is Misha. He is an Affenpinscher.”

  “Friendly?” McGill asked.

  Wouldn’t do to find the kid’s dog only to have to shoot it if it attacked.

  “You must win his friendship. Then he will be your best friend.”

  Spoken like a kid who didn’t have any other friends, McGill felt.

  He wasn’t busy at the moment. Thought it wouldn’t hurt to put in a few hours and see if he could help out. Throw a net over the mutt, if it came to that. Anya, more likely than not, was a diplomat’s kid. Maybe he could do a good deed and help foreign relations.

  “Is Georgi your father, Anya?”

  The girl rolled her eyes.

  “No?” McGill said. “You know I charge for my services, don’t you?”

  He might have put in a few hours for free if Georgi hadn’t given Sweetie the stink eye.

  “Yes, of course, I know.” She reached into her pocket again and brought out a check for McGill. “I hope this will be enough money.”

  McGill looked at the check.

  Three days pay. Calculated to the penny.

  The money was drawn on an account of the embassy of the Russian Federation.

  McGill proposed a deal to the kid. She’d keep her check. He’d look for the dog for up to but no more than three days. If he found Misha, they’d work out a payment for no more than the amount of the check. If he didn’t find her pet, he would express his regrets and eat his expenses.

  “Eat?” Anya asked, not understanding.

  “I won’t charge you for my time.”

  “But you are in business, yes?”

  “I am.”

  “How can this be good for you, not to take money for your work?”

  “Well, I can’t do this with everyone, but sometimes it’s smart to buy good will.”

  The kid gave him another look of puzzlement.

  McGill explained, “Let’s say I don’t find Misha. You’ll feel bad; I’ll feel bad. But you’ll know, because I didn’t take your money, that I was really trying to help you. Then maybe when you’re older and you need some help, you’ll come back to me.”

  “Why would I, if you can’t find Misha?”

  McGill repressed a grin. The kid was sharp. He liked her.

  From the outer office came the sound of Sweetie laughing.

  Followed by the door to the stairwell opening and closing.

  “What is funny?” Anya asked. “Did your lady friend just leave?”

  Sweetie appeared in the doorway to McGill’s office.

  The kid looked at her and blinked. “Did Georgi leave?”

  Her voice held a note of disbelief.

  Sweetie said, “He stepped outside for a moment.”

  McGill asked Anya, “Would you like us to take you to him?”

  She said, “I would like you to find Misha.”

  “Okay,” McGill said, “if we can do it my way. To answer your question: If I can’t find Misha, you wouldn’t come back to me if you’d lost another dog. But if you had another kind of problem, one you thought I could help with, then you might come back to me. That’s what I meant by good will.”

  “Because I would know you want to help me, not just take my money,” Anya said.

  “Exactly,” McGill told her.

  Anya told him where she always walked her dog.

  During daylight hours, that was. Household staff gave Misha his evening walk.

  The dog got away from one Yuri Melnikov the previous evening.

  She said those were the only clues she could offer.

  McGill asked, “Does Misha have a favorite treat?”

  Anya gave McGill a nod. Not just as a preliminary answer to his question. She was glad to see he was already thinking of ways to solve her problem.

  “He favors bits of braised beef,” she said.

  Pricy, McGill thought. That led him to ask, “Anya, what does your mother or father do here in Washington?”

  “My mother,” the girl said, “is the senior counselor for cultural affairs at our embassy.”

  Anya dug into her pocket again and gave McGill her mother’s business card.

  “Where do you go to school?”

  “I am tutored at home.”

  As if to forestall any more questions, Anya got to her feet and stuck out her hand.


  McGill shook it.

  Sweetie explained her victory to McGill as the simple triumph of good over evil.

  “You think Georgi’s a bad guy?”

  “Yeah, he is. I looked into his eyes long enough to see that.”

  “How bad?” McGill asked.

  “Blood-on-his-hands bad. Maybe even body-count bad.”

  “A guy like that is babysitting a young girl?” McGill asked.

  “Maybe the kid’s parents have enemies. We’d all do anything to protect our kids, right?”

  Sweetie had only recently become a de facto stepmother to her husband’s orphaned niece, Maxine. The plan was she and Putnam would adopt the girl as soon as Maxi was willing to accept that Mom and Dad wouldn’t be coming back. Already, though, Sweetie was willing to die — or if given no other choice, kill — for her.

  Just as McGill would do for any of his three children.

  “Helluva thing,” he said.

  Sweetie told him, “I could be overdramatizing.”

  McGill’s phone rang. FBI Deputy Director Byron DeWitt was on the line.

  “Do you know who you just had in your office?” he asked.

  “Anya Ivanova.”

  “Yes, and Georgi Travkin of the Russian Federal Security Service.”

  McGill asked, “Do you spell that K-G-B?”

  “You might, if you were feeling nostalgic. He has a diplomatic cover, of course.”

  “So you weren’t snooping on me?” McGill said. “You were keeping an eye on Georgi.”

  “Right.” DeWitt paused. “The Bureau has been warned not overstep with you.”

  Especially after Special Agent Osgood Riddick came to grief, McGill thought.

  He asked, “Who passed the word, SAC Kendry or Galia Mindel?”

  “The president.”

  McGill felt all warm inside; his wife was looking out for him.

  In the glow of the moment, he asked DeWitt, “Would you like to know why Anya came to see me?”

  “Very much, if you don’t mind sharing.”

  “Young Ms. Ivanova would like me to find her missing dog, Misha.”

  DeWitt took McGill at his word. Warned him Georgi Travkin was dangerous.

  McGill hung up and told Sweetie, “You know who you just stared down?”