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

by Joseph Flynn

  She didn’t, so he told her.

  “Hope he doesn’t take it the wrong way,” Sweetie said.

  McGill replied, “He might resent being laughed at.”

  McGill stopped outside the Oval Office and asked the president’s personal secretary, Edwina Byington, “How goes the ship of state?”

  “The seamanship is superb,” she told him. “The weather could be better.”

  “Not a good time to drop in?”

  “Let me check. Sometimes you’re just the dose of Dramamine the president needs.”

  McGill smiled. He hoped Edwina put that line in her memoirs. She buzzed the president and got a quick reply.

  “Five minutes, Mr. McGill.”

  “Thank you, Edwina.” The woman was a treasure. He thought she might even be able to help him with his problem of the moment. “Edwina, do you know anyone who knows dogs?”

  She nodded and gestured McGill to her guest chair.

  “That would be me, to a lesser degree, and my son and my granddaughter to a greater degree. Marshal is a veterinarian and Camilla breeds Vizslas.”

  Happy days, McGill thought. Expert help close at hand.

  “Have you ever heard of an Affenpinscher?” he asked.

  “Yes. They’re small dogs, said to have a monkey-like face, though I never saw that. They’re very loyal to their owners, but can be territorial and even aggressive with strangers or other animals. They won’t back down from a fight. I’ve also heard they’re hard to housebreak.”

  “What about running away from home? Are they known to do that?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. That wouldn’t fit with being owner loyal, would it?”

  “No,” McGill said, “it wouldn’t. And if they’re aggressive with strangers, it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to grab one barehanded.”

  Edwina shook her head. “Even a small dog can have a big bite.”

  McGill carried those words of wisdom with him into the Oval Office.

  Galia Mindel, the White House chief of staff, had been in with the president before McGill arrived. She was about to leave as McGill entered. He asked Galia if she might stay for a few minutes. Galia looked to the president for approval and got a nod.

  The president remained in place behind her desk and McGill and Galia sat opposite her.

  “What can we do for you, Jim?” the president asked.

  McGill told her, “The Russians want to hire me.”

  “What?” Galia asked.

  McGill gave the chief of staff a glance, then told the president, “I thought I should run the idea by you first, but the truth is the kid and I shook on it.”

  Galia was about to ask what kid, but the president forestalled her with a gesture.

  McGill used the opening to explain the situation.

  “Have you ever found a dog before, Jim?” the president asked.

  He shook his head. “Never lost one, never had one.”

  The president said, “Neither did I. My mother was allergic.”

  “Mine, too.”

  The two of them grinned and shook their heads.

  There was always something new to learn about your spouse.

  Galia said, “Isn’t this something Ms. Sweeney could handle?”

  McGill told them about Sweetie staring down the KGB guy.

  “I’d like to have seen that,” the president said.

  “As would I,” Galia admitted.

  “Anyway,” McGill said, “the kid came to me.”

  “But there’s no written agreement and you didn’t accept payment,” Galia said, asking for confirmation of those points.

  McGill nodded.

  Galia opined that no political harm had been done so far.

  McGill said, “There’s a couple of things that bother me.”

  The president knew what her husband was thinking.

  “Sure, you’re wondering if the Russians are playing you somehow, and is Anya is on it?”

  “Caitie could have done it at that age,” McGill said.

  He and Patti were having a dinner for two in the private dining room of the Residence, the president’s living quarters at the White House.

  “I agree,” Patti said, “and some parents aren’t averse to making use of their children.”

  The president wore a slightly mocking smile as she delivered her line.

  McGill had once involved his younger daughter to help confront the Reverend Burke Godfrey in front of hundreds of his agitated followers. Of course, Caitie was in the close company of Margaret Sweeney. The Secret Service and Metro cops were close by, too. Even so, there was no telling what might have happened.

  McGill shook his head and sighed.

  “I still have the occasional nightmare about how that could have gone wrong, and exposing Caitie to a mob certainly ticked off Carolyn.” McGill’s ex, Caitie’s mother.

  “Scared me, too,” Patti said, “though you’re the only one to whom I can admit that. But everything worked out well, and Caitie got the national exposure that led to her acting career.”

  “I’m not too sure I’d put that in my ledger’s asset column. Might turn out to be a smack to my backside in the long run.”

  The president shook her head. “I have my people in Los Angeles looking out for her.”

  “You mean your show biz people?”

  Patti Grant had been in the movies before entering politics.

  “Yes.”

  “Spying on Caitie?”

  “Yes.”

  McGill nodded. “I approve entirely.”

  “I wanted to give you plausible deniability, but now that’s out the window.”

  “No problem. But talking things through just now, I can see how the moment of tears and anxiety Anya showed in my office could have been a performance. She said she has tutors. Maybe one of them is a drama coach.”

  “Could well be, considering Irina Ivanova worked in Russian films.”

  “An actress?” McGill asked.

  Patti nodded.

  “And you found that out in the past two hours?” McGill asked.

  “Galia can work wonders. She also found Irina’s most recent movie for us to see; subtitles are being added to the film right now.”

  “Can we have popcorn while we watch?” McGill asked.

  “The Russians serve caviar at the movies.”

  McGill wrinkled his nose.

  Patti said, “I’ve heard the Norwegians like to eat dried reindeer meat at the cinema.”

  That made McGill laugh. “Yeah, give me a jumbo serving of that.”

  “Very well, popcorn it is,” Patti said, “but, Jim, I’d like you to keep two things in mind.”

  “Little Anya didn’t find my name in the Yellow Pages?”

  “That’s one.”

  “Misha the Missing Mutt might serve a purpose other than keeping the kid company?”

  “Very good. Full marks,” Patti said.

  The two of them finished dinner.

  Then McGill headed out to Montrose Park before it got dark.

  He took Deke Ky and Leo Levy with him.

  He brought a plastic bag filled with bits of braised beef, too.

  Leftovers from dinner.

  The Russian Embassy was on Wisconsin Avenue. Montrose Park was just east of that thoroughfare and immediately south of Dumbarton Oaks Park and the U.S. Naval Observatory, the grounds of which were home to the vice president’s official residence. On the southern fringe of Montrose Park lay Rock Creek. Following that watercourse to the Northeast would bring you to the National Zoological Park.

  Besides the nearby zoo, Montrose Park offered such amenities as tennis courts, playgrounds, picnic tables and an exercise course. In some places, it was a perfectly civilized green-space for tony Georgetown. In other spots, it was a woodland wilderness that left behind the sights and sounds of the modern world.

  Any conscientious urban mother would keep a close eye on her offspring in the built-up areas, and unless mom had Outward
Bound experience, she’d probably keep her kids out of the woods altogether. Two-legged predators were more than enough to worry about.

  Then again, a small fry with an armed, experienced and possibly deadly escort, e.g. the melanin-depleted Georgi Travkin, might feel a bit more daring.

  McGill felt safe in the mid-May twilight with his Secret Service bodyguard, Deke Ky; Leo stayed with the car. For that matter, McGill was also armed. None of the other visitors to the park seemed to be carrying a weapon. Of course, you never knew what someone might stash in a fanny-pack.

  What was perfectly obvious, people in Montrose Park liked to unleash their hounds.

  McGill asked Deke, “How many free-range dogs do you see out there?”

  He was sure Deke would know, in case one of the pups showed hostile intent.

  “Nine,” Deke said.

  “You see any Affenpinschers?”

  “Is that a trick question?”

  “You’re not a dog guy?”

  Deke said, “On my mom’s side of the family, they eat dogs.”

  “I thought that was a tall tale.”

  “Unh-uh. In Vietnam, eating dog is said to bring good fortune.”

  “What kind of good fortune?”

  “The kind that says you won’t starve that day.”

  McGill gave Deke a look. They’d been together over four years now. In the absence of either Deke’s superiors or the media, their relationship was informal. In the second term of the Grant administration, apparently, it was going to be jocular, too.

  With a gleam in his Afro-Eurasian blue eyes, Deke added, “Dog meat is also supposed to be good for stoking the male libido.”

  McGill grinned. “What with so many guys being hounds at heart.”

  Deke liked that and nodded.

  He said, “I see a Chocolate Lab, a Golden Retriever, a Beagle, a German Shepherd mix and five I-don’t-know-whats.”

  “So you know more than you let on,” McGill said, “but what kind of libation do you serve with a dog entrée?”

  “Yellow Snow IPA.”

  McGill laughed. “If that’s a real brand, dinner at Morton’s is on me.”

  “I’ll give you a copy of the tab.”

  McGill and Deke observed the folkways of the dog owners for a few minutes. The people conversed as happily as their beasties cavorted. Peaceful kingdom. Everyone picked up his or her animal’s droppings. Tied off the biodegradable bags and tossed them into a dedicated receptacle.

  Talk about a nasty job, emptying that thing.

  “Alpha dog and owner?” McGill asked.

  “Shepherd mix with the guy attracting all the ladies.”

  “My thought, too. Let’s go over and have a chat.”

  Having no canine companion to call their own, McGill and Deke drew several curious looks from the dog lovers they approached. Then one young woman recognized McGill and smiled. She looked as if she might say something to him, got a look from Deke — serious as a tumor — and decided to keep her thought to herself.

  “It’s okay,” McGill told her, “my friend bites only when I tell him to.”

  “You’re the president’s husband, aren’t you?” she asked.

  The other women with her leaned forward to get a better look.

  The guy who owned the Shepherd stayed cool, quiet and right where he was.

  “Much to my good fortune, I am,” McGill said.

  “Where’s your dog?” another woman asked.

  “I don’t have one.”

  “You never got one for your kids?” the first woman asked.

  “Their mother is allergic.”

  Just like his mother, McGill thought. He’d never thought of that before.

  “That’s a shame.”

  The Shepherd owner spoke up. “Is there something we might do to help you?”

  McGill looked at the guy. Smiled. Understood the situation. The Shepherd guy didn’t care to share his spotlight but was being polite about it. Fair enough.

  “I’m looking for a lost dog for a client,” he said to the guy. Turning to the women, he added, “It’s an Affenpinscher.” He showed them the picture Anya had given him.

  Several of the women said they’d seen the animal; none of them knew its name.

  “Misha,” the Shepherd guy provided. “Little girl named Anya walks him when the sun’s up. Russian guy name of Yuri handles dusk patrol.”

  The lady dog owners were impressed. So was McGill.

  “Are you a cop?” he asked.

  “Used to be. Then I got my business degree. Now, I do investigations for insurance companies.” He extended his hand to McGill. “Steve Nagy.”

  McGill shook his hand. “Jim McGill.”

  He added, “What else can you tell me about Misha and Yuri?”

  “Misha has a misplaced sense of badass. He charged Ajax one time.”

  Nagy whistled and his Shepherd mix, which had been busy running circles around two other dogs, sprinted to the insurance investigator’s side, sat and looked at the nearby humans. The dog ladies were old friends. McGill passed muster, too. When Ajax cast his eyes on Deke, though, his ruff went up and a low growl started at the back of his throat.

  Nagy gave the beast a pat on a shoulder and he went bounding back to play.

  With one look back at Deke, to make sure he didn’t try anything funny.

  “Ajax is a good dog. He could’ve snapped Misha’s head off, but he just stuck his snout under the runt’s middle and flipped him twenty feet or so through the air.”

  “Misha learned the error of his ways?” McGill asked.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “What about Yuri? Did he have anything to say?”

  “He looked pissed, but Ajax was sitting at my side, like he was just now, and I don’t think Yuri liked his chances. He gave me his business card, very carefully, and told me I’d be hearing from his embassy.”

  “Did you?” McGill asked.

  “Anya introduced herself to me the next day. She brought me two box seat tickets to a Nationals game with the Dodgers next week. Asked me to accept her apology for Misha’s misbehavior. Said she didn’t let her dog off the leash. Then, bold as brass, she offered Ajax a sniff at the back of her hand. He slurped it and all was well.”

  “Almost,” McGill said. “Misha got away from Yuri again and hasn’t come home.”

  “Oh, I saw that,” the woman who’d recognized McGill said. “The dog running away, I mean. He was off the leash again, and this time he ran into the woods. I didn’t think anything of it. Thought he’d come back when he got tired or hungry. I’ve seen him come out of the trees before.”

  The insurance investigator’s business degree kicked in.

  “Is there a reward for finding Misha?” he asked.

  McGill was about to say a hundred bucks.

  Then he remembered he was in Georgetown.

  “Five hundred dollars. For the genuine article. In one piece and mint condition.”

  The Shepherd owner looked at Deke.

  “Would you have shot Ajax if he made a move on you?”

  “You bet.”

  The dog ladies looked horrified.

  McGill told everyone, “You can’t mess with the Secret Service.”

  To help calm nerves, he offered the bits of braised beef to their dogs.

  Every dog in the park soon gathered to be fed, and would have liked a second helping.

  McGill stared at the screen of the iPad his children had given him for his birthday earlier that month. He and his ex-wife, Carolyn, had given Abbie, Kenny and Caitie the Apple tablets and they’d pooled their money, with an assist from Mom, to return the favor. The McGills used the devices to Skype with one another — after federal government tech wizards had modified them for secure communications.

  Carolyn’s birthday was in June; that was when she’d get her specialized iPad.

  Patti already had one.

  At the moment, McGill, sitting in his hideaway at the White House, was using
his tablet to pore over a road map of Northwest Washington, DC. Patti entered the room, sat next to her husband and handed him a glass of ice tea. She had one of her own. McGill gave her a smile of thanks and went back to studying the map.

  “I thought you knew your way around town pretty well by now,” Patti said.

  “I do, generally. Leo has gotten to know the metro area like a cabbie. His GPS can find the places new to both of us. Right now, I’m trying to look at things from a canine point of view.”

  “Putting your nose to the ground, so to speak,” Patti said.

  McGill smiled at Patti, giving her his full attention now.

  “You know how far a dog can travel to find its way home?”

  Patti shook her head. “No idea.”

  “From what I’ve read so far, at least five hundred miles.”

  “Dogs are good with maps?”

  “No,” McGill said, “they’re great with a sense of smell.”

  Patti said, “They can smell home from five hundred miles? You’re kidding.”

  “No. That’s a surmise, but one informed by a veterinary degree.”

  “I bow to the experts,” Patti said. “But what’s a dog’s motivation to walk so far, love?”

  “Love, loyalty, maybe the opportunity to chew the shoes of whoever turned him out.”

  Patti asked, “Are you thinking of your young client? Not that she turned her dog out, but returning to her would be going home, wouldn’t it?”

  “It would, if the dog was able to get home.”

  Patti thought about that for a moment, before asking, “You have an idea why the dog wouldn’t be able to sniff its way home?”

  McGill told Patti of little Misha’s encounter with great big Ajax.

  “That made me wonder if maybe the tough little mutt tried to fight outside its weight class with another big canine. Say some beast unrestrained by domestication and a watchful master. My thinking was maybe it ran into a coyote.”

  “In Washington, the city proper?”

  McGill nodded at his font of electronic wisdom. “A coyote was first observed in Rock Creek Park in 2004. Sightings have been reported regularly since then.”

  The president hmmed. “I seem to remember reading of coyotes in California attacking young children. We can’t have that.”

  McGill never ceased to be amazed by a president’s range of concerns.

  “Wouldn’t be good,” he agreed. He had something else to add but held back.