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

by Joseph Flynn

  Holcomb said, “You know Anya’s mother is on staff at the Russian Embassy?”

  “I do.”

  “And you didn’t think it might be a good idea to politely decline the case?”

  “I have two daughters,” McGill said. “I’m a sucker for little girls in need of help.”

  Holcomb offered a thin smile. “From what I’ve heard, you’re not a sucker for anything.”

  “Okay, but I do have my sentimental moments.”

  “And maybe an ulterior motive?”

  “We’ll get to that,” McGill said. “What I’ve found out so far is it’s unlikely Misha was gobbled up by a coyote, and someone at the Chinese Embassy is looking for a dog of the same breed as Misha. Only they call it ZuZu.”

  Holcomb said, “Maybe the Chinese dog is an entrée on the lam.”

  McGill smiled. “My Secret Service special agent suggested as much. But I think Misha, aka ZuZu, served another purpose. Running messages between the Russians and the Chinese. What do you think of that idea?”

  “Low tech but probably effective,” Holcomb said.

  “Exactly. I told the president I won’t ask what surveillance methods our people apply to foreign embassies in Washington, but I’d bet it involves all sorts of sophisticated electronics and computers.”

  Holcomb had no comment.

  McGill said, “Anyway, it occurred to me that the way to defeat modern surveillance would be by going old school. Use a dog as a courier, just like they did in World War One. But somebody on our side spotted Misha for what he is. Then someone else, higher up the food chain, decided to dognap Misha, see what they could glean by examining the poor little beast. Please tell me that he didn’t expire while being questioned.”

  Holcomb looked at McGill for several seconds.

  “You know, sir, you present quite a problem for us,” he said.

  McGill laughed. “You should hear what the Secret Service has to say.”

  There was another cheer from the crowd, and the home team came up to bat.

  After the din died away when the batter touched home plate, Holcomb sighed and told McGill, “I’ve been cleared to use my judgment as to how much I can tell you.”

  “In other words, you hold your own rope. Use too little, you strangle slowly; use too much, you pop your head clean off.”

  “Hangman metaphors are so comforting,” Holcomb said.

  “So take solace in this: The only person I’ll ever tell is the president, and she can find out on her own what’s going on.”

  That did reassure the CIA man. Gave him a neat rationale to use on his bosses, if need be. Because if McGill could tell the president, then she could tell him. One way or another, he could find out.

  “We’ve got the dog,” Holcomb said.

  “Alive and well?”

  “It’s been sedated and exposed to some x-rays. Otherwise, yes.”

  “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “No.”

  McGill had spent an hour before going to the ballpark talking with Edwina Byington’s son, the veterinarian and her granddaughter, the dog breeder.

  He asked Holcomb, “What were you looking for, encoded information in the dog’s microchip?”

  It turned out dogs, some of them, weren’t entirely analog technology.

  Many of the critters came with microchips the size of a grain of rice. The purpose for the chips was to provide information on the dog’s identity and the place it called home. That and the people who had taken responsibility for its welfare.

  Holcomb didn’t look surprised that McGill had made a good guess.

  “That was one idea,” he said.

  “There were others?”

  “We thought there might be a second chip, tucked in somewhere your average vet wouldn’t think to put it. That’s why we did the x-rays.”

  McGill nodded, as if he’d thought of that, too.

  “You look for tattoos?” McGill asked.

  “Yeah, that and even micro-inscription on the dog’s teeth.”

  That hadn’t occurred to McGill.

  “So you came up with zilch, but you still think the dog’s a messenger.”

  “Yeah,” Holcomb said. “You got any ideas?”

  “One.”

  “High tech?”

  “Unh-uh. You ever hear the story about how our space program and the Russians’ program set about solving the problem of writing in zero gravity?” McGill asked.

  “Yeah, I know that one,” Holcomb said. “NASA spent millions to create a pen; the Russians used a pencil.”

  “That’s sort of what they did in this case, too, I think.”

  He explained his idea to the CIA man.

  “Sonofabitch,” Holcomb said.

  “You’re welcome,” McGill said. “If you’re careful, maybe the Russians and the Chinese won’t figure out you’re on to them. I won’t take any money from the government for my assistance, but if you want to show some appreciation, make sure Anya gets her dog back.”

  He told Holcomb how to do that.

  The president was still at work in the Oval Office when McGill’s call was put through to her.

  “Are you still laboring on behalf of the American electorate?” he asked.

  “After five,” she said, “I work only for the people who voted for me.”

  McGill laughed.

  “Aren’t you still at work?” she asked.

  “I’m at the ball game. I can get you a beer, fast food and maybe even something with actual nutritional value, if you’d care to join me. It’s still early innings.”

  “You think I can sneak away to a ball game?”

  “I was asking myself that question. Is it possible for the president of the United States to sneak into a major league baseball game without being noticed? I decided if any historical figure could do it, you could.”

  The president said, “Let’s find out.”

  Nobody actually saw the president enter the stadium, but her platoon of Secret Service agents didn’t go unnoticed. By inference, it was soon known who was on the premises. Patricia Grant’s likeness was shown on the Jumbotron. Beneath it, the number of people in attendance went up by one. The crowd came to its feet and gave a spontaneous cheer.

  The manager of each team had the savoir faire to stand on the top step of his dugout, doff his cap and bow in the direction of the luxury suites.

  McGill handed Patti a beer and a hot dog.

  “Warms your heart, doesn’t it?” he asked.

  “It does indeed.”

  After a minute, the game resumed play.

  McGill and the president had matters other than the game to occupy their minds.

  “You found the dog?” she asked.

  “The CIA has him.”

  “He’s going to be repatriated?”

  “So I’m told. If not, I thought you might twist some arms.”

  “I can do that, but I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  “I command such implicit power?” McGill asked.

  “It’s not a secret we’re a close couple. You’re well liked, and it’s generally known you don’t throw your weight around without good reason.”

  “Even then, I don’t do it often, preferring guile as I do.”

  “That and blarney,” the president said.

  “And a steely stare.”

  “Maybe a little gift, too, to ease their feelings?” the president asked.

  “I told the CIA how I think the Russians and Chinese are transmitting messages.”

  “Their means of conniving being?”

  “Something I noticed the other night at Montrose Park. The prevailing ethic of being a good dog owner in the nicer parts of town requires you to pick up after your pooch.”

  “You mean …”

  “There’s a special waste can just for doggy-doo.”

  The president wrinkled her nose and said, “Yuck.”

  “I think that reaction is what the other side is count
ing on,” McGill said. “But what the heck? The collection of night-soil has a long history; I looked it up. In the dog parks, the poop is tied up in plastic bags. That has to mitigate the stink somewhat. If you tie some sort of marker into the knot of the bag you want your opposite number to receive, that would make the job relatively easy.”

  “I can see you’ve given the matter considerable thought,” Patti said, “but how do you get the dog to eat the capsule or microchip or whatever you use to send your message?”

  McGill said, “Wrap it in braised beef. From what I saw first hand, there isn’t a dog in the world that wouldn’t eat plutonium if you wrapped it in braised beef.”

  Patti sighed. “If you’ve got it right, that means the Russians or Chinese have figured out how long it takes a dog to process the vessel carrying the message.”

  “I think so,” McGill said.

  “But neither side’s diplomats would do the initial pickup.”

  “No, they’re paying off local labor for that, I’d say.”

  “But what is it the Russians and Chinese are telling each other? Why not just talk to each other in Moscow or Beijing?” Patti asked.

  “Must have something to do with their activities right here. In any case, that’s above my pay grade. Once the CIA insinuates itself into the supply chain, they’ll have to figure out a way to keep things going without the other side finding out, see what they’re up to and tell you.”

  “Ah, the glamour of being the president,” the president said.

  McGill told her, “There is one other thing, of course.”

  “The Russians and the Chinese were testing you.”

  “Right. They wanted to see if I’m the kind of sap they can use to embarrass you. What with the political situation in Congress being so uncertain, they could really gum up the works here in Washington if they caused a scandal for you by having me take money from them and then, oops, something embarrassing, not to mention untrue, about my role gets leaked to the press.”

  “Leaving them to pursue their agendas around the world while we’re too busy and at odds with each other to object. But you were smart enough not to take any money.”

  “Right, and I’m sure not going to return poor little Misha.”

  Patti looked at McGill. “Then who is?”

  Georgi Travkin asked, “Do you want a reward?”

  Steve Nagy shook his head. “That’s all the reward I need.”

  He nodded toward Anya, who was down on her knees, clasping Misha to her chest, petting him top to bottom. Trying to feel if the American had implanted their own microchip in her dog. In the distance, Irina Ivanova, Anya’s mother, held a camera with a telephoto lens and took pictures of the little gathering in Montrose Park. She’d hoped to get a nice group shot with McGill accepting a check from Georgi.

  All they had for their efforts, though, were shots of some ordinary fellow refusing Georgi’s offer of money. She could overhear them through the microphone in Georgi’s tie-pin. Irina had no doubt the fellow was McGill’s agent. Maybe someone in the American intelligence apparatus, maybe a personal friend. Whoever he was, he’d been paid something to play his part.

  He was a handsome fellow, and his dog was magnificent.

  Who knew, maybe he was the type who liked foreign women.

  Irina would have to see.

  The three Russians and their dog reunited at the Mercedes sedan that Georgi would use to drive them to the embassy. They weren’t happy with the ways things had gone; the Chinese were certain to laugh at their failed effort. Still, there was no great cause for distress.

  The Americans were in disarray and —

  Georgi drew his gun and told Anya and Irina to step back.

  He took a deep breath and yanked open the backseat driver-side door.

  Then he looked at Irina and Anya and said, “Дерьмо.”

  Shit.

  Irina nudged Georgi out of the way. She and Anya looked inside.

  On the backseat lay a box of Milkbone dog biscuits.

  There was no card with it.

  Even so, they all knew it came from McGill.

  Pins and Needles

  McGill Short Case #3

  The National Football League took its cues from Carcharodon carcharias, the great white shark. It never stopped moving and it consumed the audiences of lesser sport leagues. Unlike the terror of the ocean, though, the NFL did not have to hunt. Once the league opened its maw, vast numbers of Americans voluntarily stuffed it with their money and their rapt attention.

  McGill was one of them. To a somewhat lesser degree than most.

  He willingly paid the premium that was added to his cable TV bill to cover the cost of televising pro football. He bought sweatshirts for himself and his son, Kenny, with their favorite team’s logo on them. He played catch with Kenny using the league’s official ball.

  But McGill didn’t attend games in person. The prices for tickets were outrageous, and he considered the advent of the personal seat license, the fee required for the right to buy season tickets, to be nothing short of extortion. He had it in the back of his mind that if his wife, the president of the United States, ever had an idle moment, he’d ask her to have the Department of Justice open a criminal investigation into the practice.

  In any case, football was a game he preferred to watch on television. You always had the best seat in the house. You never had to worry about rain or frostbite. Replays from many angles clarified close calls. And you never had to stand in line to use a urinal.

  Back in the old days, pro football had been a seasonal sport, early to late fall with maybe just a toehold on winter. The league played a championship game in December and that was it. See you next year, everybody.

  Then came the Super Bowl. The first one was played on January 15, 1967. So a season that had begun in one year was completed in another. By 2013, the Super Bowl had been pushed back to February third. The NFL draft, that year, had become a three-day must-see TV event in April; in 2014 the draft would move to May. The Hall of Fame exhibition game, the first of the preseason, would be played on August fourth. The hunger of the great white shark grew endlessly.

  If there was one part of the calendar the league had yet to swallow whole it was late June, after organized team activities had ended and before training camp began in July. Doubtless, the league was making plans for that fallow period, but on the third Monday in June the only sports related question McGill had on his mind was whether he might live long enough to see the Chicago White Sox win another World Series.

  That was when Sweetie poked her head into McGill’s office and asked him, “How big did you say that guy in France was, the one you and your friends fought under the bridge?”

  He knew immediately whom she meant: Etienne Burel, aka The Undertaker.

  “Over seven feet tall and better than four hundred pounds.”

  “Okay, well, we have someone here to see you who’s not quite that big but he’s pretty close.”

  McGill gave that a moment’s thought. Sweetie wasn’t in the least agitated, so however big the guy in the outer office might be, his demeanor had to be peaceful for the moment. That was good. McGill hoped his days of fighting giants with sticks were over.

  “Did he say what he wants?”

  “He’d like you to find a woman for him.”

  McGill’s eyes widened. That had been his exact task in Paris.

  Then again, missing persons were something of a stock-in-trade for private investigators.

  He asked, “Why does he want to find the woman?”

  Sweetie looked over her shoulder and then back to McGill.

  “I’d like to hear that myself,” she said. “He’s got a friend with him. You want to see them?”

  McGill wasn’t sure that he wanted to see them, but he said, “Okay.”

  The big guy was Matthew Mingo, the first round draft choice of the NFL’s Washington franchise. McGill remembered reading about him in the sports section of the Post. He w
as an offensive left tackle, the lineman who protected a right-handed quarterback from getting smashed from his blind side. As such, his position was highly valued in football’s scheme of things, and left tackles were paid accordingly if they were any good.

  If McGill recalled the young man’s published measurements right, he stood six-foot-ten and weighed three hundred and eighty pounds. Not quite as big as Etienne Burel but close enough to be his kid brother. Unlike the French thug, Matthew had an almost timorous air about him. Like he was afraid someone was going to jump out of a shadow and say, “Boo!” Make him scamper away and hide.

  Not exactly a temperament held in high esteem by pro scouts.

  With the young giant was the team’s general manager, Henry Harker, the man responsible for drafting Matthew and making him an instant millionaire. Harker’s eyes also held a glint of anxiety. Like maybe he’d just made the worst and perhaps final mistake of his career. Unlike Matthew, though, the way Harker carried himself was aggressive. His shoulders were squared and his hands were clenched.

  Sweetie made the introductions.

  Showing deference to age and status, McGill shook Harker’s hand first. The man couldn’t help himself; he gave McGill’s hand a good squeeze. McGill met it with equal pressure and kept his smile in the process. When he shook Matthew’s hand, the would-be pro went easy, but McGill could sense the amount of power he held in reserve.

  Woe betide any fool on defense who tried to bull-rush young Matthew Mingo.

  McGill didn’t have a chair that would hold Matthew. Even Harker would be a tight fit. That being the case, McGill suggested they go downstairs and have a cool drink in the shade of one of Dikki Missirian’s café umbrellas. Assuming Matthew would fit under one.

  Harker said, “If you don’t mind, Mr. McGill, I’d just as soon we keep this private. We don’t want another team getting a scouting report on what we have to say here today.”

  The general manager gave Sweetie a look. She held it and smiled at him.

  McGill said, “Ms. Sweeney is a partner in this firm. If you don’t feel comfortable talking with her, and listening to any expert advice she might have for you, you’ll need to look for help elsewhere.”