by Joseph Flynn
“Not bad. It was my early Jackson Pollock period.”
Pruet grinned.
“Abstract expressionism being just the thing for five-year-olds,” McGill said.
“You are a never-ending surprise, m’sieur.”
“I like to keep people on their toes.”
Knowing that other people, some with hostile intent, felt the same way, McGill kept a watchful eye on his surroundings. The sky overhead, too. He thought of the old George Carlin bit about radar picking up thunderstorms and Russian ICBMs. Punchline: Don’t sweat the thunderstorms. These days, mass destruction had yielded to personalized obliteration and a Hellfire missile’s flight time didn’t allow anyone the chance to duck into a bomb shelter.
Made it damn hard to fight back.
To help cope with more manageable threats, Sweetie and Elspeth walked ten paces ahead of McGill and Pruet; Deke and Odo followed by ten paces. Leo was at the wheel of an eight-passenger black Chevy SUV on Constitution Avenue, pacing Pruet and McGill.
The vigilance stayed intact but the spacing changed as the group of six came to a halt in front of the Lincoln Memorial. McGill and Pruet climbed the steps and looked intently at the enormous seated statue of the sixteenth president of the United States.
“Magnificent,” Pruet said, “both the man and his likeness.”
McGill told his friend, “The sculptor’s name is Daniel Chester French.”
“Vraiment?” Truly?
“Oui.”
Turning to McGill, Pruet said, “Odo and I made a discovery the other day, a moment of serendipity perhaps in light of what Detective Marra from New York told us.”
“He said a few things, as I recall,” McGill replied.
“I refer to the willingness of new museums to be less than circumspect in their purchasing decisions.”
“You found a new museum here in Washington?”
The magistrate nodded.
“I thought Marra was talking about places — museums — that opened in the Middle East or Asia. Countries with relatively new money.”
Amusement brightened Pruet’s blue eyes. “Mon ami, you must not forget that to those of us in Europe, there’s no greater repository of new money than America. China is having its moment, and is certainly not to be underestimated, but before long the government in Beijing will either have to crack down on growing middle class demands for freedom or give way. In either case, there will be a period of upheaval. The world’s capital will rush to your country as never before. Rivers of new money will flow your way.”
McGill wished he felt that optimistic about the future.
“I haven’t read about any new museum opening here. What’s its name?”
“I don’t know,” Pruet admitted, “but I have made inquiries.”
He told McGill about the fine art delivery trucks pulling onto the building site and quickly being shielded from view.
“That place?” McGill said. “Everybody in town has been wondering what it is.”
“All the better to make a first impression,” Pruet said.
“A real splash,” McGill agreed. “And you think your Renoir will be part of the new museum’s collection?”
The magistrate shook his head.
“No?” McGill said. “Then what —” That was when he got his friend’s idea. “You think the forgery of your Renoir will hang there.”
“Oui.”
McGill rolled that idea around in his head, and took matters a step farther.
“Why stop at one forgery?” he said. “The more knockoffs you can use to fool the public, the more real masterpieces you can sell to private buyers.”
Pruet suggested they step outside as a large group of tourists entered the memorial.
Finding a spot with some privacy, the magistrate continued, “I do not think money is the object here.”
“Why not?”
“Because the man behind this whole affair has more money than he will ever need.”
“You still think it’s one of the Busbys, because of what happened a long time ago.”
“Tyler Busby and, yes, that is what I think.”
McGill still thought Pruet was holding back something, but he respected both the magistrate’s intelligence and his instincts.
“What about this delivery company?” McGill asked. “Would they get involved in criminal activities?”
“From all I know, they would not. They are entirely reputable.”
“Okay, so what’s going on then?”
Pruet said, “I had to give the matter some thought. Then I decided if a Renoir can be forged, so can a truck.”
McGill bobbed his head. He liked the idea.
Pruet asked, “If we can find a connection between Busby and the new museum, you will have more confidence in my theory?”
“I will,” McGill said.
“Will you devote some of your energy to me on spec? Do I have that figure of speech right? Spec means speculation? Not that I am asking you to work without pay, of course.”
McGill grinned and said, “I’ve already signed on. Just tell me how may I be of help, M’sieur le Magistrat.”
“If Tyler Busby is using the new museum to display forgeries, he will need —”
“A place to hang all the originals,” McGill said, “assuming Fortier stole them for him.”
“Exactement. A private viewing space. Perhaps with only a polarizing skylight to illuminate his treasures. Certainly, in a discreet location. Possibly on a large estate with high walls and its own security personnel.”
“Or a moat, portcullis and a dragon,” McGill said.
Pruet played along. “Of course. America is famous for its many castles.”
“Snooping on a billionaire would be a tough job for most private eyes, you know.”
“I can well imagine, but then you are le partisan de la présidente.”
The president’s henchman.
McGill said, “Oui, je suis.” Yes, I am.
Pruet said, “I’ve yet to really play the lovely guitar you’ve lent me. Perhaps spending an afternoon with it might inspire another idea or two.”
Leo dropped Pruet and Odo at the Four Seasons.
McGill and his friends returned to his office.
Nobody fired a missile at any of them.
The Oval Office
“How is Special Agent Riddick doing?” the president asked.
Sitting opposite her, on the other side of the president’s desk, FBI Director Jeremiah Haskins said, “It looks pretty certain that he’s lost the use of his legs, but advances in medical technology leave some room for hope.”
Haskins’ voice was a smooth baritone. He could discuss the onset of Armageddon in even tones. Suggest it might be time to purchase some life insurance. His eyes, if you could meet them, revealed his emotions plainly. The president had years of practice, looking strong men in the eye, and saw that Haskins was angry.
The question was, angry with whom?
“Has Special Agent Riddick tried to justify his actions?” the president asked.
“He said he was trying to protect the integrity of the investigation he was working.”
“Did he tell his supervisor on the art crime team he’d be coming to Washington to speak with Mr. McGill?”
“No, he did not.”
“Did Special Agent Riddick seek or get permission from any other superior to come to Washington?”
“No.”
“As far as you know, Director Haskins, does Special Agent Riddick have a record of making unilateral decisions when working cases?”
In other words, was he a loose cannon?
Jeremiah Haskins certainly would have looked into Riddick’s record before coming to the Oval Office. He would know that pleading ignorance would not be acceptable. Nor would it be in character for the director.
“He’s been reprimanded twice for exceeding his authority,” Haskins said.
Patricia Grant didn’t show it but she felt a sense of relie
f.
“Does his record include any criticism for excessive use of force?”
“There’s one such instance, yes.”
Now, a spark of anger flared in the president’s eyes. Anyone wearing or carrying a badge was vested with the power to change peoples lives forever. That power had to be exercised with great care and judgment. It was never intended to be a bludgeon used to coerce and intimidate.
The president knew that was an idealistic view of police work.
Jim would probably be the first to tell her so.
That didn’t matter right now. She wouldn’t knowingly have any bullies, especially ones who pulled their guns on people without a damn good reason, working for her.
She said, “I can only imagine that Special Agent Riddick’s career has been allowed to continue because he’s been productive in some regard.”
“Yes, ma’am. He’s recovered a lot of stolen art, arrested some dangerous people whose criminal activities were funded by selling that art.”
The president nodded but said, “That’s no longer good enough. The special agent had no cause to arrest Mr. McGill except to intimidate him, to get him to stop doing a job he was legally entitled to do. Had there been a compelling need to ask Mr. McGill to desist or at least delay his own investigation, Special Agent Riddick should have appealed to his superiors and they, or even you, should have appealed to me. I find Mr. McGill to be quite amenable when presented with a reasoned approach.”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s exactly what —”
“Instead, Special Agent Riddick pulled his gun on my husband, Jeremiah.” Any good president knew there were times when it paid to let her senior people see her get mad. Remind them with perfect clarity just who the boss was. “Goddamnit, you point a gun at someone, you’re all but begging for a tragic outcome.
“I’ve spoken with SAC Kendry. She was a heartbeat away from killing Riddick, and who knows if her gunshots might have hit more than one man. I don’t know if Riddick bears me or my administration any personal enmity. I won’t ask, but I would hardly be surprised.
“What I can and will do, though, is insist that you have your people look long and hard at any special agents whose records indicate that they regard themselves as cowboy sheriffs out to clean up Dodge. Anyone who thinks they don’t have to follow the law to enforce the law can damn well find another line of work. Am I clear?”
“Yes, ma’am, entirely. Will that be all?”
“No, we’re not done. You will follow disciplinary proceedings as to Special Agent Riddick’s future with the Bureau exactly as they are written. You will not take into account that Mr. McGill is my husband. Nor will Riddick’s record of achievement in any way mitigate the outcome. Give him exactly what he’s got coming, neither more nor less.”
The director gave a brief nod, his face now tight.
The president continued, “You’re probably angry with me by now, Mr. Director, and you ought to be angry with Riddick, but your displeasure should not extend to SAC Kendry. From everything I’ve learned, she acted with restraint. She’d have been the one looking at a bleak future if she’d allowed my husband to be shot. She protected the man I love more than life. Special Agent Riddick brought the outcome on himself, including his paralysis, if it comes to that.
“There will be no hostility between the FBI and the Secret Service. You will make it your job to see that interagency cooperation is better than ever. If that’s a problem for you, let me know right now and I’ll accept your resignation.”
Jeremiah Haskins got to his feet.
“I serve at your pleasure, Madam President. I hope it will please you to allow me to clean up the mess I permitted to happen.”
Dialing her ire back a notch, the president said, “It would please me greatly.”
“Will that be all, Madam President?”
The director clearly hoped it would.
He was disappointed.
The president said, “Please sit down, Jeremiah. I want to hear the details of the investigation that precipitated this sad state of affairs.”
Portland, Oregon
Retirement from elected office greeted Roger Michaelson, former U.S. Senator, with offers of employment from a second-tier think tank in Washington, a local TV station and the head basketball coach position at a suburban high school that, athletically, had been down on its luck for the past ten years.
A former All Big Ten basketball player during his collegiate days at Northwestern, Michaelson was leaning toward the coaching job. Not for the money, certainly, but for the opportunity to get back on the court. He’d told his wife what he was thinking, hoping to get a laugh from her. Maybe even a riposte.
Like he should hold out for a junior college team.
Instead, she’d said, “Whatever makes you happy, I’m all for it. You’re my guy and you always will be.”
Michaelson kissed her, but when she went out to shop for groceries, he retreated to his bedroom, drew the curtains and wept. Even his wife, whom he still loved, found him to be a figure of pity. It was almost too much to bear.
If he didn’t think suicide was such a chickenshit move, he might have been tempted to end it all. So with nothing better to do, he lay in his darkened bedroom and tried to summon the energy to be good and pissed off. At Patricia Fucking Grant. She was responsible for his plunge from power and position.
She’d been kicking his ass politically since he first ran for the House back in Illinois.
Her and that hag, Galia Mindel. The two of them had worked him over left and right.
Even so, those defeats had been more or less fair fights. Brass knuckle matches but with the understanding that they were opponents from the opening bell. What happened this last time was nothing less than betrayal. He had been led to believe that he would be the president’s pick to become vice president after Mather Wyman resigned. Then the two of them would run together on the same ticket for her second term.
After she served out her second term, he would be the leading candidate for the Democratic nomination for president.
That was the plan, until Patti Fucking Grant dumped his ass, picked Jean Morrissey to replace Wyman and to run with her in 2012. Roger Michaelson was left standing on the side of the road with his wienie in his hand. He didn’t like it? That made it all the funnier.
After all, what the hell could he do about it?
What Michaelson longed for was a national platform he could use to blast every move the president made. Problem with that was, everybody who mattered in major media knew he couldn’t even pretend to be objective in what he would say. Anything he had to say would come across as sour grapes.
Big goddamn deal, Michaelson thought. The desire for vengeance had never stopped people from getting big TV gigs before. Everyone had to get religion right when it was his turn to cash in on dishing bile? Shit.
Somewhere in his self-commiseration, Michaelson must have fallen asleep, in the middle of the damn day, because his phone rang and woke him up. The ID screen read: Sen. Merriman. Another damn traitor.
Bob Merriman, his former chief of staff.
The guy who took his old Senate seat. After assuring him that the fix was in with Patti Grant for him to become vice president.
“You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve,” Michaelson said by way of answering his phone.
“I’m sorry, sir,” a young female voice replied.
For a moment, Michaelson was at a loss.
Then the truth slapped his face with a wet dishrag.
Bob Merriman had been too smart to place the call himself.
Or he’d decided that Michaelson didn’t rate such courtesy any longer.
Somehow he found the presence of mind to say, “I’m the one who’s sorry, young lady. I thought you were that turd who used to work for me.”
Apparently, that line hadn’t gone over too well either. The silence that followed was long enough for Michaelson to think the connection had been broken. Just as he was about to hang
up the phone an older, tougher female voice spoke to him. “Senator, this is Toni Ciszewski, Senator Merriman’s chief of staff. Senator Merriman thought you might like to know that Representative Philip Brock will be on MSNBC tonight at 9:00 p.m. eastern time. Word is, he’s going to mention your name. In what context, we don’t know. Senator Merriman thought you might like a heads-up. You’ve got all that? Good. Goodbye.”
The chief of staff hung up on him with a bang.
Teach him to mind his phone manners.
Roger Michaelson didn’t care.
Phil Brock was going to raise his name on MSNBC.
Who knew? Maybe they’d call and ask him to say something on national TV, too.
Florida Avenue — Washington, DC
Deke listened to McGill’s pitch about rejoining the Secret Service in the kitchen of Sweetie and Putnam Shady’s townhouse. McGill assured him that if he chose not to go back into government work he’d still have his job as a private investigator. Only problem would be, McGill would have to find a new special agent and break him in. Just in case there were any other misguided feds out there looking to arrest him.
As Deke thought about that, Sweetie added, “Could be a conspiracy for all we know. People in government who don’t like the president and will try to get at her through Jim.”
“Something I never had to worry about before,” McGill added.
Deke told him, “If SAC Kendry hadn’t come in when she did, I was going to put Riddick down. Not just smack him on the head. Shoot him. Dead.”
McGill gave him a look.
“Someone presents a deadly threat to a package,” Deke said, meaning a protected person, “that’s what we’re trained to do. You’ve been my package for quite a while now.”
McGill asked, “You think Elspeth should have shot Riddick?”
Deke said, “I won’t second-guess her. Things probably worked out better her way.”
Sweetie wanted to know, “You think she did the right thing dropping her knee on the guy?”
“Yes. I saw him move, too. Maybe it was just a twitch, but at that point he’d brought whatever happened on himself.”
McGill said, “If you want, take a while to think about it. The president said she’d fix it if you want to go back. We can probably work something out where you’d have some extra freedom of movement.”
