Jim McGill 05 The Devil on the Doorstep

by Joseph Flynn

  “Celsus Crogher is becoming someone new?”

  McGill had trouble processing that line of thought.

  “You should have seen him on the dance floor,” Welborn said.

  McGill nodded slowly. “Yeah, that’s right. I’m supposed to ask if he can bring a date to the inaugural ball.”

  He thought that was actually a good idea. Having Celsus bring a date would make his dance with Patti look like less of a novelty act. He was sure Patti wouldn’t object.

  “Tell Celsus he can bring a date,” McGill said.

  He saw a look of doubt appear on Welborn’s face.

  “What?”

  “You can speak for the president on this?”

  “I can. Old married couples do it all the time. What, you and Kira haven’t gotten to that point yet?”

  Thinking about that, Welborn realized Kira didn’t hesitate to speak for him. He, on the other hand … would start speaking for her, too. Starting immediately.

  “Of course, we have.”

  “Then there you go. I’d never speak for the president on a matter of governance, but clearing Celsus to bring a date, no sweat.”

  Having things put into perspective, Welborn felt more at ease.

  He got back to business. “Elspeth said Arlo told her there was one unlikely character in the meeting of the conspirators, a retired Catholic priest from Boston, Father George Mulchrone. Elspeth said she made Arlo confirm his presence a couple of times. He insisted Mulchrone was there, and he had been Representative Brock’s traveling companion.”

  McGill chuckled.

  “What’s funny, if I may ask,” Welborn said.

  “Well, it’s like this,” McGill told him. “We’ve got Mulchrone as a co-conspirator in a plan to assassinate the president. Let’s say Brock brought him into the cabal by confessing the idea to him. The seal of the confessional would never allow Mulchrone to reveal that, but the only thing that might help Mulchrone get any consideration from the U.S. attorney would be if he ratted out Brock. I can’t imagine a being between a bigger rock and a harder place.”

  Welborn thought about that. “The confessional seal applies to retired priests?”

  “Oh, yeah. You never know, though, in Mulchrone’s place, the Reformation might take on a whole new appeal. To heck with those old Catholic vows. Might be a good idea for the FBI to bring him in sooner rather than later.”

  Welborn thought so, too.

  “You, Celsus and Elspeth did leave things on good terms with the FBI, didn’t you?”

  “Elspeth let them keep Arlo, gave them a full brief and didn’t leave until Arlo signed a full confession for them. They’re happy.”

  “Good,” McGill said.

  One fewer headache for Patti.

  Leo pulled into Welborn’s driveway.

  The new father was out of the car before it stopped moving. His wife and daughters were waiting for him in the front doorway. Welborn filled his arms with twins and kissed his wife in front of the whole wide world.

  Life as it should be, McGill thought.

  Florida Avenue — Washington, DC

  Sweetie entered the kitchen of the townhouse she and Putnam owned as he was speaking to someone on the phone.

  “Yes, of course,” he said. “Whatever’s necessary. We’ll make it work.”

  The call must’ve interrupted Putnam’s lunch preparations, Sweetie thought. The salad was already made. Two baguettes, still warm, sat on the breadboard. The aroma of baking chicken came from the oven. Having gone out on his own, working as the head of ShareAmerica, the lobbying firm anyone could buy into for one hundred dollars a year, Putnam often came home for his midday meal.

  He told Sweetie it was her doing. Having his largest meal at lunch meant he could eat lightly later in the day. Along with the regular exercise she’d inspired him to do, he’d not only shed the extra thirty pound he’d carried when they first met, he was actually starting to achieve muscular definition in various parts of his body.

  He told her it was a slow-motion miracle.

  At the moment, though, Sweetie thought Putnam was beset by a problem that neither a sensible diet nor a hundred daily pushups would solve.

  Sweetie took the chicken out of the oven, sliced the bread, apportioned the salad into two bowls. She put out a place setting for each of them. She hardly ever drank alcohol during the day and imbibed abstemiously at night, but she took a bottle of Chardonnay out of the wine cooler and poured a glass for each of them. Leaving the bottle handy in case Putnam needed more.

  Sweetie never had more than one drink a day.

  “Yes, I’ll speak with Margaret. Then I’ll be right up.”

  Putnam said goodbye and put the phone down.

  From the look on his face, there was only one question Sweetie could ask.

  “Your family?”

  Putnam nodded. He sat next to Sweetie and picked up his glass.

  “Your mother or father?” she asked.

  “My baby brother, Lawton. He died.”

  Sweetie felt her eyes moisten. She put an arm around Putnam, kissed him.

  “I’m so sorry. How did you hear?”

  “That was Sissy Jenkins calling. She and Emory got the news.”

  The Jenkins were the African-American couple who raised Putnam after his parents had fled the country one step ahead of the law. Putnam’s parents, Charles and Mona, had perpetrated a nationwide scam that suckered horse racing bettors out of millions, selling them a “can’t fail” way to pick winners. They’d taken Lawton, then a year old, with them.

  “I thought you told me the Jenkins didn’t know where your parents were,” Sweetie said.

  “They didn’t, not while I lived with them. When it was time for Lawton to go to college, I just heard, he came back to this country under a new name. He brought a bank book with him in the Jenkins’ names. Compensation for taking such good care of me.”

  “So your parents are still alive?”

  Putnam shrugged. “They were at the time they sent Lawton to Johns Hopkins. Now? Who knows?”

  “Lawton stayed in touch with Jenkins?” Sweetie asked.

  “He did more than that. He married Sissy and Emory’s daughter, LuAnne.”

  The name rang a bell for Sweetie. “She’s that chef you like up in Baltimore. The one with the seafood place you invested in. What’s the name of the place?”

  “Great Catch. I always used to think of Lu as my kid sister.”

  Sweetie’s eyes filled anew. “Used to? She —”

  “Was in the same car with Lawton when the tire blew and the car went off the road and hit the tree.”

  A tremor ran through Putnam. Sweetie threw her arms around him, held him close, doing her best to absorb as much of his pain as she could. Her embrace couldn’t keep a joyless laugh from escaping him.

  “All these people I thought I knew. They sure could keep secrets, couldn’t they? Sissy told me she and Emory never said anything about Lawton because they thought the FBI was still watching me, and for all I know they are.”

  The feds had watched Putnam through his college years, that he knew for sure.

  He sighed and gently pushed Sweetie back to arm’s length.

  “There’s one more thing, a pretty big thing. Lawton and LuAnne have a little girl. She’s eight years old and her name is Maxine. Sissy said she and Emory just aren’t up to raising a child that young anymore. She asked if I might help out. So, Margaret, my dear, how would you feel about becoming a mother?”

  Sweetie was struck dumb.

  Putnam said, “If you’re not crazy about the idea, we could keep the kid in your old place down in the basement. Feed her our left-overs. Maybe take her out and walk her in the park a few times a week.”

  “Stop it,” Sweetie said. “Of course, we’ll welcome her into our home.”

  Putnam kissed Sweetie and said, “Thank you.”

  He got up and added, “I’m not too hungry right now. I’m going to wrap up my lunch and drive up
to Baltimore.”

  “We will go to Baltimore.” She kissed Putnam back to let him know they were in it together.

  “How did I ever get lucky enough to meet you?” he asked.

  Sweetie laughed. “You put an apartment-for-rent ad in the newspaper.”

  They put the food and wine away and were ready to leave in fifteen minutes.

  Just before they stepped out the door, Sweetie thought she should let McGill know she’d be out of town. She hated the idea of leaving Jim shorthanded, but he’d understand the urgency of helping a child in dire need. He’d been there.

  One thing she could do for Jim, ask Putnam about that favor McGill needed.

  She did and Putnam said, “Sure. You drive and I’ll make the call.”

  FBI Offices — Richmond, Virginia

  “Daddy, the bastards got me,” Elvie Fisk said into the phone she held. “Yeah, me ‘n’ Arlo both.”

  Deputy Director Byron DeWitt was the ranking FBI official in the room. With him were SAC Cecelia Kalman, head of the Richmond office, and Special Agent Bob Sanborn, whose job it was to monitor domestic hate and terrorism groups in the Southeastern United States.

  DeWitt had taken the lead in speaking with Elvie.

  He’d told her, “The advice you got earlier is something to keep in mind, Elvie. The more you help us, the better things will go for you.”

  DeWitt had dressed down for the interview. A leather bomber jacket hung over the back of his chair. He wore a derby blue long-sleeved polo shirt, Levis and scuffed cross-trainers. He had deliberately mussed his hair, wishing he’d kept it at its usual over-the-ear length instead of his new shorter cut. Even so, the kid was sharp enough to see the difference in appearance between him and the other suits who had been holding her prisoner.

  “Y’all aren’t gonna let me go, no matter what,” she said.

  “Of course not. You’re going to prison, no doubt about it. The only questions are for how long and in what kind of facility you’ll do your time. Some are less awful than others.”

  “I don’t wanna be some bull-dyke’s little bitch,” Elvie said.

  “See, you understand just what I’m talking about.”

  Elvie looked down at the table in front of her.

  DeWitt waited her out.

  She said, “Some of the guys I know have been to prison. They talk about what it’s like. Some said it’s just as bad in women’s lockup. Maybe worse ‘cause they might stick a mop handle or something inside you that’s a lot longer than any guy’s johnson.”

  “Terrible things have been known to happen,” DeWitt agreed.

  Elvie looked up at him. “Ain’t you supposed to stop that?”

  “Sure, that’s what the corrections officers are supposed to do. But then everybody is supposed to obey the law. That’s not what you and Arlo were doing.”

  “We were fighting for our freedom,” Elvie said, bristling.

  “Freedom from what?”

  “That bitch in the White House.”

  “The president was elected, twice. That’s our system.”

  “She stole that last one.”

  “How’d she do that?”

  “She got that Indiana woman to turn her way. Bought her off or somethin’.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “My dad —”

  Elvie bit her tongue. DeWitt was sure she was going for daddy before she caught herself.

  “There’s no proof of that,” DeWitt said, “whatever your father might think. Aside from that, the president won millions more votes from the people than either of the other two candidates. Doesn’t that make her the winner?”

  “Nobody who thinks the way she does should ever win.”

  “Did your father tell you that, too?”

  Elvie chose not to answer.

  “What does your mother think?” DeWitt asked. “Does she feel the same way as your father?”

  Elvie looked down again and said, “Mama and Daddy split up.”

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  She shook her head.

  “So it’s just your dad and you. You’re a good kid and you listen to him. You think like him and do what he tells you. You had to be thrilled when he sent you to get Arlo.”

  Elvie looked up smiling. “Damn right, I was. We’d have gotten away clean, too, it wasn’t for that damn pickup truck. I never seen any truck go that fast before.”

  DeWitt nodded. “Did you ever ask yourself why your father sent you to get Arlo? Did he know you’d been sleeping with Arlo?”

  The girl lowered her eyes but not her head, and told him, “He was the one who suggested it, and he sent me to get Arlo because he loves me, and he knows I’m the best damn —”

  She caught herself a bit earlier this time.

  And took the opportunity to fill the silence with her own question.

  “Are you just some actor, mister? Someone these other assholes brought in to ask me questions. You look like you should be on TV. Tell you what, you get ten years knocked off my sentence, I’ll do you any way you want.”

  DeWitt ignored the offer and said, “Did you ever think your father sent you to pick up Arlo because if you got caught you are not as important as anyone else?”

  Elvie cleared her throat, as if she were loading up for another blast of spit.

  She swallowed the saliva, not doubting at all a judge wouldn’t like it all if she spat on two federal cops. The girl wasn’t well educated, but she learned fast. She sat back in her chair and glared at DeWitt.

  “My daddy loves me,” she said.

  “Okay. Let’s see if he does. I’ll give you a phone. You call him. Warn him that you and Arlo have been arrested. We won’t interrupt you. I promise.”

  “Yeah, bullshit.”

  DeWitt offered a small smile.

  “Can’t blame you for not trusting us. How about this? I’ll give you the phone, and then step back with my friends. That way you’ll have at least enough time to warn your father before we can take the phone from you.”

  Elvie thought about that. Couldn’t spot any trap. She nodded.

  SAC Kalman handed DeWitt a phone. He placed it in front of Elvie.

  Before he stepped back, though, he said, “Just so you understand what’s really important to your father, tell him things will go a lot easier for you if he and his friends turn themselves in before they do anything stupid. You might even get out of a minimum security prison camp by the time you’re twenty-one.”

  To Elvie, who was really seventeen, that sounded like a dream.

  DeWitt stepped back. Elvie tapped the buttons to make the call. A dutiful daughter, the first words out of her mouth related the fact that she and Arlo were in custody.

  When she saw no one rushing to grab the phone from her, she continued.

  “Daddy, one a these bastards said they might lock me up for sixty years. Then this new one I’m talkin’ to now says if you ‘n’ the boys don’t do what you’ve got planned, give yourselfs up, they might let me go when I’m twenty-one.”

  The tone of Elvie’s voice indicated her preferred choice.

  She listened closely to her father’s reply. None of the others in the room could hear it, but they didn’t need to. The call was being recorded. Traced, too.

  DeWitt and his colleagues had no trouble seeing Elvie’s expression.

  Her whole face sagged.

  “You want me to soldier on? For sixty damn years?”

  Harlan Fisk gave another reply to the daughter he’d already pimped out to his cause.

  Tears welling up in her eyes, Elvie said, “Daddy, if they had you locked up, I’d do anything you asked me to.”

  Elvie’s head jerked back as if she’d been slapped.

  Her father had clicked off. She said, “Daddy?”

  DeWitt stepped forward and took the phone from her hand. “Do you know your father’s target, Elvie?”

  The girl shook her head, her eyes unfocused.

  “Tel
l me something, Elvie,” De Witt said. “You’re from Michigan, right?”

  “I was born there.”

  “So why do you have a Southern accent?”

  That one she could answer, and she no longer had any reluctance to do so.

  “I was raised in the South. That asshole I was just talking to took me down there when I was little.”

  “To be near his friends, the guys with the guns who think they should be running the country?”

  Elvie nodded. “There are three places where all the militias around the country go to train. One down South, one out West in the mountains and one up in Alaska somewhere.”

  DeWitt returned to his seat across from Elvie. She’d defected from the other side. She would tell him everything she knew if he worked her right. Did nothing to remind her of her father.

  Once he had everything the girl knew, he’d have a talk with James J. McGill.

  McGill Investigations, Inc. — Georgetown

  Jim McGill sat behind his desk, alone in his office, his mind more than a little boggled. Sweetie had just called him, en route to Baltimore, and told him he, Yves Pruet and Odo Sacripant had been given permission to view the collections of paintings at Inspiration Hall tomorrow morning.

  McGill had been about to crack wise and ask if he needed a secret password when Sweetie dropped her bombshell. Told him why she and Putnam were going to Baltimore. They were about to become parents.

  The first thought that popped into McGill’s head was that Sweetie was telling him she was pregnant. He knew that could happen later in life these days, but it had never occurred to him it would happen with Margaret Sweeney. It shouldn’t have seemed so farfetched, but he just couldn’t see it.

  Then Sweetie explained the situation.

  She told him about Putnam’s family background, adding, “Putnam told me there were many times he wanted Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins to adopt him. They said they couldn’t do that because his parents were probably still alive, and it wouldn’t be right. But Maxine’s parents are dead, and if she’s agreeable to the idea, Putnam wants to adopt her. I feel the same way. We should all be a family.”