Jim McGill 05 The Devil on the Doorstep

by Joseph Flynn

  Tommy looked at Gabbi, held his stare until she looked back at him.

  “That sounds intriguing. And what might I get from you?”

  “What do you want?”

  “How about you string up a hammock for me when you go to Saint Bart?”

  “I could do that.”

  “When do you leave?”

  “As soon as I finish the favor I’m doing for someone, and don’t ask who.”

  “I won’t. Will you paint a portrait of me, too, while we’re in the Caribbean?”

  “Sure, and if you want to buy it, I’ll give you a discount.”

  Tommy laughed and said, “I’d better get cracking.”

  To help him on his way, Gabbi paid for his elevator ride back to terra firma.

  En Route to Washington, DC

  The president’s Gulfstream C37A cruised smoothly at fifty thousand feet. Aided by a strong tailwind, the aircraft was doing better than six hundred miles per hours. The flight back to the capital would be a relatively short one. Over before Patti Grant could get the bitter taste out of her mouth, certainly.

  The meeting with Joan Renshaw had ended just as badly as the president had feared it might. Good God, the things people did because of a tormented heart were enough to boggle the mind. Turn the course of history, too, if you weren’t careful.

  In both of her careers before entering politics, modeling and acting, Patti had laid down a strict code of conduct for herself: no married men, no man more than ten years older than her, no man who offered professional advancement in return for sex, no man who demanded sex in return for professional advancement, no man with drug, alcohol, ego or money problems.

  Her rules severely narrowed her choices of companionship, but they also served her well. The few guys she’d dated — slept with — had left her with no regrets. Circumstances simply hadn’t been right for commitment and marriage.

  When she’d met Andy Grant, her baggage was small enough to fit into an overhead bin. From everything she saw, Andy was similarly unburdened. He had neither an ex-wife nor a spiteful girlfriend in his background. He was only two years older than her. He waited for Patti to make the first move sexually, not that he had to wait long. He enjoyed a beer at a ball game, a glass of wine or two with dinner, but that was all. He never did drugs because he enjoyed life just the way he found it.

  He had tons of money but didn’t let that keep him from being a regular guy. He said he grew up upper-middle class, studied hard, made a smart move or two and wound up rich. Big deal. You were born with a running start, he said, you ought to reach the finish line in pretty good shape. He’d dedicated using the bulk of his fortune to helping others. His generous spirit was what Patti had always loved most about him. He was good to everyone he met.

  That had included Joan Renshaw.

  Who mistook Andy’s attentiveness, good humor and giving nature as an implicit pledge of love. One that had all but matured to romance, she thought, when Patti had turned up. Joan had told the president so in no uncertain terms that very day.

  “Andy was mine, goddamnit, until you came along!”

  Joan stood behind her office desk, tears streaming down red cheeks.

  Patti watched from a guest chair, silent and still.

  “We were together for five years,” Joan continued, “working together every day. Making the world a better place. Making each other happy. The night he was supposed to come home from Los Angeles, he was going to take me out to dinner. He told me so. He was going to propose to me that night, I know it. Only he stayed on the West Coast another week.”

  Joan’s eyes narrowed and her lip curled.

  “When he did come back, you came with him.”

  True enough, Patti thought, and the night before they flew to Chicago was the first night they’d slept together. At Patti’s initiative. Who knew? If Patti hadn’t met Andy on his trip to L.A., maybe everything would have been different.

  Everything. The president had to push that notion out of her mind.

  She hadn’t broken any of her rules. Andy Grant was a single man when she met him, and if his affection for Joan had been more than a matter of proximity and convenience he would have declined Patti’s offer to spend the night with her.

  At that moment, though, only one thing mattered.

  She said, “Joan, did you tell anyone I intend to visit Inspiration Hall before it opened?”

  Tears continued to trickle down Joan’s face, but she stopped producing more. Her mood hardened. A cold gleam came into her eyes. She smiled without humor or warmth.

  “I did,” she said, a note of defiance in her voice.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Because I was asked.”

  “What did you think would happen?”

  “I don’t know specifically. I just hoped it would be something bad.”

  “Did you think someone might kill me?”

  Joan’s smile broadened. “Only if I got lucky. You’re the one responsible for Andy dying. If he’d stayed with me, he’d be alive right now.”

  Patti got to her feet.

  She wanted to bash Joan. Because she might have been right.

  Restraining herself, she asked, “Who did you tell, Joan?”

  “Roger Michaelson.”

  Patti blinked. Then she had Elspeth Kendry take Joan Renshaw into custody, instructed that Joan be allowed to call her lawyer. She summoned the foundation’s deputy director, told her she was in charge until further notice, and left to return to Washington.

  The president might have dwelled a long time on the idea that she’d been responsible for her first husband’s death except the C37A touched down at Andrews Air Force Base seemingly only moments after it had left Chicago.

  Galia Mindel called. No doubt she’d had the control tower alert her.

  She had important news.

  The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was waiting to speak with her.

  Chief Justice MacLaren had issued the injunction.

  Anyone coming to the inauguration would not be allowed to bear arms.

  Arlington National Cemetery — Arlington, Virginia

  Father George Mulchrone rested on one knee before a headstone inscribed with a cross and and a biography succinct enough to fit the available space: DESMOND EDWARD MULCHRONE, SGT US ARMY, WORLD WAR II, FEB 9 1922, DEC 21 1944, PURPLE HEART, SILVER STAR. The retired priest would have liked to kneel before his elder brother’s grave, but he if he got down on both knees, he might not be able to rise again.

  Unlike most times these days, he wore his clerical garb, the black suit and Roman collar. Signs posted at the cemetery reminded visitors that they were treading hallowed ground and were expected to behave with dignity. For the most part, people did as they were bade. Conducted themselves with respect for the fallen and consideration for the bereaved.

  Still, Mulchrone knew from experience, it was only normal for those with broken hearts to reach out to one another, looking for someone else who knew the pain they were feeling, but who might be just a bit stronger, able to offer a moment of informed solace. That was especially true when he wore his collar. He attracted Catholics like a magnet.

  But not when he went down on his knee before his brother’s grave.

  In that instance, others afforded him an extra measure of privacy. That was what he wanted when he came to visit Dez. His big brother had always been his hero, eleven years older, impossibly big, strong and handsome to little George. More than that, he was always kind. Made time to joke with him, roughhouse in a gentle way, pretend to let his kid brother throw him to the ground and say oof when he landed.

  He’d get to his knees and raise George’s hand in the air, intone, “Undefeated and still champion, George ‘Killer’ Mulchrone.”

  George would giggle and bow to an imaginary audience that rained cheers down on him. A celebration always followed. Dez would take him into their parents’ kitchen and buy him a “drink.” Chocolate milk with as much syrup as George
cared to add to the glass.

  Dez was one of the first guys in South Boston to line up at the recruiting office on December 8, 1941, the Monday after the attack on Pearl Harbor. He was only nineteen. Mom and Dad wanted him to wait. It might be a good, long time before he got drafted, they said. The war might be over by then. Dez wouldn’t hear of it. He left the house after kissing Mom and shaking Dad’s hand. George wanted to go along with his brother, his hero.

  He knew the army wouldn’t take a little kid like him, but he wanted to be with Dez every moment he could. His parents sent him to his room. He could still hear his mother weeping and his father trying to assure her that Dez would be okay. The army needed smart guys, he said, not just mugs with guns to do the fighting. Dez would get a job behind the lines, would probably become an officer, planning battles and such. The army would see how smart Desmond Mulchrone was. Just look how he’d gotten into Boston College.

  George agreed with every word his father said. More than that, he knew how strong his brother was from wrestling with him. Those Japs and Krauts had better watch out. Dez would knock their blocks off. Despite every word of reassurance addressed to her, his mother couldn’t stop crying.

  George, himself, got a real scare right before Dez shipped out for Europe. He had George walk him to the taxi that was waiting to take him back to camp on his last day of leave. He’d already kissed Mom and Dad goodbye at the doorway to their house.

  Before getting into the cab, Dez went down on one knee and took George’s shoulders in his hands. “I want you to be a good soldier right here, Georgie boy. I’m giving you the job of keeping Mom and Dad’s spirits up. They’re going to be worrying about me, so you’ve got to do everything they tell you. Follow orders like they’re your personal generals. Do things without even having to be told. Make them proud. Make them happy. Okay?”

  George bobbed his head.

  He told his big brother, “I don’t know why they’d worry, though. You’re gonna be fine. You’re gonna do great.”

  Dez lowered his head for a moment and when he looked up he said, “Pray for me, Georgie, that I will be all right. Pray for all us guys going out to fight. We’re going to need it.”

  Desmond Mulchrone kissed his kid brother’s forehead and got to his feet.

  He came to attention and snapped off a perfect salute.

  George did a credible imitation. Then Dez got in the taxi and was gone.

  He died in the Battle of the Bulge. Despite George having prayed for him every morning and night since he’d left home. George could only conclude he hadn’t known how to pray well enough, and decided he’d better become a professional in the matter. After a life in the priesthood, he still doubted his ability to have the Almighty grant the smallest of his entreaties.

  He saw a shadow fall across Dez’s tombstone.

  He looked up and saw Representative Phil Brock.

  Brock noticed the name on the headstone and said, “Family? I’m sorry for your loss. But I have to hand it to you. Who’d ever suspect anything we say to each other here?”

  McGill Investigations, Inc. — Georgetown

  McGill brought Yves Pruet, Odo Sacripant and Ethan Winger back to his office with him. On the way, he called Byron DeWitt and asked him to join them. They’d no sooner arrived than McGill took a call in the outer office from Patti and asked the others to excuse him for a moment. He went into his office and picked up the phone.

  Patti told him Joan Renshaw was the leak at The Grant Foundation.

  He told her of Ethan Winger’s discovery.

  They agreed to meet in either the Oval Office or the Residence, depending on the hour, and discuss what they should do next.

  “Bet you never knew what you’d be letting yourself in for when you met me,” Patti said.

  McGill said, “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

  “You think Jean Morrissey would make a good president?”

  “Sure, with some seasoning. If you resigned anytime soon, though, I think she might be prone to beating up members of Congress with her hockey stick.”

  Patti laughed and said, “Mayhem on an ice rink instead of a basketball court?”

  “We each have our favorite sport. Let’s see if we can hang in there a little longer.”

  “You’ll give me a foot rub when you get home?”

  “One toe at a time, if you like.”

  “You make me very happy, Jim.”

  “What’s a henchman for?”

  They said goodbye and McGill asked the others into his office. Pruet, Odo and DeWitt sat. Ethan Winger stood in a corner, just a bit unnerved by the company he was keeping. Deke stood guard in the outer office. Leo kept watch down on the street.

  McGill looked at Ethan and said, “Just for clarity and the benefit of Deputy Director DeWitt who wasn’t with us earlier today, will you please confirm your findings, Mr. Winger?”

  Ethan cleared his throat, looked at McGill and then DeWitt.

  “I found thirty-three forged paintings among those hanging in the Ransom and Drucker collections. In the Busby collection, I found only three paintings actually done by artists whose names appear on them.”

  DeWitt said, “I’m sorry. If I have it right, you’re speaking of Nathaniel Ransom, Darren Drucker and Tyler Busby?”

  “Yes,” Ethan said.

  “You were given access to Inspiration Hall?”

  “You know about Inspiration Hall?” McGill asked DeWitt.

  “The Bureau tries to keep up with what’s being built in DC,” he said.

  McGill didn’t miss the note of understatement.

  To Ethan, DeWitt added, “You’re sure you’ve got it right, how many forgeries there are? Are you really that good or are the paintings that bad?”

  Ethan held his hands wide. “I consult for the FBI, remember? You called me.”

  “Because you were at the top of the list I was given. To be honest, I’m surprised you’re so young.”

  Unruffled, Ethan said, “Okay. Let me take your questions in order. I’m sure I’ve got the numbers right. I am that good. The fake paintings are pretty good, too. Good enough to fool most people but not good enough to fool me.”

  McGill, Pruet and Odo paid close attention to the verbal jousting match.

  “Where were you trained, Mr. Winger?” DeWitt asked.

  “One semester at Yale and a lifetime with my father, Lawford Winger.”

  DeWitt was about to ask a follow-up question, but Ethan held up a hand.

  “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but why don’t we do this? I’ll give you a list of three other experts who can look at the same paintings I did. You choose one of the people from the list. Don’t tell me who you’ve picked. I’ll bet you my life savings, forty thousand dollars, he or she gives you the same results I did without a single exception. How about that? Are you game?”

  The conversation had morphed into a hand of all-in poker.

  DeWitt was more than a fair player.

  What he saw was the kid had the cards. He could take the bet, but he’d lose.

  So he folded and turned to face McGill.

  “Always nice to learn the Bureau hires good people. I’ll bet you have an idea where we should go from here, Mr. McGill.”

  “I do, but I’ll let Magistrate Pruet tell you his idea first.”

  Arlington National Cemetery — Arlington, Virginia

  “Harlan Fisk came to see you?” Brock asked Father Mulchrone.

  “He didn’t tell me his name. Only asked that I pass the message on to you.”

  “That we might need the guy with the truck for the job?”

  “Yes.”

  Brock didn’t let any displeasure show on his face but he was more than a little ticked off. A large truck bomb could do the job, but it wouldn’t have the same sense of menace, the same élan as using drones firing missiles. One more big bang from a truck — after the Oklahoma City blast — and every farm in the country might have to go back to using cow poop
for fertilizer, but that was nowhere near as cool as making people look up in fear every time they heard a buzz overhead.

  “The man who visited you gave you this message in your confessional?”

  “Yes.”

  “So our secret’s safe?”

  “Yes.”

  Brock sighed. Sometimes you had to make do with the choice that was left to you. He would have to let Bahir Ben Kalil know it was time for him to fire up his martyr and scoot back home to Jordan, just to be safe, before the truck went boom. A hitherto unknown Middle East terror cell would claim credit. It wouldn’t actually exist, of course.

  Misdirection was the idea.

  That and the exhaustion of government resources.

  The domestic crazies would be disappointed their hands hadn’t triggered the death toll, but they’d still be happy that the woman who’d stolen the presidency would get what she had coming. Per the last word from his friend, Joan Renshaw, at The Grant Foundation, the president was still scheduled to visit Inspiration Hall tomorrow.

  If, God forbid, Joan’s treachery were uncovered, she’d hang it on Roger Michaelson.

  As for Brock, well, he’d done all he could to sow the seeds of chaos.

  The spirit of Mikhail Bakunin that lay at the core of his being was pleased.

  Bakunin having been a Russian revolutionary and the father of modern anarchy.

  Of whom it was said, “On the first day of the revolution, he is a perfect treasure. On the second, he ought to be shot.”

  Brock intended to be in Costa Rica before anyone got around to shooting him.

  He told Mulchrone, “Thank you for all your help. Again, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Left alone at his brother’s headstone, Father George Mulchrone was also infused by the spirit of another. That of his beloved brother. Who’d rushed off at the tender age of nineteen to help save the country he had loved more than life.

  The retired priest looked down at the headstone.

  He said, “There’s only one thing for me to do, isn’t there, Dez?”