Jim McGill 05 The Devil on the Doorstep

by Joseph Flynn

  An atheist, he nonetheless prayed to see another dawn, the welcoming west coast of Ireland and the landing lights on the runway where they would safely return to earth. The rising sun came first and then the land mass that was the westernmost point of Europe. Not far now, he thought. Please, let us close the remaining distance safely.

  The aircraft did, landed smoothly, rolled straight to the gate.

  The captain apologized for the inconvenience. He informed his passengers that another plane would be sent to take them on to Paris. It should arrive sometime that afternoon; they would all be home in time for dinner. Lunch in Ireland would be compliments of the airline.

  “What about drinks?” someone in economy bellowed.

  The captain heard the question. “Very well, drinks, too.”

  A cheer went up from the cabin. Simonet did not join in the exultation.

  He was determined to get home as quickly as he could, on some other airline. If they had been able to make London, he could have taken the Eurostar train, but no tunnel connected Ireland to the Continent. If there were no seats available on another flight, he thought he might go mad.

  The only stop he made before beginning his search for alternate transportation was the men’s room just off the arrival gate. He was standing at a urinal relieving himself when his seat-mate from the plane came to stand next to him.

  Simonet paid him no attention.

  Until the man told him, “I’m not really a risk analyst, you know.”

  Turning his head toward the man, Simonet said, “What?”

  The man gave himself a shake, his business over quickly, and tucked back in.

  “Here is my card,” he said, placing it atop the urinal Simonet was still using. “You, m’sieur, have just become part of my act.”

  Simonet could only gawk at the man as he walked away. As the door to the men’s room closed behind him, Simonet turned to look at the card. The bastard had lied to him. He was a comedian. Had scared Simonet for his own amusement and, as he said, for his act. Simonet’s fear would be ridiculed for the entertainment of others.

  He would have throttled the bastard right there, if he could.

  He would … break into the fellow’s home, something he knew all about, and kill him at his convenience. It wouldn’t be hard to find him. He had his card. Simonet took it with him when he left the men’s room.

  Had he been thinking more clearly, Simonet might have taken into account that a trip that had gone so badly thus far would best be not completed at all. There was no telling what might be waiting at journey’s end.

  The thought never entered Simonet’s mind. He pushed on.

  Richmond Detention Facility — Richmond, Virginia

  Arlo Carsten had been moved from the FBI’s Richmond offices to the federal lockup to give him a taste of what he had coming. He didn’t like it one bit. People yelled and cried all night long. Sometimes it sounded as if someone was being murdered. The sole saving grace with which he might comfort himself was that he was alone in his cell.

  But the small, grim place did have a second bed.

  He didn’t want to even imagine who might be put in with him. It was all he could do not to go nuts, especially any time he heard the footsteps of a guard approaching. Each time, he thought someone was being brought to share his space. Maybe even invade his most intimate spaces. There was no way he was going to be the tough guy behind bars.

  He had to be lamest SOB in the whole joint.

  When his stomach started to growl, he knew it must be getting near breakfast time. He heard the footsteps drawing near again. This time, the guard stopped in front of his door, and he did have someone with him, another guard. They shackled and hobbled Arlo, dragged him off to an interrogation room.

  Waiting for Arlo were the two bastards responsible for him being locked up. The Air Force officer and the former cowboy who both now wore fancy suits. Arlo wanted to scream at them. Call them assholes and … no, he didn’t even want to think about assholes. Not while his was at risk.

  He did find the nerve to share a newsflash with them.

  “That woman who was with you the last time,” he said, “you know what she had with her? A goddamn knife. You know what she did with it?”

  Welborn and Celsus looked at each other.

  “What?” Celsus asked.

  “She gave me a shave. Dry. The knife was so sharp it didn’t even leave a knick. Smoothest damn shave I ever had.”

  “So you have no complaint?” Welborn asked.

  Despite his predicament, Arlo had to laugh. Bitterly.

  “She told me to hold real still because she didn’t want to cut off an ear or slit my throat. When she finished, she took out this little makeup mirror. Let me see what a good job she did. Then she told me if I didn’t tell her everything I knew she was going to shave my balls next, and that was trickier ‘cause just about everyone squirmed when she did that.”

  Celsus laughed out loud and slapped the table.

  Welborn told Arlo, “You know, we have that lady’s number on speed dial.”

  Arlo’s new prison pallor went three shades whiter.

  “Unless you talk to us right now,” Celsus said. “No bargaining, no bullshit.”

  “I’ll talk, but I don’t know what to tell you I haven’t already said.”

  Welborn said, “Listen to what we have to say. Maybe you’ll think of something.”

  They told Arlo about Harlan Fisk being taken prisoner, along with his men.

  Celsus said, “Were the drone pilots, the ones who backed you up, members of Fisk’s ground troops?”

  The First Michigan Militia was still being processed; none had yet been released.

  Arlo shook his head. “Unh-uh, no way. Those boys, the ones with me, had actual college science courses behind them. They knew their math and computers. The other guys were lucky if they had high school diplomas.”

  “What were their names, your little helpers?”

  Arlo provided them.

  “You know if those are their real names?” Welborn asked.

  Arlo thought about that. “I was dumb enough to use my real name but I’m not sure they did.”

  “What’d they look like?” Celsus wanted to know. “Give it to me in detail.”

  Arlo did.

  “You know where they are now?” Celsus followed up.

  “No.”

  Welborn said, “Did you ever talk about what would happen if all of you drone pilots went down?”

  “Yeah, we did,” Arlo said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what’ll happen now. The plan was that the drones and missiles would be stored and locked up someplace safe until another opportunity came up.” He hesitated before adding. “You know, something special.”

  Celsus said, “These other dipshits, the ones with the drones, they have any sense of initiative? Would they take things into their own hands? If they did, how likely would they be to hit what they were shooting at?”

  Arlo took a moment to consider. “They were true believers. Not just in Jesus, I mean. They thought the president stole the election and they couldn’t let that stand. They might give it a try even without Harlan Fisk to tell them to go ahead. I’d say it’s fifty-fifty they’d hit their target. They’re smart, but not experienced.”

  “You got anything else you think we should know?” Welborn asked.

  Arlo shook his head, “If I did, I’d tell you, believe me.” He took a second before daring to ask, “You think you can get them to continue letting me stay in a cell by myself?”

  Celsus told him, “You plead guilty to whatever charges are brought against you, we’ll see what we can do.”

  “I wouldn’t be signing my death warrant, if I did that, would I?” Arlo asked.

  Welborn told him, “The way things stand now, no. Your two friends get off a good shot, your charges will be amended, and you’ll be out of luck.”

  Arlo nodded. “Get me a prosecutor, I’ll plead right now.”

&nb
sp; The President’s Bedroom

  Despite their intentions to sleep until Morpheus set them free, the sun was up by 7:26 a.m. and so were McGill and Patti. They looked at each other and sighed. Both felt it was a sad state of affairs when you couldn’t sleep in on Sunday morning only hours after you’d faced down a would-be insurrection. Well, giving credit where it was due, the Marines had helped, too.

  “We’re still not in Kansas, are we, Dorothy?” McGill asked.

  Patti said, “I lost that state as both a Republican and a Democrat. All in all, I’d rather be in Oz.”

  McGill smiled and said, “Speaking of politics, how do you think our performances are going to play with the public?”

  The president yawned. Took a moment to think and said, “The people who hate us will hate us more. They’ll probably do fundraising events on right-wing radio to buy new assault weapons for the people I pardoned.”

  “Maybe you could take up the cause to keep that from happening,” McGill said.

  “Gun control? Sure, just as soon as I can pick my own Congress. Failing that, maybe I’ll wait until next month.”

  “Okay,” McGill said with a smile, “you’ve earned a little down time”

  “You’re too kind. Looking at the other two-thirds of the political spectrum, I think we both helped the cause. From what Galia whispered to me, she’s heard you used just the right amount of force on Harlan Fisk. The military people on hand were quite impressed.”

  McGill looked away for just a second, but that was long enough.

  “What?” Patti asked. “You think you went too far?”

  McGill shook his head, and needed some time to find the strength to confess what he’d been about to do to Fisk. He got it out because he knew it would be worse if he didn’t. Patti looked at him, studied his face as if expecting to find something she’d never noticed before.

  She shook her head. “I’m sure you felt the way you just told me, but I think if it wasn’t me something else would have stopped you. I don’t think it’s in you to kill someone that way, Jim.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so, either. But, honest to God, I was so damn close. Just thinking of it scares me … until I remember that bastard had threatened to kill our kids, and then he smiled at me like the danger hadn’t ended with him going down. When I think about that, I wish you’d arrived a minute later.”

  “If you’d gone through with your intention,” Patti said, “everyone might have started shooting and I might have lost you.”

  “And if I’d survived, I might have become someone else.”

  Patti put her arms around McGill. “Very well, I saved you. Hurrah for me. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  She kissed McGill and said, “Overall, I’d say we both get bumps in the polls. The country will see we stand up for what we believe is right. Neither of us is a milksop.”

  “Not even close,” McGill agreed.

  “The use we made of the military was both judicious and effective. Chances for a peaceful second inauguration should have improved.”

  “From your lips to God’s ear.”

  “Indeed.”

  “So you think we’re good?”

  “I do,” Patti said.

  Calder Lane — McLean, Virginia

  Senator Howard Hurlbert had considered Cesara Muñoz, the housekeeper he’d hired after his wife had taken the family servants back to Mississippi with her, to be the perfect person for the job. She came with her own green card, so he hadn’t had to finagle one for her. Her Hispanic surname let him look like he’d given a minority immigrant a decent job. Her Castilian bloodlines meant she was almost as white as he was. The fact that she came from Argentina and her family had been supporters of both Juan and Evita Perón put Cesara on the right side — his side — of the political spectrum.

  In her early forties, Cesara was too mature to be considered a young plaything masquerading as domestic help. Hell, she was a hard worker and did a fine job. As for her appearance, she was almost a looker. She certainly had a nice, toned figure for a gal old enough to have kids in high school. Had a handsome face, too.

  But that was where the problem lay.

  Poor Cesara’s esthetic downfall was her upper lip. It was a bit too hairy. Truth was, she had a mustache a sixteen-year-old boy would have envied. More than once, Hurlbert had been tempted to offer to have that taken care of for her. Get it lasered or something. He’d gladly have paid just for the privilege of looking at her defoliated mouth.

  What had stopped him was he couldn’t figure out two things. How to make the offer without offending Cesara, and how to keep his wife, Bettina, from finding out, if Cesara bought the idea. Bettina thought the new housekeeper looked swell just the way she was. Even an old hound like Howard, she felt sure, wouldn’t go sniffing after someone who might do commercials for Gillette.

  When Cesara came to clean that Sunday and saw Hurlbert shot dead, her hand flew to her mouth in horror. When she took it away from her face, half her mustache came with it. No lasering necessary.

  The off-putting feature was a product of artifice.

  Hell, she’d have worn a goatee, if necessary.

  She just wanted to do her job and be left in peace. Her strategy was facial hair. Her sister, a makeup artist, had given her the idea. But she’d never had to repair her ‘stache before.

  Had never found a murdered employer either. Not in the United States.

  “Ay, mierda,” Cesara said. Well, shit.

  She went to the nearest bathroom. Washed her hands and her face. She would have to give a statement to the police; it would be better to do so with her own face. She came back out and looked at the senator. Someone had wanted him dead all right. Cost her a well-paying client, too.

  Cabrón. Bastard.

  Looking down at Hurlbert with the fetching face he never got to see, she used her cell phone to call the cops.

  Lyon — France

  Yves Pruet had none of the travel difficulties encountered by René Simonet. Tapping his father’s deep pockets again, he chartered a Gulfstream with the range to fly him directly to Lyon. He was able to sleep soundly in the bedroom compartment of the private jet and awoke eager to bring Simonet to justice. Gabriella Casale met him at the airport in her rental BMW and they headed off to Annecy on the last leg of Pruet’s trip.

  “You are feeling well, M’sieur le Magistrat?” Gabbi asked.

  Pruet looked at her and smiled. “I am well and hope to be better still quite soon. Has Simonet shown himself yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  Pruet’s skeptical side reasserted itself for a moment. “Do we know he will come at all?”

  Gabbi told him, “He’ll come.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “M’sieur Simonet made the mistake of stealing art from several influential families, one or two even wealthier and more influential than your own. In other words, he has powerful enemies. They’ve spoken to the authorities in Annecy and to the employees of the art gallery Simonet owns. We believe that the people who work for him are honest, were shocked to discover they were working for Laurent Fortier. But after we obtained a search warrant for Simonet’s building, the top two floors were found to hold enough masterpieces to start a small museum.”

  “My family’s Renoir?” Pruet asked.

  Gabbi shook her head. “I’m sorry, no. You should talk with Père Louvel about that.”

  Pruet nodded and said, “Please continue.”

  “Simonet’s chief assistant at the gallery made a phone call to him. She found him in Ireland. Told him there had been a fire in his building. It was put out quickly but there had been a lot of smoke. Possible damage to the upper floors was suspected but could not be confirmed because the doors were locked. Simonet replied he would be in the air soon and should be in Annecy …” Gabbi glanced at the dashboard clock. “About an hour after we arrive.”

  “Bon,” Pruet said, “I will be waiting for him.”

  He paused an
d then told Gabbi about his and Odo’s business plans.

  “Odo says we will need a female investigator,” the magistrate told her.

  Gabbi smiled and said, “You know, Jim McGill once asked me if I’d like to open an office in Paris for him.”

  Four Seasons Hotel — Washington, DC

  After Yves Pruet had departed for France, Odo Sacripant availed himself of a few hours of sleep and a filling breakfast. He checked out at the front desk. He’d allowed a bellman to take his bag. He carried both the borrowed guitar, in its case, that Yves had played so beautifully and the Beretta that M’sieur McGill had so thoughtfully lent him, and that he, thankfully, had no occasion to use.

  The lovely young woman at the front desk asked him, “Did you enjoy your stay with us, M’sieur Sacripant?”

  “A delight in all respects,” he told her.

  She smiled and asked, “Would you like me to call a limousine for you?”

  “The White House is sending a car for me, thank you.”

  A gleam of more than professional interest entered the young woman’s eyes.

  She was far too young and he was far too married for that to matter, but it still pleased him. He said, “Bon jour, madam.”

  “Bon voyage, m’sieur.”

  Odo left the lobby with a spring in his step. In his earlier days, he would have stopped outside to have a cigarette. Marie never allowed him to smoke in their home, and after their third child was born had made him give up the habit altogether. He tipped the bellman and waited for Leo Levy to arrive, a very competent and amusing fellow, the former race car driver.

  Odo had shed blood for La Belle France, but the more he saw of America, the more he liked it. The next time he visited, he would have to bring Marie and the children. Take them to California perhaps. See Hollywood. Surely, someone there would take interest in a Corsican private eye.