Jim McGill 03 The K Street Killer

by Joseph Flynn

  Arlington, Virginia

  “How you doing, pal?” Jim McGill asked his son Kenny.

  He and Sweetie had taken Kenny to the California Pizza Kitchen restaurant just outside the capital. Caitie, Carolyn and Lars had opted for Chinese in Georgetown. Abbie’s roommate, and former Evanston schoolmate, Jane Haley, had arrived and the two young college women were lunching on campus, taking their first steps in independent living.

  Kenny looked up from his pasta, dabbed tomato sauce from his mouth.

  “I’m okay, why?” He saw Sweetie paying close attention to him. “Don’t I look okay? Did I spill some food on myself?”

  Sweetie shook her head. “You’re neat as a pin.”

  “I’ve been working on my table manners.”

  “Doing a good job, too,” McGill said. “That have something to do with Liesl Eberhardt?”

  Kenny returned his attention to his pasta bowl.

  “I don’t want to talk about her.”

  “Happens to all of us,” Sweetie told the younger McGill.

  She hadn’t heard the news from Jim yet, but it wasn’t hard to figure out what was bothering Kenny.

  Kenny shot her a look. “Someone broke your heart?”

  He clearly didn’t believe that was possible.

  “Not intentionally, but yes. Happened a long time ago.”

  “What happened?” Kenny asked.

  Sweetie looked at McGill. He held up a hand and answered for her.

  The two of them knew each other’s life stories, better than anyone else did.

  “Kenny,” McGill said, “the boy Sweetie loved died in a boating accident.”

  Laying his fork down and taking Sweetie’s hand, Kenny said, “That’s awful.”

  “Yes, it was,” Sweetie told him.

  “Did it hurt for a long time?”

  Sweetie nodded.

  “Is that why you never got married?” Kenny asked.

  “One of the reasons, anyway.”

  Kenny released Sweetie’s hand.

  “I wonder if I’ll ever find anyone else,” he said.

  McGill and Sweetie were careful not to laugh or even smile.

  “A good-looking guy like you,” McGill said, “it’s a sure thing.”

  Kenny looked at his father and said, “But Sweetie’s beautiful and —”

  “I think I’ve found someone,” she said.

  Both McGills looked at her: Kenny with a smile, Jim with raised eyebrows.

  “That Putnam guy you were with this morning?” Kenny asked.

  “Yeah, him.”

  “He looks kind of cool,” Kenny said.

  “He is, kind of,” Sweetie agreed.

  McGill looked to see if Sweetie was just playing with Kenny, trying to help him out of his funk, but she shook her head. She was telling the truth.

  Slippery Putnam Shady was the man for Sweetie?

  McGill found it hard to imagine.

  But he knew he’d have to accept it.

  For the moment, though, he asked Kenny, “Other than a heavy heart, how are you doing?”

  “I’m okay, Dad, really.”

  But Kenny had finished less than half his lunch, an irregularity impossible to miss.

  McGill said, “How about if I get you a quick once over from a doctor I know?”

  Kenny shook his head. “I don’t need anything like that.”

  “Did I mention that this doctor works at the White House? Usually sees no one but the president. Treated Patti last year after she took that nasty fall in England.”

  That perked Kenny up. He no doubt was remembering Caitie getting to have an adventure in Washington with their father while he and Abbie were stuck at Camp David.

  “Does this doctor work out of the residence?”

  Kenny had already enjoyed Thanksgiving dinner in that part of the Executive Mansion.

  “No, he has his own examining room, a place few have ever seen.”

  Relatively speaking, McGill thought.

  That was good enough for Kenny. He smiled broadly. Made McGill think that he and Sweetie had been worrying about nothing.

  Until Kenny said, “I have been getting tired a lot lately. More than usual, you know?”

  The president was too busy to be bothered with Welborn’s inquiry as to where James J. McGill might be. Edwina Byington, the president’s personal secretary, gave him a clue: Georgetown University. The McGills, mother and father, were dropping off Abigail for her first day at college, but that had been earlier.

  “I would imagine that once Ms. McGill is ensconced,” Edwina said, “the family might go out for a meal together. But I don’t have any information as to where that might be. If it were a spontaneous choice, the president wouldn’t even know.”

  For a heartbeat, Welborn thought it strange that the president wouldn’t know where her husband was at any given moment. But then the First Couple was a generation older than he was, each was in a second marriage and … maybe that’s how he and Kira would do things, too, when they got to that point.

  Welborn thanked Edwina and returned to his office.

  The information Chana Lochlan had given him — her warning — was hardly life-threatening but it was certainly something Jim McGill would want to know. Welborn had Deke Ky’s personal cell phone number, and if anyone would know where the president’s henchman was, his personal Secret Service agent would.

  Thing was, Welborn couldn’t decide if the situation rose to —

  “My, my, the thrill is gone.”

  Welborn dispelled his reverie and took notice of his fiancée, Kira Fahey, standing in his office doorway. She told him, “There was a time when you could feel my very approach. Now, I’m invisible.”

  With a smile, Welborn said, “You used to wear more perfume.”

  “You’re horrible. Why I’m marrying you is a mystery to me.”

  “I’ll find out; I’m a trained investigator. And I’d be happy to feel your approach or anything else you might care to offer.”

  Kira blushed and smiled simultaneously. She looked down the hallway, in the direction of the Oval Office.

  Turning back to Welborn, she asked, “How can you talk like that in the White House? What if the president overheard you?”

  “I imagine she’d be pleased; she and her husband brought us together.”

  Kira nodded. “I was wondering if you’d figured that out, too.”

  “We’ll tell our children,” Welborn said, “but they’ll never believe it. Is there anything I might do for you, Ms. Fahey?”

  Kira looked as if she might say something risqué, but she liked to talk dirty only behind closed doors.

  She told Welborn, “A Lieutenant Rockelle Bullard of the Metro Police, an acquaintance of yours, I believe, called while you were out of your office. She’d like to speak with you.”

  “You got her phone number, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll call her, see if she’d care to drop by.”

  “Impress her with your fancy digs?” Kira asked.

  “Introduce her to my beloved.”

  Kira beamed, before asking, “What’s the real reason?”

  “I’m looking for James Jackson McGill. If he shows up here, I don’t want to miss him.”

  “I’ll advise the boys in blue.” The uniformed Secret Service. “Have them let you know if they see him. I’ll escort Lieutenant Bullard in, too.”

  “You’re too kind to me,” Welborn said.

  “Just remember, flyboy, my services come at a cost.”

  Welborn said, “I’ll pay any price, gladly.”

  Special Agent Elspeth unmoved presented herself at SAC Celsus Crogher’s White House office. Kendry was new to the White House Security Detail. The daughter of an army officer and an Iranian mother, she spoke both Farsi and Arabic. Her most recent assignment had been in Amman, Jordan, working with a strike force to break up a counterfeiting ring.

  The bad guys were threefold: Iranian Revoluti
onary Guards, Jordanian middlemen, and Mexican coyotes. The IRG weren’t printing funny money, they were forging U.S. Treasury checks payable to ghost Social Security recipients. The Jordanians bought the checks from the Iranians for ten cents on the dollar. They couriered them to Mexico and sold them to the coyotes for an additional twenty-five percent. The coyotes put them in the hands of illegals they’d brought into the U.S., let the illegals take one percent of the value of each check they cashed as a credit against their border-crossing fee.

  All of the major players involved were making piles of money. The Iranians had the additional pleasures of bleeding the U.S. Treasury at a time when it was already hemorrhaging red ink, and placing added stress on a critical security agency of the Great Satan’s government, the Secret Service.

  The raid just outside the Jordanian capital that took down the ring’s operational leadership turned into a firefight. Elspeth Kendry killed the top IRG man present and the Jordanian second in command. If she hadn’t needed to change clips, she said, she might have gotten a Mexican, too.

  In any case, there were too many people in the Middle East who now wanted to get her, and with a commendation from the director she was shipped off to the White House. Elspeth thought she’d give the assignment a year without complaining before she asked to be returned to the field.

  She stood at parade rest as SAC Crogher reviewed her file.

  He looked up and said, “Have a seat, Kendry.”

  She sat, every bit as erect as Crogher. When dealing with male superiors, she made sure her body language conveyed nothing but professionalism. The guy in front of her looked like someone who might actually appreciate that.

  Crogher asked, “Do you know who James J. McGill is?”

  “The president’s husband.”

  “Do you know anything about his background?”

  “Only what’s available in the public media.”

  Elspeth wondered if she was about to be warned this McGill guy was a philanderer or a shoplifter or something else the public must never know.

  “He’s a private eye,” Crogher said.

  “I think I read that. He has his own firm.”

  “He works cases.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. He has a concealed carry license. He allows us to provide him with only one special agent for personal security. At the president’s insistence, he also has an armed driver. But McGill has been known to go off on his own without any protection at all. One time he had a taxi pick him up at the White House and disappeared.”

  Elspeth repressed a smile.

  She said, “Mr. McGill must be a handful, sir.”

  “He’s a pain in the ass is what he is.”

  Kendry thought SAC Crogher was either someone who trusted his people to keep their lips zipped or he was close to burning out.

  Crogher said, “He’s also smart, occasionally helpful and has the fastest weapon draw I’ve ever seen.”

  “That’s interesting, sir.”

  The SAC leaned forward, not like he was scoping her out, despite her exotic good looks, more like he was about to share a deep, dark secret.

  “He’s also a charming bastard. Not that I’d know anything about that sort of thing, but that’s what I hear. What you have to remember, Kendry, is that you work for me not him.”

  Had to be personal hard feelings at work here, Kendry decided.

  “Of course, sir. But what is it exactly you want me to do?”

  “I want you to watch the whole world for hostile Arabs, Iranians or any other sort of asshole who might want to do James J. McGill in. You’re his distant early warning line.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s the easy part, Kendry.”

  Elspeth picked up on her cue. “What’s the hard part, sir?”

  “If you do learn of a threat, you have to convince that sonofabitch McGill he isn’t Superman.”

  How about that, Special Agent Elspeth Kendry thought.

  Her new job might be fun after all.

  McGill introduced his son, Kenny, to the White House physician, Artemus Nicolaides. The two McGills were in the anteroom of Nicolaides’ suite. Leo dropped Sweetie off at the North Portico Entrance of the White House.

  Before exiting the Chevy, she told McGill, “I’m going to keep an eye on Putnam.”

  “Is he in trouble?” Kenny asked.

  “You’re taking the case?” McGill wanted to know.

  Answering the questions in order, Sweetie said, “Not with me around and yes.”

  “What’s the case?” Kenny asked.

  Sweetie looked at Jim. He gave a minimalist nod. Answer honestly but not at length.

  “Some unknown bad guy might want to hurt him,” Sweetie told Kenny.

  Kenny turned to his father. “Why wouldn’t Sweetie take the case, keep her friend from getting hurt?

  “No reason at all,” McGill said, not wanting to complicate matters with either his son or his friend.

  Simplicity, however, would not suffice.

  “Dad, you’re not going to let Sweetie do this alone, are you? Caitie was being corny this morning when she told Putnam that Sweetie is important to all of us, but she was telling the truth, too.”

  McGill remembered how proud he’d been of Caitie when she’d voiced that sentiment. Now, his son was calling on him to be true not just to Sweetie but himself, too. Darn kid.

  “Margaret,” he said, “I will be happy to assist you in any way I can.”

  Kenny’s effort on Sweetie’s behalf had earned him a kiss on the cheek.

  He’d walked into the White House with his head in the clouds.

  Now, Nick was bringing him gently down to earth.

  “So, young man,” he asked, “why are you here to see me? Are you no longer the strongest, fastest, smartest boy in your school?”

  “I was never any of those things,” Kenny said.

  “I will take your word on that, though you must allow me a moment of doubt. But I can see your resemblance to your father, so certainly you must be among the most handsome.”

  “I used to think so,” Kenny allowed.

  A man of affairs, Nick diagnosed the situation immediately.

  “A young lady has led you to believe otherwise?”

  Kenny hung his head and nodded.

  The was enough for Nick to put an arm around Kenny’s shoulders. “Come on, Kenny, step into my examining room. Anything you care to tell me in there is protected by doctor-patient confidentiality.

  Nick looked back at McGill and gave him a wink.

  “Kenny says he’s been getting tired more than usual,” McGill told Nick.

  Seeing the examining room door close behind his son, he felt a chill in his heart.

  Fell’s Point, Baltimore, Maryland

  There were plenty of neighborhoods in Baltimore where a car could get boosted in broad daylight. Grabbing a car in Fell’s Point while the sun was shining, though, was a risky proposition. In the gentrified, harborside neighborhood, packed with bars, restaurants and tourists, the cops kept a close watch on things. So did the residents, for that matter. And the cars were the kind that had all the latest alarms, immobilizers and recovery systems.

  They were also some of the sweetest rides in town with the highest cash value for an enterprising car thief.

  Achilles Mitchell was way beyond enterprising. He was educated, a graduate of the Automotive Institute of America, had manufacturer specific training in high-end wheels. He knew exactly what he needed to do to steal the Bentley Continental Flying Spur he’d spotted on his first pass down the one block length of Lisbon Street.

  The car retailed for one-seventy K or so. He could deliver it to a shipper and pocket twenty large for thirty minutes work, get back to the luxury car dealership that employed him without being a minute late on his lunch hour.

  The only possible hitch Achilles saw was a guy sitting on the stoop of a townhouse across the street from where the Bentley was parked. White g
uy wearing shades, a polo shirt and khakis. Looked like he might live in the place where he was perched. Just waiting for his girlfriend, maybe, to stop by for a quick rhumba under the covers.

  Sonofabitch was still there when Achilles reappeared to make his move.

  The car thief weighed the risk. Couldn’t really tell how tall the white guy was, him sitting down and all. But he looked kinda skinny, and past the age where dudes thought they could get physical out on the street.

  Achilles had sunglasses on, too. He was six-three and figured he had forty pounds on the white guy. If the sonofabitch stayed where he was, he probably wouldn’t be able to give the cops a good description.

  “Hey, officer, the fucker was black. Short, kinky hair and all that. No, I didn’t get a good look at him. Wouldn’t do any good, my looking at mug shots.”

  Achilles made his move, got into the Bentley like he had a key. Overrode the software that ran the security system in the time it’d take most people to adjust their seat and mirrors. A glance to his right even showed the dude across the street had taken off. Wearing the smile of a craftsman completing a job well done, Achilles turned the engine on.

  The only flaw in the entire exercise was not closing the driver’s door behind him; he always left the door open until he got the engine cranked, in case he had to make a quick exit. Be damn foolish to get caught inside a car that wasn’t yours. Without looking, he grabbed the arm rest to pull the door closed and was surprised when it met resistance.

  That gave him a chill: a sign something might have gone wrong.

  When he felt a gun barrel pressed against the back of his head, he knew it had.

  The skinny white guy?

  Achilles never got an answer to his unspoken question. A .22 caliber round entered his brain and overrode its operating system. Didn’t even come out the other side of his head and leave a mess in the car.

  It was the skinny white guy. He pulled Achilles out of the Bentley, left him lying on the sidewalk, looking more like a passed-out drunk than a homicide victim, and was gone within seconds. Proving you didn’t need a fancy technical education to steal a Bentley.