by Joseph Flynn
The thin man nodded.
Teddy added, “If you might have done me a favor, I might have shown some appreciation.”
The thin man had dropped the Bentley Continental Flying Spur he’d stolen from the guy he’d popped in Fell’s Point at the waterfront gate of Spaneas Import-Export — with the motor still running. The word he’d been given was they would know what to do with it, and they paid a fair price, too.
He’d walked away from the car without saying a word to anyone, leaving only a plain white business card placed in the driver’s sun visor. The card had two sequences of numbers printed on it. The first sequence was for an offshore bank account; the second was for a disposable mobile phone.
When the thin man found an appropriate deposit had been made to his account, he turned the phone on. The call came within ten minutes. He gave the time and location for the meet and threw the phone in the bay.
Now the two men were talking, after a fashion.
Teddy said, “I might be interested in working with you again if you are able to specialize.”
Steal cars to order, the thin man knew.
“That might work,” he said.
“Might be steady work,” Teddy said. Then he smiled. “Or you might like something more challenging and rewarding.”
The thin man had always liked the idea of a big score.
“I might,” he said.
“Good. I’ll pick up the check.”
As Teddy got up, he took a copy of The Baltimore Sun out of his coat pocket and left it on the table. Thing was, the paper was over two years old. It was open to a story about the new president’s husband. There was a picture of the guy, James J. McGill, getting into a Chevy sedan. The car had been detailed to a mirror finish, but cars didn’t get stolen for their wax jobs.
Without laying a finger on the paper, the thin man read the story. It said the president’s husband got ferried around in the Chevy by a guy who was a former NASCAR driver, and when the driver, Leo Levy, had been asked how fast the car could go, he’d said, “Really fast. Other than that, I’m not supposed to say.”
So there it was. Somebody famous — McGill — had a tricked out Chevy that was so hot a pro driver called it really fast. Now, somebody else with money wanted that Chevy stolen for him.
Might be some rich SOB in another country. Might be a good ol’ boy right here at home who’d have a new paint job put on the Chevy and laugh his ass off every time he got behind the wheel. Either way the price tag would be as high as what a super-exotic fetched. Over a million bucks easy.
Given the risk of stealing the car, his cut would be higher than usual.
It would be a big score and …
He just might be interested.
Washington, D.C.
Thing One, the president’s preferred limo, formerly known as The Beast, was waiting at the curb outside the Hay-Adams when Patti stepped out of the hotel. Celsus Crogher opened the door for the president and saw her safely inside. He took the shotgun seat and Thing One moved ahead by a distance only slightly greater than its own length before coming to a stop. It sat idling, the driver awaiting further orders.
Galia had been waiting in the back seat for Patti. She was there not only to hear how the meeting with Reynard Dix had gone but to bear witness to the next obligation on the president's schedule.
“The video link is ready, Galia?” the president asked.
“Yes, ma’am. The link is secure, she’s waiting and and once you’re connected we’ll be recording.”
Patti nodded. “Let’s get it over with. No wait. I want to be able to shut this down the moment I feel … the moment I want to.”
Galia handed a remote control to the president and indicated a red button to press if she felt the desire to end the conversation.
Patti gave a nod and Galia reached over and pressed another button.
Erna Godfrey’s face appeared on a video screen mounted on the divider separating the president and Galia from Celsus Crogher and the limo’s driver. A red light in the top margin of the screen indicated that the president’s image was being seen in the secure female housing unit of the United States Penitentiary in Hazelton, West Virginia.
It was the first time the two women had seen each other since Erna Godfrey had been sentenced to death. Seated behind Erna and to her right was the prison’s warden.
Erna got right to the point.
“I don’t have any right to ask you to forgive me, and I won’t. But I will say I’m as sorry as I can be, as sorry as anyone might be, for taking the life of your husband. It will hurt me every day I live thinking about what I did, and that’s no less than I deserve.”
Patti had expected an expression of remorse. She thought it would inevitably be a prelude to a plea for a further reduction in Erna Godfrey’s sentence, a reason to hope that she might someday be a free woman. The president was determined that Erna Godfrey would spend whatever time she had left behind bars.
Even so, there seemed to be a ring of honesty to her words.
Galia put her right hand over Patti’s left hand.
Out of the corner of her eye, the president saw her chief of staff give a small shake of her head. The meaning was clear. Don’t say anything Erna Godfrey’s lawyer might use as rationale for a judicial appeal.
Erna continued, “I don’t blame you if you can’t bring yourself to talk with me. You might even think I’m trying to trick you somehow. But I’m not. I just want you to know that my repentance is sincere. I hope to study for the ministry, and the ministry I hope to pursue is to bring the Lord’s mercy to other women in prison who have sinned as grievously as I have. To do that, I’ll have to spend the rest of my life in this prison or another one. I’ve made peace with that.” A sad smile formed on Erna’s face. “In a way, accepting that has brought me comfort. I won’t ever again be tempted to do anything so stupid, anything so horrible. Mrs. Grant, I really am sorry. I hope that someday you’ll be able to believe that.”
Erna Godfrey’s plea for credibility gave Galia such a startling idea she almost began to vibrate. In fact, she may have squirmed in her seat because the president held up her hand to caution Galia, let the chief of staff know she shouldn’t say a word.
Erna went on, “There’s only one more thing I have to say. In case you’re thinking all of this was some way for me to ask for something from you, it’s not. But I am trying to do something for someone else. I’m trying to save my husband’s soul.”
Then, on her own, Erna Godfrey did what Galia had hoped to pressure her to do.
She confessed Burke Godfrey’s participation in the plot to kill Andrew Hudson Grant.
She did that and said she would testify against him in court.
Galia was stunned.
The president had another concern in mind.
She spoke to Erna for the first time. “You said you saw Jesus?”
“Yes, ma’am, I did.”
“And you said you saw my husband, Andy, too.”
“I did.”
Patti took a deep breath and asked, “How did Andy look?”
Erna told the president, “He was at peace.”
The president hit the red button before Erna Godfrey could see her cry.
Blair House
With Nick’s approval, it was decided that Leo Levy would have the honor of driving Kenny McGill to the hospital. The Chevy assigned to the president’s henchman came equipped with flashing lights and a siren, in the event a need for urgency arose, and it could travel faster than any ambulance on the planet, with a driver behind the wheel who was uniquely experienced at high-speed urban driving.
Kenny was thrilled by the idea.
He would have liked to ride shotgun, just him and Leo in the car.
Turning on the lights and sound effects would be cool, too.
But life was such that even in his current condition Kenny had to make concessions. Nick had to come along, and Mom, too. Carolyn had said they would ride in the back seat and
she would pray that there’d be no need for either flashing lights or a siren.
With a smirk, Caitie added, “You know if you did get the kind of ride you wanted, I’d come along, too.”
His sister would certainly want to, Kenny knew. He’d have to work out a secret agreement with Leo to give him a thrill ride another time. But Caitie’s comment brought to mind a point to which Kenny had been addressing serious thought that morning.
“Caitie,” he said, “school’s going to start soon. If you want to stay in Washington, you’ll need a tutor or something.”
Kenny’s words made Caitie whirl like a dervish in her parents’ direction.
“I’m not going home, not until we know Kenny will be okay.”
McGill held up a calming hand. “We’ll work something out.”
He wasn’t simply placating Caitie; he agreed with her completely. The family would do better by staying together, at least for the near term.
But Kenny wasn’t done. “Abbie, you’ve got to get a good start on college. I don’t want you to fall behind because of me.”
Abbie repressed her sadness and nodded. Then she gave her brother a hug and held on to the point that Kenny told her she was getting mushy. Abbie laughed and defiantly gave her brother a kiss on the cheek.
“Lars,” Kenny told his step-father, “if you need to go home to run your stores, that’s cool.” Carolyn nodded in agreement. Kenny added, “You might want to come back on the weekends, if you can. Don’t want Mom getting lonely.”
Carolyn blushed, and everyone laughed at that.
Then Kenny turned to his father.
“Dad, you’ve got to help Sweetie with her case. You know she’d be there for you.”
The kid was right, McGill knew. He said, “I will, but I won’t be far away if you need me or you just want to talk.”
“I know,” Kenny said. “Where is Sweetie anyway?”
McGill was wondering the same thing.
Then Kenny had another question. “Dad, you think Patti might stop by and see —”
Celsus Crogher knocked on the open door to the room.
He said, “The president would like to know —”
Kenny was way ahead of the SAC. He darted past Crogher and disappeared around the corner, almost giving heart attacks to several special agents following Holly G. as they saw an unidentified figure rush the president. Adrenaline surged and hands reached for weapons. It was only after the president embraced the boy and kissed the top of his head that they collectively exhaled.
Crogher, who’d almost had to call off the troops, shook his head.
Another McGill male giving him fits.
Kenny led Patti by the hand into the room where the family had gathered.
Passing Crogher, Kenny gave the SAC a sidelong glance.
Hardly in the mood to play along with a gag, Crogher remembered what Holly G. had told him about the boy’s problem, and he made a good guess what the kid wanted.
So he intoned, “Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States.”
Kenny shot Crogher another quick look.
The SAC added, “And Mister Kenneth McGill.”
To which Patti added, “Did somebody forget the flourish of trumpets?”
That got a laugh, but for a heartbeat Carolyn felt a deep green pang of jealousy, seeing Kenny hand in hand with Patti, his affection for her obvious.
How could an everyday suburban mom like her compete with Patricia Darden Grant?
Before she could tell herself that would be impossible, her jealousy was overtaken by a moment of grace. If Patti Grant could make Kenny happy, especially now, she would welcome her and be grateful.
Carolyn stepped forward and hugged the president. She introduced Patti to Lars. There was a moment of small talk before Nick cleared his throat.
“We should be going,” the White House physician said. “A number of very busy people will be waiting for us.”
Patti asked, “Can I give anyone a lift?”
She took everyone who hadn’t already booked passage with Leo.
Washington, D.C., Florida Avenue
Rockelle Bullard watched as Putnam Shady stood outside his townhouse with Margaret Sweeney and Welborn Yates. Except for the uniformed cops keeping the crime scene perimeter secure and the techs doing their thing, Rockelle was the lone representative of the Metropolitan Police Force in attendance. In the event that she had to swallow either her pride or a large helping of BS from someone who outranked a mere homicide lieutenant, she’d sent her detectives off to work actual murders.
If they were on hand and saw Rockelle humbled, her authority wouldn’t be undermined, it would be gone. And things were going to be hard enough as it was.
She’d been out on the street all night, and went right after Mr. Putnam Shady the moment he stepped out of his house. Margaret Sweeney had asked her to wait until then. Ticked Rockelle off, but she decided it would be smart to play along.
She said to Putnam, “Tell me something you forgot the last time we talked.”
There was no question in her mind the guy whose house got shot up knew a lot more about the three dead lobbyists — and maybe the pig pins — than he’d told her before. He played squash with Mark Benjamin? He knew a lot more than that, and she told him so.
To her surprise, the man didn’t argue.
He said, “You’re right, I do.”
“Well?” Rockelle said.
“If I told you, you’d never believe me.”
Getting right up in his face, Rockelle said, “I’ll be the judge of that.”
So he told her, and she didn’t believe him.
Not one little bit. But as crazy as life in Washington could be … Rockelle called Welborn Yates. Maybe he could get the guy to talk straight. She was pleased that Captain Yates was on the scene with her within twenty minutes. It really did chap her backside, though, that a man fifteen years her junior, with little more than two years on the job, already held a superior rank.
It was only because Welborn was so polite, honest and cooperative that she liked him at all. Oh, hell, she liked him a lot. Didn’t mean, though, there weren’t times she wished she could get mad at him. Like right after he showed up and Putnam Shady gave him the same cock-and-bull story he’d given her.
Only thing was, being a fed and hearing a story of what would be a gigantic federal crime if it wasn’t pure craziness, he hadn’t dismissed it out of hand. No, what Captain Yates had done was discuss the matter with Margaret Sweeney.
Shady swore to Ms. Sweeney and Welborn Yates he’d been truthful. Now, the three of them, in the light of morning, were looking at Mr. Shady’s residence. Adding to Rockelle’s headache, she’d been told Ms. Sweeney lived in the basement apartment in the building. Several rounds of gunfire had gone through her front windows. Had she been home at the time …
It was going to be a heavy lift, to put it mildly, to persuade Ms. Sweeney that she should be content to let the police handle the chore of finding the shooter. Rockelle could even sympathize with her. The woman had spent twenty years as a cop in Chicago; she’d told Rockelle that when she was polite enough to introduce herself.
Hearing Putnam Shady’s story again, Margaret Sweeney hadn’t thought the thing to do was scoff at it. No, she had made a phone call of her own.
And look at who was coming right now.
The man himself: James J. McGill, husband of the president of the United States. He was nice enough to explain himself to the cops at the perimeter. Showed them his ID like he was no big deal, all the while the Asian guy standing next to him — had to be Secret Service — looked like he’d reach for his Uzi if the Metro cops so much as gave the man any lip.
Things worked out with no blood being shed and McGill joined his friends.
Rockelle stood close enough to hear Putnam Shady say yet again: “What we plan to do is seize control of the United States government.”
Mr. McGill didn’t seem to find the idea fanciful. Not
even when Mr. Shady added as he had before: “In a perfectly legal way, of course.”
The president’s henchman took a minute to digest that. He whispered something to Ms. Sweeney. She turned to Rockelle and said, “Lieutenant Bullard, why don’t you join us?”
Rockelle headed their way.
Knowing McGill and friends wouldn’t be asking her permission to work the case.
Wondering if they’d be nice enough to leave something for her to do.
Q Street NW, Washington, DC
Hugh Collier woke up hungry. It reassured him when his appetite traveled with him. There were times when he seemed to leaved the damned thing back home in Oz. Oh, he’d feed himself on a more or less regular schedule, but he didn’t enjoy one meal in ten, and the food he consumed seemed to supply inadequate nutrition. Left him listless, not up to form.
It was at such times that he was susceptible to making one of his rare mistakes.
That morning the mere thought of food had him salivating. Breakfast would be just the thing if his biological clock had reset itself, but he was still on Sydney time, fifteen hours ahead of the Eastern U.S. He wanted a thick steak, grilled just enough to brown the outside. Fries and a green salad. And a beer or two.
He rushed through his morning scrub and shave and appeared in the kitchen with his hair still damp. It brought him up short to see … what was her name again, the Yank producer? Ellen? No, Ellie. Ellie … Booker. Yes, that was it.
She was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and a notebook.
Jotting notes to herself, it seemed.
Had she spent the night? He assumed she knew his preference in bedroom companions, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have kipped in a room down the hall. There were four bedrooms in the townhouse.
She looked at him standing there, his hair still damp, trying to suss things out, and she knew just what he was thinking. She held up a ring of keys. Now he remembered: She’d let him into the townhouse last night. He hoped she’d laid in his grocery order as well.
