Jim McGill 03 The K Street Killer

by Joseph Flynn

  Brad Attles had never thought of himself as a Judas, but when you’re facing —

  Somebody cleared his throat, sounded like he was about to bring up a lung.

  Pulled Attles right out of his reverie. He saw a guy with a gun.

  A great big gun. Not a peashooter like that cracker in Louisiana had.

  Attles would have been worried if —

  He never got to complete the thought. He was shot twice in the chest.

  When the cops found him, there was a pig pin on his lapel.

  Detectives Meeker and Beemer of the Metro Police had concluded by now the pin was a knockoff of Porky Pig.

  Chapter 3

  Wednesday, August 17th , GWU Hospital,

  As with anything else of consequence, there were always new lessons to be learned about donating bone marrow. Research showed that matching a small number of human leukocyte antigen (HLA) markers was the most important factor to a positive transplant outcome. Matching six specific markers was the goal for any would-be donor: two A markers, two B markers and two DRB1 markers.

  A prospective adult donor had to match a minimum of five of the six markers to be acceptable. Matching all six was ideal.

  McGill and Sweetie came the closest to qualifying with four matching markers each. Carolyn, Abbie and Caitie had three apiece; Lars had only two. Everyone in the family was disappointed that none of them would be able to donate to Kenny. With Nick and Dr. Divya Sahir Jones, the acting chief oncologist on Kenny’s team, for company, McGill and Carolyn went to Kenny’s room to break the news.

  And to encourage him with the further news that dozens and possibly hundreds of volunteers would be lining up to be potential donors.

  When they arrived at Kenny’s room, however, they were forced to wait.

  Kenny was on the phone. He held a hand up to everyone, asking a moment’s indulgence. Both McGill and Carolyn thought their son looked unnaturally pale, but they were encouraged to see a smile on his face.

  “Yeah, I think it should be okay,” Kenny said. “I know Caitie said she would donate, and she’s younger than we are. Huh? No, I don’t know that. Mom and Dad and Lars take care of that stuff. Right now, they’re staying at this cool place right across the street from the White House. What? Oh, sure, I can do that. Hold on.”

  Kenny put his hand over the phone and asked the room nurse for the hospital’s address. He relayed it to the person on the other end of the conversation. He smiled again and said, “Thanks. Yeah, I look forward to — What?” The boy’s expression became serious. “Sure, of course. Don’t worry about that … well, try not to. I’ll be here, promise. Yeah, bye.”

  Kenny put the phone down. Took a deep breath and sighed.

  He told his parents, “That was Liesl Eberhardt.”

  Carolyn said, “How nice of her to call. Is she going to send you a card?”

  McGill read his son’s eyes and knew it was more than that.

  “She might bring one, I suppose,” Kenny said.

  “Liesl’s coming here?” his mother asked.

  Kenny nodded. “Her mom’s going to find a hotel close by.”

  McGill said, “She asked about donating?”

  His son bobbed his head, trying to hold back tears.

  “In case one of you guys don’t match. She said she’s organizing other kids from school, too. You know, make the number as big as possible in case … So what did they tell you? Can one of you be my donor?”

  Carolyn and McGill stood next to Kenny’s bed, told him what the blood tests showed. Told him that the Secret Service, the Marines and lots of other people at the White House would be coming in to be tested, too.

  “Patti will be coming as well,” McGill said.

  “To visit?” Kenny asked.

  “Sure, that too. But she’ll have her blood tested like everyone else.”

  That took Carolyn by surprise, but she kept it to herself.

  Dr. Jones and Nick outlined to Kenny what his immediate course of treatment would be. He listened closely as they began, but his attention began to drift. He said he was getting tired and would like to sleep.

  His parents kissed him goodbye.

  Everyone but the room nurse left.

  Kenny thanked her for allowing the call from Liesl to reach him.

  “Anyone else outside your family you want to hear from, other than Ms. Sweeney?”

  Kenny thought about it for a minute. He yawned. He was so tired.

  But he had one name to offer. “There’s this old guy with white hair who comes in for his meds. His name’s Zack.”

  The nurse nodded. She knew just who Kenny meant.

  Washington, D.C., The National Mall

  Sweetie and Putnam had been running the Mall when the call came. Sweetie had moderated her pace to allow Putnam to keep up, but his fitness level was increasing and she was approaching the pace she used when running alone. She took his near arm as she plucked her phone from the waistband of her shorts. The two of them moved into the shade of a tree that bordered the running path. Sweetie did a three-hundred-and-sixty degree scan before she answered.

  No villains in sight.

  She saw the call was from Jim McGill and answered by saying, “You, me or Carolyn, who gets to donate?”

  “None of us,” McGill told her.

  Sweetie’s jaw clenched. This was one of the rare times when she wished she allowed herself to use profanities. Putnam understood her need and filled the gap.

  “Damn,” he said.

  “So we get the volunteers lined up?” Sweetie asked.

  “Yeah. Patti, lots of people at the White House, Kenny even has a classmate flying in.”

  Putnam overheard and tapped his chest.

  “Putnam says put him on the list, too.”

  McGill said, “Please give him our thanks.”

  Putnam waved his hand: no big deal.

  “He says he’s glad to do it.”

  “We still appreciate it. Did you tell him Patti wants to talk with him?”

  Sweetie hadn’t. Putnam’s eyebrows rose. He mimed, “The president?”

  Sweetie nodded. “He’ll be happy to do that, too.”

  Putnam looked like he’d rather have a needle inserted into his spine.

  “Give Edwina a call,” McGill said. “She’ll set up a time.”

  “Right.”

  Putnam pointed at Sweetie.

  “My friend would like to know if I can accompany him?”

  “I thought of that, and Patti is always happy to see you, Margaret.”

  Putnam looked somewhat relieved.

  McGill asked, “Any new developments?”

  Sweetie said, “If it hasn’t gone public yet, it will soon. We got a call from Lieutenant Bullard early this morning.”

  “Another shooting victim?” McGill asked.

  Sweetie said, “Yes. A man by the name of Brad Attles.”

  The name was unfamiliar to McGill and he said so.

  “Putnam says this one is going to make headlines. Mr. Attles was not only a prominent lobbyist but was also Speaker Derek Geiger’s personal divorce lawyer. Extricated him from two prior marriages without serious financial damage.”

  There was more to the story than that, Sweetie had been told, but she wasn’t about to share that news via cell phone. There were too many people with scanners who might be listening in. She wondered how soon it would be before smart phones encrypted their calls.

  “We’ll deal with the media,” McGill said. “There have been no further threats against Mr. Shady?”

  Now that Putnam had volunteered to step up for Kenny, there was, in McGill’s opinion, another good reasons to keep him upright and breathing.

  “It was a quiet night,” Sweetie said. “Now, we’re jogging at the Mall.”

  “Okay. I’ll sit in on the meeting with Patti, too.”

  Sweetie thought that was smart. It would be good for all of them to have something to take their minds off Kenny’s situation.


  “Good,” she said. “See you then.”

  Ending the call with McGill, she took another look around.

  And saw a thin woman with a camera crew pointing at them.

  She had to have some fine eyesight to spot them standing there in the shade.

  Sweetie didn’t know who they were or what they wanted but she asked Putnam, “You think you can outrun a bunch of TV snoops?”

  Putnam nodded and they took off, staying off the running path, dodging between the trees. Making it tougher for the guy lugging the videocam. But the thin woman was wearing sensible shoes and if not catching up she was at least matching their pace.

  As they ran, Putnam’s phone sounded.

  He let voicemail answer.

  Missing, for the moment, the call from Speaker Derek Geiger.

  Washington, D.C. 24th Street, NW

  The car thief used a credit card bearing the name Stephen Tully to rent a gray Ford mid-size sedan from Hertz. The only time he drove a stolen ride were the minutes — never more than thirty — between the instant he grabbed it and the moment he dropped it off with the buyer. He did everything he could to limit his exposure to the cops.

  That was why the only job he screwed up, the one in Vegas, still bothered him years later. Those Air Force guys in the other car either had to be in mad hurry to get back to base or they were just complete assholes. Sure, they’d been in the right — had the green — but so the fuck what? They had to see him coming. Had to see he wasn’t slowing down.

  Anybody with the brainpower of a bedbug would have known he wasn’t going to stop. Goddamnit, the light going his way hadn’t turned red more than a second before. But the Air Force hotshot behind the wheel jumped the green like a drag racer. He must’ve thought he could clear the thief’s car. Expected he’d give his buddies a scare and himself a giggle.

  Leave them all with a good story to tell when they got old.

  Shithead. Three of ‘em never would get old, and the fourth …

  He was the one who haunted the thief every day of his life.

  “You see that, mister?”

  The kid in the passenger seat had spoken to him. He said he was fifteen, looked maybe ten. Tully was paying the kid’s dad for his time. The dad had been another car thief. Now, he consulted, read tech manuals by day and at night told dudes who still boosted what they’d need to do to get away with high end cars.

  The consultant also had a guy who hacked into manufacturers’ computer systems and got all the latest factory specs. Tully had gone to him to see if he had any information on McGill’s special Chevy. He didn’t, but he said he might know someone who could get it.

  The price would be high, of course.

  The thief told him to get the price and he’d see if his buyer wanted to pay it.

  In the meantime, he’d try to get a look at the Chevy and the guy who drove it, because as he’d shown in Baltimore there was more than one way to steal a high-end ride. Sometimes it was as simple as dusting the guy behind the wheel.

  He’d kept that option to himself.

  As it was, he’d had to talk in front of the consultant’s kid.

  “The boy’s the next generation of the business,” the guy had said.

  “I’m good with math,” the kid explained.

  “Genius with electronics,” the proud father added.

  “How the hell old are you?” the thief asked the kid.

  He claimed to be fifteen … but the thief thought the little bastard could pose as his son if he did the tourist bit, walk around the White House, eyeball the grounds, see if he could spot the Chevy, get a better idea of what was what. He’d look a lot less suspicious if he had a kid with him.

  Turned out the little shit’s time billed out at five hundred a day.

  But they’d not only spotted the Chevy, they’d seen the driver get in and turn the engine over. They were even able to follow the Chevy to an outdoor parking area on 24th Street.

  The lot was monitored by cameras. The thief saw a guy get out of the Chevy’s back seat. He looked like he might be carrying a gun. An Asian guy got out of the shotgun seat and he definitely was packing. But now the kid was asking if he’d seen something.

  “See what?” the thief asked, driving past the lot.

  “The two black sedans following us. Saw ‘em in the sideview. Was just the one at first, then another pulled in behind it. First one has guys in it, guys like us don’t want to know.”

  The thief stopped for a red light. A black sedan pulled up on his right. He looked over. Casual, no big deal. Saw two guys in the front seat. Cut from the same mold as the Asian guy. The thief put his eyes back on the road. But out of the corner of his eye he saw the kid give them a wave.

  Being cute, the little asshole.

  The light turned green and the thief checked for cross-traffic.

  He made it through the intersection without accident or arrest.

  “Guy in the Chevy has some protection, huh?” the kid asked.

  Sure the hell did. Maybe too much. Of course, if the thief wanted to retire …

  Knocking off that Chevy could be the score of a lifetime.

  Salvation’s Path Church, Richmond, Virginia

  The Reverend Burke Godfrey sat in the front pew of his chapel, the original church he and Erna had purchased. His head was bowed, his eyes closed. He beseeched the Almighty to visit his grace upon Erna that she might see the error of her thinking. Turning him in to the feds, landing him in prison, that would put an end to the ministry he’d worked his whole life to build.

  If Erna refused to see the light, he begged the Lord to bring him home right now. Let his last moments on earth be right where he sat. He would pass with a smile on his lips, and the word would spread. He’d died at peace in the place that meant the most to him. Thousands would attend his memorial service. He’d become even larger in death than he had been in life.

  Though Godfrey had spoken publicly many times of hearing directly from the Lord, no heavenly voice reached him when he needed it most. The only thing he heard was the steady beat of his heart. He’d never been one to exercise. The only way he worked up a sweat was preaching to his flock. And if he had any weakness of the flesh, it was eating. He loved home cooking, had always had at least one helping too many, and once Erna had been sent away the extra food rose to two helpings. But his heart kept beating good and strong, like it might go on forever.

  Lord, where was the fairness, he asked.

  Seated halfway back in the church was the reverend’s lawyer, Benton Williams. He’d been summoned by Godfrey and could have waited for the him in his office, but he wanted to observe the man, determine what his state of mind might be. Knowing that would be helpful in planning a strategy for Godfrey’s upcoming trial. The lawyer was sure the preacher’s judgment day was coming, at least in the legal sense.

  Godfrey hadn’t told Williams why he wanted to see him when he’d called, but the lawyer had long ago charmed Willa Bramleigh, the televangelist’s personal secretary, and she had felt it within the bounds of propriety to tell Williams that Reverend Godfrey had recently returned from Hazelton, West Virginia: the residence now and for the foreseeable future of Mrs. Godfrey.

  As far as Williams knew, it was the first time the reverend’s wife had allowed him to visit her. That might have been a good sign, if the meeting hadn’t necessitated a call to a criminal defense attorney. Drawing the inference wasn’t hard. Mrs. Godfrey had told her husband to set his affairs in order because his circumstances were about to change.

  Simply put, she was going to implicate the reverend as a participant in the crime for which she was already being punished.

  Put more simply still, she was going to rat him out.

  Benton Williams thought a lifetime of monogamy deserved better than that.

  He wondered if Godfrey would allow him to destroy Erna’s credibility by destroying her. He’d been on the clock since the preacher had called him and asked him to come to Richmond. Now,
sitting silently in a church, the lawyer was shifting into high gear.

  Ellie Booker sat at the back of the church, looking at the place with a TV producer’s eye. She thought the architect had done a terrific job restoring the old church. At first glance, the place had the look of a traditional place of worship. But there were no seats with obstructed views. The placement of the platforms for television cameras were both strategic and inconspicuous. The lighting, even dialed down now that the cameras were off, was gorgeous; she’d bet it was positively celestial when the lumens were cranked up. She was also sure the sound system and acoustics would be first rate, too. Mike up the reverend and she was sure even a whisper would reach the back row.

  The place, she estimated, would hold five hundred, but the feeling was still cozy, churchy. Ellie wasn’t particularly religious, but she appreciated good stagecraft. A place like this created an atmosphere where messages would be easily received and accepted.

  The only reason she was there, however, was because Benton Williams had asked her to come along. Having chased but failed to catch Margaret Sweeney and the guy she was with earlier that morning had left Ellie Booker gasping for breath and more than a little pissed off. She was sure a jock like Hugh Collier could have caught them, but he was off pursuing another lead. Leaving her to literally chase the story in D.C.

  Aussie prick.

  Ellie wasn’t one to let anger distract her for long, though. If McGill was inaccessible and Margaret Sweeney had run off to parts unknown, she’d do what any good TV snoop in her situation would do: find her target’s enemies and see what they had to say about him. Foremost among McGill’s adversaries, as she saw things, was Reverend Burke Godfrey. When she had called the man’s church, the woman answering the phone referred her to the reverend’s attorney.

  That sent a chill down Ellie’s spine. The presence of an attorney in any situation involving a prominent person suggested that a scandal or even a crime was about to go public. In other words, great TV was in the offing. When Benton Williams had asked if she’d like to accompany him on the drive to Richmond, she’d felt like a little girl about to be given a pony for her birthday.