Jim McGill 03 The K Street Killer

by Joseph Flynn

  Being shown the door once more might sting but he’d be able to salve his wounds in a beachfront villa somewhere. Maybe he’d even organize his own football league. One strictly for blokes like himself.

  In the meantime, he turned his TV on to Uncle Edbert’s local station.

  The better to see just what Ellie Booker thought was so important.

  Lafayette Park

  It was the thought of being undone by yet another woman that braced Burke Godfrey’s spine. He took the microphone from Benton Williams and spoke to the dark-haired woman standing directly in front of him. “Are you a member of my flock, sister?”

  His tone said clearly she was not.

  Elspeth was surprised by being publicly singled out.

  She knew immediately that retreat would be a mistake.

  Her best response would be to advance.

  She stepped up onto the speaker’s platform, catching Burke Godfrey off guard, backing him up a step and making several people gasp. The crowd’s tension was eased as Elspeth moved past Godfrey and whispered something to Benton Williams. The lawyer, by contrast, looked as if he’d been struck by lightning.

  He bobbed his head several times. He took the microphone from Burke Godfrey and the man by the arm for a quick conference. Elspeth stepped down from the platform and returned to her former place in the crowd, people making room for her. A couple of onlookers thought to question her, but she placed a shushing finger to her lips and nodded to the stage.

  Benton Williams addressed the gathering; Burke Godfrey stood behind him.

  “Reverend Godfrey will speak in just a moment, but first I want to remind all of you that this is a peaceful gathering and it is in everyone’s best interest that it remain so. What you are about to hear might upset you but, please, remain calm and orderly.”

  The lawyer’s words of caution alerted the Metro cops to be on guard. From his perch on the platform Williams could see they were readying themselves to take action. The uniformed Secret Service agents across the street were moving to reinforce their Metro brethren.

  “Please,” Williams beseeched, “everyone remain calm.”

  He’d misjudged the situation and his client badly. He had never thought things might come to grief, but the potential for a bad end to things had just become painfully clear.

  The lawyer glanced at the woman who’d spoken to him. She’d identified herself as a Secret Service special agent, had given him a glimpse of the automatic weapon under her coat. She’d warned him that Godfrey had better choose his words carefully, not incite the crowd to riot. If he singled her out for criticism and anyone laid hands on her she would use her weapon and any deaths that resulted would be on Godfrey’s head — and his.

  Williams took a deep breath and said, “Please welcome the pastor of the Salvation’s Path Church, the Reverend Burke Godfrey.”

  The lawyer had told the pastor just whom the woman he’d called sister was and what she had said. Going beyond that, Williams said he looked into the Secret Service agent’s eyes. If she came to grief, they wouldn’t have to worry about facing trial. The lawyer was sure the first burst of gunfire from her weapon would be directed their way.

  Now, he could only hope his client wasn’t feeling the call of martyrdom.

  Burke Godfrey looked over Elspeth Kendry’s head. He would begin as he usually did when addressing a large gathering. He would start by speaking to the far reaches of the gathering. The last would be first.

  “Mr. Williams has it exactly right, my dear friends and neighbors. In trying times, we must all strive to face our difficulties with a sense of peace.”

  A smattering of amens rose from the congregation.

  Even the cops, Godfrey could see, relaxed a bit.

  “We are all afflicted with sorrows over the course of our lives. The proper response is to pray for the strength to overcome them. In my present situation, I need more than my own prayers, I must ask for yours, too.”

  “You have mine,” a female voice called out. Other voices quickly called out, “Mine, too.”

  Godfrey raised a hand in benediction. “Thank you, sisters and brothers. I’ll need all the help I can get.”

  The minister cast a quick glance at Elspeth, let her know that he had a thousand people in the palm of his hand. Her life was his to take, if he wanted it. But Godfrey didn’t see any fear in her face; he saw she was holding something under her coat.

  And he remembered Benton Williams’ warning.

  Moreover, Godfrey’s sense of stagecraft told him he was alone on the platform now.

  The lawyer, minor character that he was, had made his exit.

  Godfrey didn’t mind; he never liked to share the spotlight.

  Lifting his head, he informed the multitudes, “My dear wife, my poor tormented Erna, has taken leave of her senses.”

  The crowd gasped. Godfrey didn’t know where that thought had come from, but he knew how to play along with an idea that got a response he liked.

  He continued, “The torture of her imprisonment, of being deprived of the company of her family and friends has driven her mad.” Godfrey quickly overrode the current of angry murmurs. “I wouldn’t have believed this, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

  “Testify!” a male voice demanded.

  “I will, brother, I will. I visited Erna in the vile federal prison in West Virginia where she’s being kept. I saw the woman I’ve loved for over forty years, but when I heard her speak, I knew she’d been replaced by a stranger. She confessed to me that she knew she had done wrong by taking the life of Andrew Hudson Grant, and was remorseful for her deed.”

  The overwhelming vocal response was a woeful moan.

  But one man called out, “The hell she did!”

  Elspeth didn’t turn to look for the speaker, but she’d bet there would several cops who’d pinpoint the creep. He’d be taken aside, talked to, have his personal information entered into several databases. If he had any outstanding warrants, he’d be arrested.

  “There’s more to this story, my friends,” Godfrey continued, “and this is what truly breaks my heart. Erna told me that she is going to implicate me in this terrible crime.”

  The crowd knew just how to respond to this news.

  Boos, jeers and shouts of no resounded across the park.

  The cops got tense again.

  Like an eccentric conductor of a great symphony orchestra, Godfrey raised his hands and dropped them in graceful arcs. After the crescendo came not the diminuendo but the rest. Then after the quiet came the voice of sweet reason.

  “Please don’t blame Erna. She’s suffered who knows what anguish in the time she’s been locked away from us.”

  “Torture!” a woman called, remembering Godfrey’s word.

  He was pleased that the seed he’d planted had already taken root.

  “That may well be, sister. I only visited that awful place for less than an hour and had my private parts grabbed for simply wanting to see my wife.”

  The boos and jeers were louder this time.

  With them came calls of “Shame!”

  Godfrey looked back at Elspeth.

  It angered him that she remained stoic.

  But it was not lost on him that she still held her weapon.

  Time to close, he thought. Wrap things up on a high note.

  “Friends … friends and neighbors. Brothers and sisters, please. Let your hearts be filled with peace and love. Let your resolve remain strong.” Inspiration came to Godfrey. The spirit was with him. “We must remember that the threat of being executed has already been lifted from Erna. Let us now work to see that she’s freed and restored to us … and to her right mind.”

  A wave of cheers filled the park. Here was a goal they all endorsed. Burke Godfrey was tempted to call for donations for his sake and Erna’s. He thought better of the idea. The money would come on its own.

  He simply offered his blessing. Happy with the way things had turned out.

&
nbsp; Except he was denied the chance to smile triumphantly at the Secret Service woman.

  She had disappeared into the crowd.

  Reverend Godfrey would have been more upset had he known what Elspeth was thinking. She was going to draft a memo to SAC Crogher with a request to forward it to the Attorney General. To wit: Reverend Godfrey has a serious problem with strong women. Recommend, in the matter of an eventual criminal trial, a forceful female prosecutor.

  McGill Investigations, Inc.

  Carolyn had told McGill that she would be staying at the hospital around the clock, until the crisis with Kenny was over. Lars would return home for the time being to run his business. Abbie would be returning to school to keep her mind on her upcoming studies as best she could. That left Caitie. Would it be all right, Carolyn asked, if she stayed at the White House?

  McGill assured both his ex-wife and his daughter that would be fine.

  Patti told Carolyn, “Caitie, Abbie, you and Lars are always welcome. At the White House, Camp David or wherever else we might be.”

  The president extended her hand to Caitie. McGill’s younger daughter first embraced her mother fiercely, then her father and gave Lars a peck on the cheek. Then she left with Patti, finally giving in to tears.

  Abbie, doing her best to keep her own emotions in check, asked McGill, “Will you give me a ride to school, Dad?”

  “Of course,” he said. Turning to Carolyn, he said, “I’ll be back as soon as Abbie’s settled in.”

  She took his hand and said, “We’d just worry more, the two of us together. Do what Kenny asked you to do, help Sweetie. I’ll call if … I’ll call.”

  McGill, Carolyn and Abbie all embraced.

  Abbie kissed Lars and McGill shook his hand.

  On the way to Georgetown University, McGill and Abbie sat quietly holding hands. Up front, Deke and Leo didn’t say a word. What McGill focused on were Kenny’s words. He was going to beat his disease. He had things he wanted to do.

  Back at his office, McGill had his own things to do.

  The first was to return Clare Tracy’s call.

  Tapping out the numbers on his cell phone, he wondered what she wanted …

  How she had changed …

  And if talking to her would rekindle any old feelings.

  The call was answered and he said, “Hello, Clare. This is Jim McGill.”

  Q Street, N.W.

  Ellie Booker got lucky and found a parking space directly outside of Hugh Collier’s townhouse. Better yet, it was the last open spot on the block. The sedan with the two feds in it that had followed her from Lafayette Park had nowhere to pull in — but when you were Secret Service working out of the White House, Ellie saw, you could damn well double-park wherever you pleased.

  The two suits hadn’t tried to be subtle while they were following her car, had all but tailgated her, and now they sat there parked illegally and stared at her. One of them, damn him, even took her picture. Ellie turned her back on them, ran up Hugh’s front steps and banged on the door. It opened a moment later and she rushed inside, her jaw clenched.

  “Where’s the bloody fire?” Hugh asked. He leaned out to look for trouble, saw the man in the car with the camera pointed at him, ducked back inside and slammed the door. He turned to Ellie and asked, “Secret Service? McGill’s men?”

  Ellie nodded. “Has to be.”

  “Come with me,” Hugh said.

  He led her to a first floor office with no windows, flipped a switch on a black box that set a red light aglow. Hugh sat behind the room’s small desk and Ellie took the only guest chair.

  “If they’re able to eavesdrop on us in here,” he said, “Uncle Edbert is going to be very upset. The security measures in this glorified cubbyhole costs as much as the rest of the place combined.”

  He shook his head.

  “What?” Ellie asked.

  “I’m a terrible host,” he said getting up. “What would you like to drink?”

  “Poland Spring,” she said.

  “Yours before you know it.”

  He left the safe room, closing the door, and went to the kitchen. He plucked Ellie’s bottled water from the fridge along with a bottle of Little Creatures for himself. Before returning to his colleague, Hugh used a key to open what looked like a breadbox. Inside was a device that looked like a tablet computer. He switched it on and saw an image of Ellie, sitting right where he left her, not peeking into any of his desk drawers. He wondered if she was too smart to do so. Did she suspect he would be watching her, privately recording their discussion for his own records? He wouldn’t be surprised if she was.

  He locked the breadbox and returned to the safe room.

  Closing the door behind him, he handed Ellie her drink.

  “Hope you can make do without a glass.”

  She nodded and took a long drink. Hugh liked that. He’d never had a woman as a close friend, but he was beginning to think his Ms. Booker might be the first. If it turned out she had a keen sense of humor, maybe the two of them could play a joke on his old man.

  Knock on his door one day, share a big kiss when he opened it and say, “Look, Father, I’m cured!”

  “What’s funny?” Ellie asked, seeing his smile.

  “Life, more often than not. I watched your feed of Reverend Godfrey preaching to the choir. Why don’t you tell me what the camera missed?”

  Ellie told him.

  Hugh’s eyes got big. “You’ve got that in digital sound?”

  “Not the Secret Service agent, but Benton Williams. He told Burke Godfrey he was sure the fed would shoot them if Godfrey caused any trouble for her. He was speaking quietly, but he was holding the microphone right between Godfrey and himself.”

  Hugh said, “I recognized the woman the moment she stepped onstage; she was the bird I saw at McGill’s offices. Even if we don’t have audio of her making the threat, we see that she spoke to Williams immediately before he reported the threat to Godfrey. That will certainly be good enough for Uncle Edbert.”

  “And ninety-nine point nine percent of our viewing audience,” Ellie added.

  Hugh laughed. “That pesky point one percent is still holding out. We’ll have to do something about those damn malcontents.”

  Ellie grinned, and that was enough for Hugh to think the joke on Dad was on.

  “Given that he had an armed critic standing front row center,” Hugh said, “I think the reverend acquitted himself commendably. Hinting his wife had fled from reason, that she was likely being tortured and that the only fair thing to do was to set her free.”

  Ellie nodded. “A ballsy speech for a guy who complained about a little jailhouse grope.”

  “Ah, but that was the underpinning to the claim of torture.”

  “I know,” Ellie said, “but I think the guy is basically a wuss.”

  Hugh squinted at her. “You, you’re part of that point one percent.”

  “Don’t tell Uncle Edbert,” Ellie told him.

  They both laughed.

  Hugh told Ellie about his meeting with Clare Tracy and her admission of becoming pregnant by McGill. Ellie shook her head. “No, no way.”

  “The lady made me pay ninety thousand dollars for that information, and I believe her.”

  Ellie said, “But I checked McGill out down to his Dr. Scholl’s and found only his three kids with Carolyn Enquist, formerly McGill, née Roberts.”

  Hugh said, “Adoptions are confidential in this country, aren’t they?”

  “Yes … You think McGill’s got a kid out there he doesn’t know about?”

  Hugh posed another question. “Medical records are also confidential?”

  Ellie knew right where he was going. “McGill’s girlfriend got an abortion?”

  “He may have held her hand all the way to the clinic. I don’t know that, but research is one of your strengths, isn’t it? And now you have two new possibilities to pursue.”

  Ellie nodded vigorously, and stopped abruptly.

&nbs
p; “We’ve got work to do, but we’ve also got those creeps outside watching us.”

  “Terrible,” Hugh said. “Almost like having paparazzi pursue you.”

  Ellie gave him a baleful look. “Don’t you like your job?”

  “For the time being, until I can open or buy a successful brewery.”

  “And right now?”

  Hugh said, “Well, I’m an extraordinarily good looking bloke and you’re a sleek and stylish sheila, but I’ll wager we can hire enough passable lookalikes to make our watchers’ heads spin, leaving us free to go about our skulduggery.”

  Ellie smiled. “Will Uncle Edbert pay for that?”

  “Bugger him, if he won’t. We’ll fudge our accounts.”

  They set about making their plans.

  Ellie ever so glad Hugh had left the room.

  Giving her all the time she needed to turn on the audio recorder in her handbag.

  P Street, Georgetown

  Sweetie’s 1969 Malibu came stock with a 396 cubic inch V8 engine. After some friends of Leo Levy’s from his NASCAR days worked their high-performance magic on the venerable piece of Detroit iron, it would outrun six-figure exotics and corner like it was on rails. Putnam, sitting beside Sweetie, kept begging her for a chance to drive it. He’d hit upon a persuasive argument: He’d pick up her gas tab.

  Leo’s friends hadn’t worried about mileage and insisted that the Malibu be fed nothing but super premium. With the price of gas approaching four dollars a gallon, the toll was nearing the weekly grocery bill of that little old lady who lived in a shoe. A horde of insatiable kids and a super-muscle car, they both cost a small fortune to keep full.

  Even so, allowing Putnam to sit in her driver’s seat was, for Sweetie, nearly as intimate a concession as allowing him into her bed, but she had to admit that probably wasn’t too far away either. Maybe if he offered to do her laundry. Sweetie smiled at the thought.