Jim McGill 03 The K Street Killer

by Joseph Flynn

  Not in this life.

  There was nothing to be gained by continuing to stand vigil. McGill led Carolyn to the lounge where their daughters slept. The two of them sat on a loveseat, looking at their girls, both of their daughters breathing easily, their complexions aglow with good health, each of them a picture of a promising future.

  How could anyone explain why one person’s life could be so consummately fortunate … while another’s life seemed so casually disposable?

  McGill was attempting to plumb those insoluble mysteries when Carolyn put a hand on his wrist and made an agonized confession.

  “I had a terrible thought today.” McGill looked at Carolyn but left it to her to say what the thought was. “When I saw that Patti came to be tested … I thought let it be anyone but her who can save my son. Now, what … what if she might have been the only one who could have saved Kenny? The last time I asked, they still didn’t have a match.”

  McGill sighed. “I don’t think any doctor would back you up on that, a moment of being less than charitable changing a medical outcome.”

  “Being jealous,” Carolyn said.

  “Okay,” McGill allowed.

  He didn’t understand Carolyn’s feelings. She and Lars had always seemed happy together to him. But if she —

  “Now, Clare Tracy’s coming, too.”

  McGill looked Carolyn in the eye. “How do you know that?”

  “I saw her name on the to-be-tested list. Does Patti know?”

  “She knows Clare called me. I’m going to tell her about Clare coming to town.”

  Carolyn nodded, and looked away. McGill, gently turned her chin back.

  “What does it matter? I’d be happy if Galia Mindel or Celsus Crogher has what it takes to donate to Kenny.”

  “They don’t. They’ve been eliminated.”

  That came as news to McGill, and showed him just how closely Carolyn was monitoring Kenny’s situation.

  “My point’s still the same,” McGill said, “anyone who can save Kenny is fine by me.”

  “But …” Carolyn looked over to Abbie and Caitie. Saw they were still asleep. “But Patti is your wife and the president of the United States. Clare was your first love and she runs Mother’s Milk. She’s a mover and shaker, too. Then there’s me, poor little miss in-between, a housewife, can’t even save her own son. So dumb she divorces a guy other far more accomplished women would fight for. How’s it going to make me feel if Patti or Clare can save Kenny when I can’t?”

  McGill was nearly at a loss as to how he might respond. Nearly.

  “Wonderful,” he said. “Thankful. Drop to your knees grateful. That’s how you’ll feel, and I won’t even say I told you so.” He nodded in their daughters’ direction. “Look at Abbie and Caitie and tell me how you can feel second to anyone I’ve ever known.”

  McGill had kept his voice down but the force of his words made Carolyn draw back.

  “I’m such a fool,” she said.

  “You’re scared silly. You’re exhausted. If you’re a fool, too, that only complicates matters.” He finished the riff with as much of a smile as he could muster.

  Carolyn moved close and hugged him.

  A moment later, Deke appeared. He had his cousin, Francis Nguyen, with him. The former Catholic priest, current pastor of an independent Christian parish in Massachusetts, extended his hands to McGill, inquiring if he wanted help.

  McGill did and he left Carolyn in Father Nguyen’s keeping. After kissing his sleeping girls, he took another look at Kenny and whispered a brief prayer.

  Then he left for the White House to talk to the present Mrs. James J. McGill.

  McGill’s Hideaway

  In Nixonian fashion, the First Couple had a blaze going in the fireplace and the AC cranked up high. They sat shoulder to shoulder on the leather sofa in the room and stared at the flames, listened to the crackle of wood combusting. Short of an imminent nuclear attack, they were not to be disturbed.

  McGill, normally not one to blab a confidence, told Patti about Carolyn’s admission of feeling inadequate. Jealous, in her own word. He didn’t feel good about doing it, but he had to relieve himself of the emotional burden.

  Having done so, he laughed humorlessly and shook his head.

  “What?” Patti asked.

  “Here I am unloading my baggage on you, and you just might have one or two worries of your own, things you brought home from the office. What a great guy I am.”

  Patti turned McGill’s face away from the flames and toward her.

  She kissed him with a warmth the fire couldn’t match.

  “The day I can’t be here for you is the day I resign,” Patti said. “Carolyn can’t be blamed for anything she’s feeling right now. Neither can you.”

  McGill took her hand. “Kenny just looks so … so much closer to leaving us than to staying. It’s breaking my heart.”

  “Mine, too.” She kissed him again. “Will you excuse me for a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  Alone now, McGill went back to staring at the fire. The logs were all merrily alight, but the stack maintained its structural integrity. As the burn continued, though, there would be the inevitable collapse. The pile that had been neat and tidy when set alight would become a random smoking jumble.

  Thinking about that, a sense of grim determination steeled McGill. Whatever happened to Kenny, he wasn’t going to let the rest of his family fall into a charred heap. Someone would have to hold them all together, and that was going to be him. Abbie and Caitie would especially need him to be there for them. Carolyn, he’d help as much as he could, but Lars would have to shoulder most of that burden.

  Knowing Lars was a solid guy gave him a measure of comfort. He’d step up.

  By the time Patti returned a few minutes later, McGill was no less sad, but the awful feeling of dread that had filled his heart had receded. He was ready to discuss other matters.

  Patti handed him one of the two glasses she’d brought with her. Other than the occasional beer, McGill wasn’t much of a drinker, but now was not the time to decline the offer. He took a sip, felt warmed inside and tasted cherries. He loved cherries.

  Patti saw he was pleased and said, “Kir. We’ll keep a bottle handy.”

  McGill kissed his wife, and opened a new topic of discussion.

  He told her about his time with Clare Tracy, how it ended and that Hugh Collier had interviewed Clare that morning. He told Patti how he’d spoken to Clare for the first time in almost thirty years earlier that day, and that Clare had volunteered to be tested as a potential donor.

  “She’s terrific,” Patti said.

  “Clare told me the two of you know each other. I had no idea.”

  Patti smiled. “Your disinterest in politics is ironic, considering the women in your life.”

  McGill said, “I came by it honestly. In Chicago, if a cop got ahead by virtue of City Hall connections, his people had nothing but contempt for him, except for the suckups. I never wanted to be one of those guys. I just worked hard and kept my nose clean.”

  “Moved to the suburbs when you had your twenty years in,” Patti said.

  McGill had been the chief of police in Winnetka, where he’d met his future wife.

  “Best career move I ever made.” He took another sip of the kir, liked it. “Collier is trying to find dirt on me.”

  “For his uncle, Sir Edbert Bickford, lord and master of WorldWide News, no friend of mine or this administration. He smears you, he smears me.”

  McGill said, “I’ve done my best to stay out of politics the past two years, but with Putnam Shady planning to take over the government and Bickford looking to hurt both of us, I think that’s got to end.”

  “You’re right, but we’ll have to be careful how you go about it.”

  “That might be easier said than done.”

  “Why?” Patti asked.

  McGill told her about Harlo Geiger wanting to hire him.

  Patti gulped her
drink, laughed and said, “This damn town.”

  McGill finished his kir and responded, “I don’t think it’d be fair to have Putnam work the speaker if I don’t see what Harlo can tell me.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to keep client information confidential?”

  “That’s always been the weakest part of my game,” McGill told her.

  “Well, don’t worry, if you get in trouble, I’ll grant you a pardon.”

  McGill smiled, thinking maybe he’d ask for more kir.

  Patti said, “I’m serious, Jim. We’ll all do what we have to do in this situation. If you or anyone else working for me gets in trouble, you’ve got a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

  The logs in the fireplace collapsed with a thump.

  And the phone rang, startling McGill.

  “I thought —”

  Patti told him, “I asked for this call when I went to get the drinks.” She picked up the phone on the end table near her and said, “Yes?”

  Whoever was on the other end of the call had enough to say that McGill saw his wife’s face go through a series of reactions: eyes going wide, lips broadening in a smile, tears sheening both eyes.

  “What is it?” McGill asked.

  Patti concluded the call, saying, “Yes, thank you, that’s wonderful news. Goodbye.”

  “What?” McGill repeated.

  Patti told him, “I had Nick check to see what that latest results on the blood tests for potential donors were. Jim … they’ve got two matches.”

  The glass fell out of McGill’s hand.

  He felt drained, and then bursting with energy. Daring to hope.

  “Who, who are they?”

  “The first is Clare.”

  “But she’s not even here yet,” McGill said.

  “No, she’s not. There was some sort of air traffic control problem tying up New York City. So she went to a hospital there and got the test. They transmitted the results to GWU. A six-point match.”

  “That’s perfect, right?” McGill asked.

  “Yes, Clare’s on the Acela, coming to Washington right now.”

  McGill’s eyes filled. “Who else?” he asked. “Who’s the other donor?”

  Patti told him in a word, “Me.”

  K Street, N.W.

  Beemer had absolutely fucking had it. Curl his toes so they didn’t stretch out his fancy shoes? He doubted if any of his ten toes would ever straighten out again. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if half of them didn’t have to be cut off. That fancy Mercedes, it was going to be just part of his settlement after he got done suing the city for maiming him.

  That little stick-figure fuck of a partner of his, Meeker, he could do the next undercover. Didn’t have to pad him out or anything. Somebody came along wanting to shoot, let the bastard turn sideways. He’d disappear from view and nobody in the world could —

  “Pedestrian approaching.”

  The warning sounded in his earbud. They’d been giving him heads-ups for the past two hours. His attention had been drifting. He couldn’t think of anything except how much his feet were hurting, felt like the sidewalk was the bed of a damn blast furnace.

  Meeker had told him he was walking funny; he should try to get back into a normal stride. Beemer had said if he heard any more shit about anything he was going to take his gun out of his fancy briefcase and start shooting at any window that had a light on behind it.

  No further criticism was forthcoming.

  Beemer lifted his gaze from the next square of pavement ahead of him and saw someone coming his way. Looked like he was moving a bit stiffly himself. He was big, too, right about Beemer’s height, but he was a white man, old enough to have white hair.

  He was wearing a right nice suit of his own.

  The cop in Beemer asked why a guy like that would be out for a stroll so late.

  ‘Specially when he really was having trouble walking.

  Beemer got a glance at what looked like a gold watch on the man’s left wrist. Just the sort of thing your enterprising D.C. smash-and-grab man would love to take off an infirm old coot, even a big one. Then the kind of atavistic suspicion that had saved many a cop from an early grave kicked in and pierced the pain of Beemer’s sore feet. He thought: What if this old SOB is running a game here? Pretending to be an easy mark. Seeing Beemer, who might resemble a lobbyist, if the guy’s eyes weren’t too good, and lulling him into a false sense of security.

  Then, bang, another body’s down, and Beemer’s mama is crying.

  When the old guy got within ten feet, Beemer thought fuck it, broke cover and held a hand out like he was a traffic cop.

  “Hold it right there, grandpa,” he said.

  It took the old man a couple of halting steps to comply and he tottered for a moment like he might pitch forward on his face. Beemer didn’t rush to catch him. Be a real foolish thing to stop somebody from falling and get gutshot for your trouble.

  Meeker’s voice sounded in Beemer’s ear.

  “The hell you doin’, man?”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Beemer said.

  The old guy thought Beemer was talking to him.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t say anything.”

  For a moment Beemer saw fear in the eyes under the white hair.

  “Not you, man.”

  “Then who?”

  Getting angry again, Beemer said, “Never mind about that.”

  Despite facing a large, scowling black man, the fear passed from the white man’s face.

  “You’re a cop,” he said.

  “Sonofabitch,” Beemer said.

  And that bastard Meeker laughed in his ear.

  Beemer pulled the bud out of his ear. Squeezed the knot of his tie until he felt the microphone crumple. Made it clear to everyone he wasn’t undercover material.

  “How’d you know?” Beemer asked.

  “My father was a chief of police. I’ve seen all sorts of cops.”

  That’d explain it, all right, Beemer thought.

  “Let me see some ID, mister.”

  “Have I done something wrong … detective, is it?”

  Guy really had him figured out. “As sore as my feet are, I don’t need a reason.”

  “I see. You won’t mind if I reach for my wallet then?”

  “Just do it slow.”

  “That’s the only way I do anything these days.” He took his wallet from a pocket inside his suit coat, spread the coat wide so Beemer could see he wasn’t carrying. The sore-footed cop appreciated that.

  When Beemer saw who he had stopped he winced. He’d be lucky if the man didn’t have his ass on a platter. Guys like him didn’t get rousted. They didn’t even get arrested unless they were driving drunk or playing footsie with a stripper in the Tidal Basin.

  Handing the man’s wallet back, Beemer said, “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Perfectly all right. As I said, I know something of a cop’s lot in life.”

  Beemer was happy about that. Probably be the only thing that would save his job.

  Trying to take reparations a step further, he asked, “Can I give a ride somewhere?”

  The old guy smiled. “I never much cared for cop cars.”

  “Me neither,” Beemer said. “But tonight I got me a real sweet Mercedes. One a them AMG beauties.”

  “In that case, I’d be delighted.”

  Beemer smiled, thinking of Meeker and the others wondering what the fuck he was doing, scratching their heads and calling him names.

  “Where can I take you?” Beemer asked.

  “George Washington University Hospital.”

  “You sick, sir?” Beemer cringed at the idea he’d been hassling a sick man.

  “Almost unto death, Detective.”

  “Oh, Lord, I’m sorry about that. We’ll get there quick.”

  “No need to hurry. I’ve been told I have at least another week. But I would like to get something for the pain.”

  “We’ll make good time, just the same.”

>   “Thank you, Detective.”

  Beemer was as good as his word, but the distinguished occupant of the cover car still had time to think it had been wise to leave his gun at home. He’d felt sure the police would be watching K Street by now, and he’d wanted to test that assumption.

  It wouldn’t be much longer before the press figured out the story … and then things would become much more difficult.

  As they pulled up in front of the hospital, the old man wondered if his new young friend might be awake. It was late for a child to be up, but then cancer patients hardly kept regular hours.

  Chapter 4

  Thursday, August 18th, GWU Hospital

  Kenny McGill’s eyelids felt like they weighed a ton each, and were getting heavier by the second. The last time he’d managed to force them open, he saw his mother standing on the other side of the window. He’d had two thoughts at that moment. How the heck did his mother get so old so fast? He recognized her, but she didn’t look at all like the picture of her he had in his mind. He’d always thought his mom looked like, maybe, the oldest girl in a college sorority. When she fixed herself up, though, when she and Lars would go someplace fancy, she looked like the prettiest girl, the sweetheart of … whatever the name was in that corny old song.

  The other thing Kenny thought, looking at his suddenly old mother, peering at him through a pane of glass, was he never expected to die in a fishbowl. People could stroll by and see how he was doing. See if he’d given up yet.

  Maybe a doctor would ask, “Is he still swimming, nurse?”

  “Afraid not, doctor. Looks like he’s sinking to the bottom.”

  Kenny knew he was going down, too. Thing was, he didn’t think it was such a bad idea. He felt so awful, so weak, so tired, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to put an end to it all. The last he had heard, they hadn’t found a donor for him yet. All he had to look forward to was another round of chemo treatment, and he was certain that would kill him. He didn’t have anywhere near the strength he’d had going into the first infusion.

  So why not just give in? Spare himself any more suffering.

  That was what he’d thought the last time he … couldn’t really say he fell asleep.