by Joseph Flynn
Meeker and Beemer were dying to talk, but Rockelle held up a hand.
She handed over her PDA with the article about family members and invited guests being the most likely culprits in residential handgun thefts. The two detectives huddled and read, understanding now where the boss was going. They handed the PDA back to Rockelle just before Joan Torkelson returned with a 9X12 manila envelope.
She’d affixed a label to it: Our guests, and the year.
Imposing order wherever she could.
As soon as she sat down, Rockelle had to shake her up again.
“I need to ask,” she said, “if your husband received any threats in the days preceding his death.”
The woman’s chin quivered for a moment before she clamped her teeth together.
Then she shook her head.
“Were you aware of anyone your husband might have argued with recently, either at his workplace or even with your neighbors?”
“Our neighbors are good friends and wonderful people,” Joan Torkelson said forcefully. “This is a good neighborhood.”
The widow’s indignant expression lasted only until she realized the unintended slight she had directed at the three black detectives from the District.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean —”
Her face crumpled and her eyes filled with tears. She brought the handkerchief out again. Rubbed her eyes with it, unconcerned now about appearances. For a moment anyway. After one last swipe, she compressed the handkerchief tightly in her right hand.
Joan said, “I thought, at first, that Erik’s death was simply an act of random brutality. There’s so much violence these days there’s really no point in asking why it claims anyone in particular. I just had to accept that … that it found the man I loved. But when I heard about that awful pin you found on him, that made everything very personal. I was outraged; I still am.”
The three Metro homicide cops looked at each other. Meeker and Beemer were dying to speak, but Rockelle held up a hand.
“You know something about a pin, Mrs. Torkelson?” she asked.
Joan was no fool. She saw the response her words provoked, and came to the proper conclusion. “That was supposed to be a secret.”
“We didn’t release it to the media,” Rockelle said. “How did you hear about it?”
“I received a call from a woman, a producer, at WorldWide News. She told me about it and asked if I knew what it meant or would care to comment. I hung up on her.”
Meeker finally broke his silence. “Good for you, ma’am.”
“You had every right,” Beemer told her.
Emboldened now, a new light came into the widow’s eyes. It was cold and merciless.
“Someone killed my Erik. My husband. My children’s father. Then he calls him a pig? Heaven help me, I wish I could get my hands on the bastard!”
“I plan to do just that, Mrs. Torkelson,” Rockelle said.
“You told me on the phone, Lieutenant, all this might have something to do with Erik’s gun being stolen.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, if you catch this man, please let me know. I’ll buy a new gun.”
McGill Investigations, Inc.
Harlo Geiger had left to further her plans for a new life without the speaker of the House, and McGill put his phone down after making a call to the hospital. Sweetie just looked at him, didn’t need to ask the question.
“Kenny’s hanging on,” McGill said. “Some of the others aren’t doing so well.”
“The others?” Sweetie asked.
McGill told her about some of Kenny’s potential donors being matches for other children in dire need. He’d promised to make calls to see if those people would be willing to donate to someone else. He’d do that right now.
As McGill made his calls, Sweetie folded her hands and bowed her head in prayer. McGill heard a soft murmur of Latin coming from her as he made his calls. His dear friend’s words of supplication to the Almighty couldn’t have hurt because each person McGill called informed him that he or she had been greatly disappointed about being unable to help Kenny. All of them agreed to help the other kids.
McGill gave them Dr. Jones’ phone number and told them time was of the essence.
As he finished his last call, Sweetie looked up.
McGill asked her, “What do you think, Margaret? Is Kenny going to live?”
Sweetie let her face go slack, and McGill could see what she would look like as an old woman. Her strength of spirit and clarity of purpose were still evident, but there was now a gentleness to her features the likes of which he’d never seen. She took the time to give the question the consideration it deserved.
“Yes, I think he will,” she said. “In fact, from what you’ve told me about his desire to become a doctor, he’s already seeing his future. I think he’ll not only survive, he may well outshine Abbie and Caitie, and that will take some doing, believe me.”
Sweetie’s words all but brought McGill to tears.
Especially as he’d never told her of Kenny’s plans.
Still, she knew. Margaret Mary Sweeney plainly had answers to mysteries that were far beyond McGill and other lesser mortals. He wouldn’t say anything about it now, not to Sweetie or anyone else, but later, after Kenny became a famous doctor, he would ask her how she’d known something he’d never told her.
Doubtless, she’d scoff and tell him he was a foolish old man whose memory was playing tricks on him.
For the moment, McGill felt reassured enough to look at puzzles with which he was better equipped to deal. He asked Sweetie, “Do you agree with Putnam that whoever killed the lobbyists is another lobbyist?”
Sweetie’s face resumed its normal appearance, all symmetry and righteous energy.
She said, “I think it’s possible, but I don’t know if I agree with it.”
“It doesn’t feel right to me,” McGill said.
“Who do you like?”
“Well, not to heap abuse on a despised class, but what came to me right away was some politician did it.”
“How come?” Sweetie asked.
“Think about it like this. Lobbyist A and Lobbyist B fight a pitched battle, and Lobbyist A wins. Lobbyist B looks bad, sure, but who looks even worse?”
Sweetie thought about it. “The pols Lobbyist B greased to take their side.”
“Yeah. Lobbyist B isn’t going to want to shoulder the blame. He’ll tell everyone in the lobbying brotherhood, ‘Don’t bother with Senator Smith or Congressman Smythe; those guys have lost their game, can’t deliver on any legislation anymore.’”
Sweetie carried the ball from there. “So rather than kill a fellow pol and risk federal time, a losing pol goes after Lobbyist A. That’s a safer bet because if there’s anyone more hated than politicians it’s the people who buy and sell them.”
“Right.” The thought made McGill very glad that Patti was independently wealthy. “If a pol did the killings he’d get both the satisfaction of doing in someone who had harmed his career and maybe the pleasure of cutting off a source of funds to his political enemy.”
Sweetie nodded. “As far as motives for murder go, those two are pretty good.”
McGill sensed reluctance. “But you’re not buying the idea yet.”
“I think it’s possible, but you haven’t made the sale yet.”
“Fair enough. I’ll talk to a specialist. Maybe I can find out if the idea holds water.”
“What specialist?” Sweetie asked.
McGill smiled thinly. “Galia Mindel.”
“Wow, you must think you’re really on to something.”
“We’ll see.”
Sweetie told McGill she had to go make sure Putnam hadn’t taken Caitie’s college fund away from her. Make sure the two of them were safe and sound and still in the good graces of The Four Seasons Hotel.
McGill asked for a status report on that front.
After Sweetie left, McGill intended to call Clare Tracy, see if they c
ould squeeze in time for a drink, ask how her re-test went, and plan something in the future when he and Patti and Clare could get together for a civilized dinner, maybe even go somewhere for a whole weekend of catching up.
Before he could make his call, the phone rang.
He lifted the receiver and said hello.
Edwina Byington said, “Hello, Mr. McGill. The president will be with you momentarily.”
It wasn’t even that long, and what he heard told him that another woman could read his mind. “Jim, I hope you won’t mind, but I’ve invited Clare Tracy to dine with us tonight.”
Secret Service Forensics Laboratory
Elspeth Kendry answered her cell phone and heard, “Holmes is home.”
She replied, “Thank you, Watson.”
“That’s Special Agent Watson to you.”
Elspeth chuckled. “I’ll remember that. Please give my thanks to Special Agent Ky as well.”
“Never heard of the guy,” Deke Ky said and clicked off.
Elspeth smiled and thought, okay, that was a step in the right direction. Getting on the good side of Holmes’ personal bullet catcher would be essential to performing her job. If there were ever to be a dispute between the two of them, she’d have to ask SAC Crogher to intervene on her behalf. Then all Ky would have to do would be go to Holmes and tell him the new broad was a pain in the ass.
There was no doubt in Elspeth’s mind who would prevail if that happened.
Far better that she and Deke Ky should get along.
She’d first thought that he might be a hardass about things, but just now he showed he didn’t take himself too seriously. She’d pulled that Watson joke out of her hat, hadn’t planned it at all. It could have backfired big time if he’d had a stick up his ass about it. But he’d played along without missing a beat.
She wouldn’t go all stand-up comic on him, but tossing an occasional gibe his way might be a part of her plan. Who knew, maybe they could go out for a drink sometime.
She looked through the lab window where the DNA guy, Mark, was still at work, but at least he’d moved away from his scanning electron microscope, or whatever it was he’d been peering through, and had moved to a desktop computer. To be fair, Mark was probably working as fast as he could while still doing a conscientious job.
At least she hadn’t had to queue up to get her job done. When the husband of the president was involved, you jumped to the head of the line. Elspeth was coming to think she was going to like that aspect of her new job, but enjoying special treatment might make it tough to go on to any other assignment and just be a grunt again.
Well, maybe if the president won a second term and she was along for the remainder of the ride, she could retire, write a book and become a talking head on some TV show. Make a small bundle and then think of something really interesting to do.
Not that her present job was a drag. Telling other people, and reminding herself, that she was a Secret Service agent was pretty cool. The building where she was presently cooling her heels was the foremost facility anywhere for detecting forgeries. It had the world’s largest library of inks, which might not sound too thrilling, except every currency on the planet was printed using … ink.
So unless you wanted every jerkoff with a grudge or a streak of greed undermining the validity of the cash in your pocket or handbag, you’d need people who knew their inks, papers and presses working day and night against counterfeiters.
Not that the service was a one-trick pony. As mentioned, the lab knew all about —
Mark walked out of the geeks-only room wearing a big smile.
Elspeth hoped that wasn’t only because he liked her legs.
She was already sure of that.
“Got him,” the forensics tech said.
“From just one little hair, amazing.”
“Might as well have left an autographed glossy,” Mark told her.
He handed a low-resolution image printed on ink-jet paper. The face squinting at her belonged to one Linley Boland, age forty-seven, born in Sparks, Nevada, owner of a sealed juvenile criminal record in nearby Reno, arrested three times, as an adult, but not charged on suspicion of grand theft auto in Las Vegas.
Elspeth wondered how that worked. Had the cops caught Linley leaning against stolen cars three times? Might have been something close to that. The only time Linley got busted as an adult was in Athens, Georgia. The cops there found a car that had been reported stolen in Atlanta. A mook named Conrad Jarman was asleep in the front seat; Linley was sawing lumber in the back seat. The cops took them both in.
Linley swore that he’d only been hitchhiking. The guy who’d given him a lift had pulled over and said he needed some sleep. So he’d decided to get some rest, too.
Conrad, meanwhile, asserted that he was the hitchhiker, but he was in the front seat and had a slim-jim and an ignition puller on him. He swore that carrying the tools was the price he’d had to pay to get a ride, and the asshole in the back seat had made him sleep up front.
Linley said, “Who, me?”
After the cops arrived at the station, they found out Conrad didn’t have a prior criminal record but Linley had a juvenile sheet and the suspicion arrests in Nevada. The cops would have liked to pin the auto theft on Linley, but Conrad’s stupidity left them with no choice but to charge him.
They weren’t about to let Linley skate, though.
They charged him with trespass of a motor vehicle.
The judge gave him six months, and the state took his picture and DNA.
Elspeth looked at the photo of Linley Boland again.
“Think you’re a slick fucker, huh? And now you’re messing with James J. McGill’s car while I’m on the job? You are not going to prosper, asshole.”
Elspeth saw she’d have to be careful about voicing her thoughts. She was getting Mark excited. She thanked him, shook his hand and sent him back to his lab.
Never one to leave any stone unturned, Elspeth got on the line to the Las Vegas PD and was routed to a detective named Soren Thorgrim who was part of an auto theft task force called VIPER. Detective Thorgrim was not pleased to hear the name Linley Boland.
“That prick is still breathing air?” he asked.
“Air as opposed to what?” Elspeth replied.
“Anything that would choke him out, painfully. They used to have execution chambers that worked like that.”
Elspeth wondered if the detective’s harsh attitude was a carryover from the old days in the West when the authorities used to hang horse thieves.
“You want to hear the kind of shit that bastard was part of?” Thorgrim asked.
“I do,” Elspeth said.
He told her Linley Boland was part of a gang that used to steal cars right out of people’s garages. That certainly sounded familiar, she thought, as Leo Levy could testify. Sometimes, Thorgrim told her, the thieves were slick enough to make the grab without anyone ever seeing them. But other times the homeowners heard noise coming from their garages and arrived in time to see the pricks stealing their vehicles.
On three separate occasions, Linley Boland was identified as the thief. Only between the time the cops were called and Boland was pulled in, somebody had called the home and made the obvious threat: We know where you live.
The homeowners in Boland’s three arrests just could not identify him in the police lineups. Detective Thorgrim gave a cynical laugh. “We could’ve pointed a red arrow at his ugly mug and it wouldn’t have done any good.
“The only reason we heard about the threats at all was because one family’s little boy, he was about eight, told us he heard it. But then he retracted his statement.”
“Mom and/or Dad got to him,” Elspeth said.
“Yeah, sometimes this job really sucks. So make me happy and tell me you feds are going to nail Boland’s ass. I’ll come to the trial and eat popcorn.”
Elspeth said, “If he’s still breathing air, we will. But tell me, detective, is there something else about B
oland that’s burning you? He comes across like a sack of shit, all right, but you sound like it’s something personal.”
After a moment of silence, Thorgrim said, “My son is Air Force, as good a kid as any father could want. I see him in uniform, my heart almost busts with pride.”
“Your son’s okay, right?”
“Yeah, he’s fine. But the last job this car theft ring pulled, the homeowner not only interrupted it, he brought his gun with him. The thief took off, but not before the homeowner got a good enough look at him to give us a description that matched Linley Boland. Later that night, the stolen car T-boned another vehicle, killed three young Air Force pilots: Keith Quinn, Joe Eddy and Tommy Bauer.”
From the regret Elspeth heard in Detective Thorgrim’s voice, she was not surprised he remembered the victims’ names. Then he rocked her world with a further recollection.
“There was one survivor. A young fellow named Welborn Yates.”
Ristorante Treviso, Georgetown
Hugh Collier told Ellie Booker he’d take her out to any place she cared to eat, as long as he didn’t have to go home and change clothes. He was wearing a black blazer, a butterscotch polo shirt and and designer jeans pre-faded to a shade of blue that Ellie had always associated with heavenly grace. With his craggy good looks and lean, strong build, Ellie could imagine Hugh as the cover boy on a men’s health magazine.
Damn shame he was gay.
Still, he was more than presentable enough to get into any place that wasn’t so stuffy it demanded a suit and tie. Attired in a fashion similar to her boss, she was rarely interested in dressing up to go out to eat. Not unless dinner was followed by a night in a five-star hotel and sex that was anaerobic and possibly operatic enough to bring security people on the run.
It didn’t have to be with someone who could advance her career, but recently she’d decided if the sex was strategic as well as orgasmic so much the better.
With Hugh Collier, Ellie supposed she could help her job prospects by pimping out some of her more appealing gay friends. But that wouldn’t do a damn thing to provide a sexual diversion from the intense professional frustration she was feeling.
