Jim McGill 03 The K Street Killer

by Joseph Flynn

  “Just so. EPI was a secret cartel of the world’s greatest American, European, Arab and Asian horse breeders. They’d secretly been raking in billions of wagering dollars for decades through unwitting betting agents. Typically, EPI executives asked the agents, schmoes they picked out randomly at the track, to place a bet for them with money they provided. If the horse won, which it always did, the agent got to keep ten percent of the winnings.”

  Sweetie said, “Your father claimed he was one of EPI’s executives and …”

  “He got greedy, didn’t want to give anyone a ten percent cut. So he started placing his own bets and writing them off to ghost agents. But he’d been found out and EPI took harsh measures against anyone who risked ruining their game. Enforcers were now looking for him. To provide himself with the money he’d need to run and hide, he would sell the names of a dozen EPI horses who would dominate racing in the coming year.”

  “How much did he want for this priceless information?” Sweetie asked.

  Putnam cleared his throat, looked a bit abashed.

  “Only one hundred dollars. I know, I know. It looks like I’m following in my old man’s footsteps, but I swear ShareAmerica is going to be legit.”

  “Exactly what any good conman would say,” Sweetie told him.

  “You don’t trust me, Margaret?”

  “I do.” But the look in her eyes said she’d hunt him down if he ever betrayed that trust.

  “Anyway,” Putnam said, “the response to Dad’s public offering was so overwhelming it crashed the servers, twice, of the company processing the credit card payments. Mom, Dad and Lawton took off and I haven’t seen them since.”

  “Your parents were scam artists,” Sweetie said. “Gifted ones.”

  “Yeah. Psychologically, it was a perfect con: Give the little guy a chance to buy into and benefit from the sneaky game the rich guys had set up to benefit themselves. In that way, ShareAmerica is just like EPI.”

  Sweetie wanted to hear the rest of Putnam’s story. How he was raised. How some branch of the federal criminal justice system must have leaned on him and caused him to loathe authority. She wanted to know it all.

  But her phone rang.

  Caitie McGill was calling.

  She’d forgotten to tell Putnam about the man who’d come calling.

  “Here at the hotel?” Sweetie asked, hackles rising.

  “Yeah,” Caitie said. “He said he’d catch up with Putnam later.”

  The President’s Bedroom

  The president had changed out of her business attire, showered and put on a pearl satin cap sleeve sheath. She had a buyer on her personal staff, paid out of personal funds, who bought all her clothes. The public never had definitive proof of the designers she preferred or the sizes she wore. The latter was nobody’s business but hers and the former prevented anyone from using her name in word-of-mouth advertising.

  Jim, bless him, never made any inquiries about the particulars of her wardrobe. He was content to tell her she looked wonderful in anything she put on. He did confess, one time, that he loved the way she looked barefoot in a pair of faded jeans and an old white oxford cloth shirt. Made him think he actually got to know her back when she was in college.

  Tonight, the president and her henchman would dine with the woman Jim actually did know in college, the woman who had been James J. McGill’s first great love. The woman he undoubtedly would have married if —

  There was a knock at the president’s bedroom door.

  It wasn’t the polite tap of the household staff.

  It was Galia. Undoubtedly come with some matter that couldn’t wait. Jim was using their bathroom, getting ready for the evening. This wasn’t the first time the outside world had intruded while he was in the shower. Patti took a hand towel and placed it in the sink Jim used for shaving, their signal a third party was lurking nearby. She closed the bathroom door and admitted Galia, who knew better than to knock twice.

  As urgent as her business might have been, Galia took the time to appraise the president’s appearance, head to toe, and nod in approval.

  “You look radiant, Madam President, as usual.”

  “Thank you, Galia. What’s the problem now?”

  The chief of staff handed the president a small padded envelope bearing the stamp: restricted. Meaning access was restricted by law. It was not as drop-dead serious as a top secret label, but unauthorized peeking could still land a snoop in jail. The DVD of Erna Godfrey’s statement was inside.

  “You were speaking with Vice President Wyman when the attorney general called about this, and then you made your new policy announcement.”

  “And then you got busy until now,” the president said.

  “Yes, ma’am. But I took the time to view the video before bringing it to you.” Galia was authorized to take a look and she gave the president the gist of Erna Godfrey’s statement. “Attorney General Jaworsky thinks Mrs. Godfrey could be the contemporary equivalent of Joe Valachi.”

  The president tossed the envelope on her bed.

  Secure in the knowledge Jim wouldn’t open it.

  She’d look at it later.

  “Or,” the president said, “like a good mafiosa she could be playing us.”

  That thought had also occurred to Galia. “Thinking she could get a further commutation or even a pardon for ratting out other people with blood on their hands.”

  “That’s not going to happen while I’m in office. Tell the attorney general to let the inmate know we’re always willing to listen to anyone who can help us bring criminals to justice. But there will be no quid pro quo. None whatsoever.”

  Galia approved. She was about to ask whether to allow Erna to pursue her in-prison ministry. The chief of staff thought that might be worthwhile, if Erna’s gospel were to be limited to a message of remorse and repentance and pursuing the resolution of disputes by peaceful means.

  Before she got to say any of that, there was another knock.

  This one came from the bathroom.

  McGill was petitioning for his own release.

  “Galia’s here, Jim. Come on out, if you’re decent.”

  The chief of staff had once barged in on McGill, intentionally, while he was in the bath, and had said he could do the same to her if the matter was sufficiently urgent. Over the past year the two of them had done their best to temper their relationship. Each of them knew the other wasn’t going away. If friendship was out of the question, they were working on peaceful coexistence.

  McGill entered the bedroom wearing a terrycloth robe, his hair dried and brushed.

  “If you need a moment, I’ll go to my dressing room,” he said.

  The walk-in space was big enough for a propane grill, patio furniture and a hammock. But it was half the size of the president’s dressing room.

  “We’re done, Jim,” Patti said.

  McGill said, “Well, if that’s the case, Galia can you spare me fifteen minutes tomorrow morning?”

  Galia put on her best insincere smile and said, “Of course.”

  She bade the First Couple goodnight.

  The president didn’t ask her husband what he wanted with her chief of staff.

  He didn’t ask her what was in the envelope on their bed.

  Baltimore, Maryland

  Welborn entered the address Mort Greenberg had given him into the Porsche’s GPS unit and followed the directions that would take him to the home of Eli Worthington, the pain-in-the-tuches artist who had designed the pig pin found on the dead lobbyists on K Street. He pulled off I-95 at Russell Street, went past Oriole Park at Camden Yards, jogged right on Paca Street, made another right at W. Mulberry Street and followed it to N. Charles Street.

  Just off Charles, opposite the leafy campus of Johns Hopkins University, Welborn found the side street and the address he wanted. It was a well-kept row house, a very nice piece of property. In a choice location, within lecturing distance of a first class university. Impressive digs for a freelance artist
who designed trinkets.

  According to Mort Greenberg, though, that had been some time ago. Possibly, Eli Worthington had moved up in the worlds of both art and real estate. Art appreciation hadn’t been an offering at the Air Force Academy, but thanks to his mother’s efforts, Welborn wasn’t without a cursory knowledge of Western culture.

  He was familiar with the works of the Old Masters, the Impressionists, the Expressionists and even some of the guys who’d emerged from the graffiti milieu, like Basquiat and Haring. But the name Eli Worthington had never appeared on his radar.

  He found a parking spot down the block and walked back to Worthington’s front door. The names above the doorbell were Eli and Nell. They were rendered in calligraphy.

  Artful, Welborn thought. This must be the place.

  He rang the bell and waited.

  And waited.

  There were lace curtains on the windows, and he could see there was a light on at the rear of the first floor. But he didn’t get the feeling anyone was home. He rang the bell again and quickly looked back through the window. Not a soul stirred inside the row house.

  He couldn’t even see any motes of dust circulating through the air.

  If someone was at home and lying low, or napping to put it charitably, it probably wouldn’t help his case to lean on the doorbell. Not with someone who was irascible. Probably wouldn’t even be a good idea to leave his card with a note on it.

  Welborn walked back to his Porsche.

  He decided he’d call on Eli Worthington tomorrow, right after breakfast. Just show up, peek in his window and ring the bell if he saw someone. If the place was still empty, he’d find out where the man worked or vacationed.

  Track his paint-splashed ass down.

  Tonight, rather than drive back to D.C., and have to do the trip all over again tomorrow, he’d take a room in Baltimore. He’d had good luck with the Royale chain and was pleased when the Porsche’s internet connection told him there was one overlooking the Inner Harbor. He set off for the address on Pratt Street. Being a smart fellow, he called his betrothed and told her where he would rest his head that night.

  Being a dutiful professional, also, he asked Kira to pass the information along to Edwina Byington in case the president needed him to return to the White House.

  His obligations met, he started thinking about the steak he intended to have for dinner.

  The Ground Floor Bistro

  Linley Boland had treated himself to a morning makeover at an upscale men’s grooming parlor on Calvert Street. Going in, he may have looked like a marginal character with a day’s growth of stubble, but coming out with a shave, manicure, facial massage, haircut and color he looked like newly minted money.

  His clothes were a bit scruffy, but he took care of that with a trip to Nordstrom. Two blazers, one navy, one black, an assortment of pastel polo shirts, three shades of khaki slacks and black slip-ons with rubber soles that would be good for running. He bought an overnight bag for his new wardrobe and left the store wearing some of his new purchases.

  He had his old clothes put in a shopping bag and dropped them in a bin at a nearby resale shop. Hoping they’d be cleaned and sold before the cops could take any interest in him.

  He’d expected to hear from Teddy Spaneas by the time he greeted the world in his new look, but no such luck. Made him start to think he’d gone too far dropping off four hot cars at once at the wholesaler’s lot. Maybe the cars had been okay, but the hauler had been over the top. What was a guy who trafficked in luxury autos going to do with that monster?

  But, hell, if Spaneas could handle selling the Chevy that the president’s husband used as his ride, he should be able to cope with ditching a truck somewhere. Shouldn’t be that hard. Drive it a mile or two, leave it in a lot or rail yard and walk away.

  Shouldn’t have been a problem.

  Boland should have heard his money had been deposited by now.

  He took his prepaid cell phone out of his pocket.

  Looked at the fucker and silently told it to ring.

  It didn’t. Just sat there in his hand like … like its battery was dead? No, bullshit. The odds of that weren’t worth thinking about. Only reason he even thought of it, he was getting nervous. He wanted to be far away and know he had a big chunk of money on deposit.

  He put the phone away, decided to check into a nice hotel under one of his noms de voleur. Thief names. A French chick up in Montreal had told him that one. He’d always liked it. He checked into the Royale, put the phone on the nightstand next to his bed and took a nap, hoping the phone would wake him up.

  It didn’t, and Boland’s gut started to knot. He’d almost gotten caught trying to steal that beast of a Chevy. He’d gone to the trouble of stealing four sports cars and a truck to carry them. He’d dropped his grabs at the wholesaler and walked away clean.

  What was he going to get out of all that? Jack shit.

  So damn discouraging; he might as well have been a clock-puncher at a factory that just closed. Where the hell was the justice? Nowhere.

  That prick Spaneas must’ve gotten popped for something else.

  Put out of business.

  He was probably lucky he didn’t get caught dropping off his cars.

  There was only one thing left for him to do. Grab another car. Just one.

  He knew another wholesaler up in Wilmington, Delaware. He’d grab something nice but easy, make ten-twenty grand. Get to Florida if not Central America. See what he could make happen down there.

  He grabbed his overnight bag and left the room. Went down to the hotel bistro on the ground floor. Got a table by the window, ordered a weak scotch and soda and a plate of nachos. He nibbled and sipped and watched arriving guests pull up to the hotel.

  Half the bastards arrived in cabs. Be a crying shame, he ever got so desperate he had to steal a taxi. But he was beginning to wonder if it would come to that because most of the other guests arrived at the hotel in rental cars that were more of an affront to his professional standards than a clean taxi.

  He had to order another drink just to hold his table.

  Had the scotch content upped in this one.

  Then he saw the best car to come along since he sat down, a gleaming black Porsche Cayman S. True, it retailed for only 65K at the most, and his cut was likely to be little more than ten thousand. But it was a car worth taking, and ten grand was better than nothing. He watched a young, strong-looking blonde guy get out of the car, take a ticket from the valet and head toward the hotel’s front entrance.

  Boland got up from his table.

  The President’s Bedroom

  McGill wore a navy blazer, a crimson silk tie and ivory linen slacks, all by Ralph Lauren. He didn’t have a personal shopper, but on his first case as a private investigator he met Lida Dalman, the general manager of the Bloomingdales store in McLean, Virginia. Facing the demands of not embarrassing the president by making his own fashion choices, he relied on Ms. Dalman for advice on how to dress for any occasion that rose above sleuthing or shooting hoops.

  He’d offered to pay Ms. Dalman a consulting fee; she’d said no, he should think of her suggestions as patriotism in action. The way Patti smiled at him when he appeared dressed for dinner that night, it was clear that Lida Dalman had once again done her country proud.

  “You are a handsome man, James J. McGill,” Patti said.

  “Rory Calhoun lookalike,” McGill said.

  “Come on, Rory. Our guest is on her way up.”

  The Private Dining Room, White House Residence

  McGill was willing to eat just about anything, taking an existential view of food: Even if it didn’t please him, it would keep him alive — barring e. coli and the like. It was anytime people offered him an unfamiliar drink that he could get his back up. When it came to alcoholic beverages, he was a fundamentalist. Beer, champagne and Irish whisky, each as the occasion demanded, were all he ever required.

  When Patti presented aperitifs to Clare an
d McGill that night, he eyed the reddish liquid in his glass with suspicion.

  “And what might this be to people who know more about their intoxicants than I do?”

  Both Patti and Clare laughed. The president deferred to her guest.

  Clare said, “It’s a Dubonnet cocktail.”

  McGill nodded as if that explained everything.

  “Dubonnet being the famous French anesthesiologist,” he said.

  The two women laughed again, and now they looked at each other, taking notice this time that the pitch and the rhythm of their laughter were eerily similar. Clare had chosen to wear a black dress with spaghetti straps, and her hair was a good six inches longer than Patti’s but the two of them were of a height and, without being foolish enough to lower his gaze, McGill knew their figures were … best not thought of at the moment.

  Not that McGill had consciously made the comparison before.

  Being commander in chief, Patti rescued the moment from awkwardness with a bit of edification. “You’re not too far off,” she told her husband. “The drink was conceived for a medical reason.”

  Generous enough to share the moment, and curious enough to want to see just how much she had in common with their guest, Patti turned to Clare to continue the story.

  She did, telling McGill, “The French, being French, decided to hold a contest to see who could get their Foreign Legionnaires in North Africa to take their quinine.”

  McGill put his glass down. He knew the purpose of quinine.

  “This stuff is malaria medicine?”

  “Non-prescription,” Clare said with a grin.

  McGill smiled back, and Patti saw what the attraction between these two had been.

  Nonetheless, she had the grace to smile, too.

  She picked up McGill’s glass, held it up to the light.

  “I think it’s a striking color, and other than just a pinch of quinine, it’s only fortified wine with a bit of spice and a few herbs.”