by Joseph Flynn
Sometimes the cops got things right. He’d seen that, too.
Tully paid the bail and was released from custody at four a.m.
The Baltimore cops never checked Stephen Tully’s stage name to see if there was a criminal record attached to it. If they had, and the judge had taken note that Linley Boland had once done time for trespass of a motor vehicle, bail might have been bumped up to fifty thousand. If the crime lab had provided overnight delivery on fingerprint identification — it didn’t — Linley Boland’s prints would have been connected to the gun found at the scene of the attempted auto theft and he probably wouldn’t have gotten bail at all.
And three hours later, when Elspeth Kendry tracked down Welborn Yates and told him Linley Boland had been identified as the man who had killed his friends in Las Vegas, the sonofabitch still would have been locked up.
But things hadn’t worked out that way.
And Boland was gone.
Thing Two
Leo opened the door for McGill and Clare Tracy as they approached the backup presidential limo. He nodded to Clare and said, “Ma’am.”
She smiled at him and stepped inside.
Before McGill could follow, Deke stepped up and told him, “We’ll have your car back early tomorrow.”
McGill nodded and entered the limo.
Leo said, “Thank God.”
He closed the rear door. The privacy shield was up. A moment later, Thing Two was en route to the Ritz-Carlton. No motorcycle escort, just a black SUV fore and aft. McGill chose to think the Secret Service was protecting Patti’s spare ride rather than him.
Clare reached out and took McGill’s hand. “Thank you for a wonderful evening.”
“I just wish the circumstances were different,” he said. “We shouldn’t have let so much time go by.”
Clare’s expression turned rueful. She released McGill’s hand.
“That was my fault and we both know it.”
McGill shook his head. “It wasn’t anybody’s fault.”
“That’s not what I meant, Jim. I’ve come to terms with that. I meant afterward. Letting all the years slip away and never calling you. Never even sending a Christmas card.”
“I could have reached out,” he said.
“But you didn’t, because I told you not to, made you promise you wouldn’t. If I had known you’d be so relentless about keeping your word, I wouldn’t have been so foolish.”
Clare looked as if she might say something more but caught herself.
McGill was not about to let anything go unspoken between them at that point.
“Christ, Clare, what could we have to keep secret now?” he asked.
So she told him. “I heard about your divorce from Carolyn a couple of years after it happened. Someone in the alumni network, someone who knew we’d been a couple at school — don’t ask me who — told me. No doubt her intent included the thought of rekindling an old flame.”
“And your response was?” McGill asked.
“My response was to wonder how my middle-aged heart could still race thinking about you … and then to drag my feet until it was too late.”
McGill knew exactly what she meant and sighed. “You were about to call me when you heard I was going to get married again.”
Clare nodded.
Thing Two pulled up to the entrance of the Ritz-Carlton. Deke got out to keep the hotel staff away from the presidential limo. Leo opened Clare’s door.
“I sure know how to screw things up, don’t I?” she asked McGill.
She started to go but McGill caught her hand.
“You’re going to save a child’s life soon, and it very well might be Kenny’s. I’ll always be grateful to you for that. And the promise I made about not talking to you? Consider it honored and retired. We’re not going to lose touch again.”
Clare leaned over and kissed McGill’s cheek.
Tears ran down her cheeks as she left the limo.
McGill knew the answer to the question Hugh Collier had declined to pay a million dollars to hear: What had happened to the child he and Clare had conceived? The answer was that Clare lost the baby to eclampsia in her twenty-fourth week of pregnancy. She hadn’t been feeling ill, but a routine checkup discovered high blood pressure and protein in her urine; neither had been a part of her medical history.
Both conditions usually resolved themselves within six weeks after delivery.
It had always seemed to McGill that the very fact of Clare learning that her pregnancy might be at risk was what precipitated the horrors that followed: the bleeding, the seizures and the placental abruption — the premature separation of the placenta from the uterus.
The only attempts at comfort that could be provided were that things could have been even worse: Clare might have had a stroke or died. The very thought that he might have lost Clare had scared McGill worse than anything he’d known to that time. For Clare, sinking ever deeper into depression, the thought that she might have perished along with her child began to look like a missed opportunity.
McGill didn’t fight it when his family steered him into grief counseling. Clare didn’t resist seeking help, but for the first six months her participation in the process was meager. Her first major breakthrough came when she agreed with her therapist that in order to concentrate on her own healing she’d have to let go of the idea that she was responsible for McGill’s pain, too.
The only way she could try to do that was by freeing him to go on and have a meaningful life with someone else. She made him promise he wouldn’t interfere with either of them being healed by trying to contact her in any way.
He did so, but only because he was sure Clare would soon relent and contact him.
But she hadn’t. Not until yesterday.
And now, thanks to Patti’s great generosity, Clare was prepared to, might in fact be the one to, save Kenny’s life. McGill thought, more than ever, that you had to have faith in a power far greater than yourself. There was no way to explain life otherwise.
He hit the intercom button.
“Take me to the hospital, Leo. I want to see my son.”
All the way there, he prayed he wouldn’t lose another child.
Chapter 5
Friday, August 19th, GWU Hospital Lounge
McGill awoke with an arm around Carolyn’s shoulders. That came as a surprise. He didn’t remember putting it there. He and his former wife still cared for each other, but more in the manner of the neighborhood chums they’d been growing up rather than the married couple with kids they’d been more recently. Both were comfortable with the adjustment they’d made. So the only explanation could be …
They’d fallen asleep and reached out to comfort each without even being aware of it? Had done so in a way that once would have been completely unremarkable. The physical support helping them to fight back the dread of possibly losing their son. It was perfectly understandable. But not now that he had his eyes open.
A phone rang and McGill realized that was what had roused him. He didn’t think it was his phone at first because the ring-tone wasn’t sounding “Hail to the Chief,” which signaled a call from Patti or “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” which he heard when any other member of his family, including Sweetie, called.
This was the trill of an old metal clapper, straight out of Ma Bell’s attic. McGill gently removed his arm from around his ex-wife, found his phone and clicked the talk button. Still asleep, Carolyn snuggled closer and put an arm around his middle.
Seeing no one else nearby, McGill let it be.
“Hello,” he said softly.
“I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”
Galia. She’d had her own ring-tone inserted into his phone without his knowledge.
He wasn’t going to get worked up about it now.
“Yes.” He saw sunlight coming in through a window. “But it’s time I was up anyway.”
“You said you’d like to talk with me this morning. I’m calling to ask when that might
be so I can plan the rest of my schedule.”
McGill looked at his watch. It was 8:01.
“Is nine o’clock okay?”
“I can do that. How much time will you need?”
“Fifteen minutes at the outside.”
He knew Galia would appreciate his keeping things short.
He did have another concern, though.
“I’m going to need —”
“These are strange times, Mr. McGill. I’ll do whatever I can.”
Galia’s interruption was preemptive rather than rude, McGill realized. She was protecting Patti, herself and even him from saying something an overzealous news organization, WorldWide News say, might take the trouble to intercept. His phone was supposed to be safe from such things, but hackers kept pushing the envelope.
“Thank you.” He added, “How is the president this morning?”
He heard Galia chuckle. “In fighting trim. She’s about to make news again, a televised announcement. You might care to watch.”
“I will.”
“Kenny is … holding his own?” she asked.
“As of late last night, yes.”
Carolyn opened her eyes and sat up, as if she’d heard her son’s name mentioned.
McGill continued, “I’m certain the doctors would have let Carolyn and me know if there was any change.”
“I’ll check to be sure,” Carolyn whispered to McGill. “Be right back.”
McGill nodded. He thanked Galia and told her he’d see her soon.
He turned on the TV the hospital had provided for its visitors. A talking head informed McGill the president would be arriving shortly with what sources had described as a major announcement. A live shot of the East Room, set up for a news conference, showed McGill that the Senate majority leader, John Wexford, and the House minority leader, Marlene Berman, both Democrats, were sitting to the left of the lectern where Patti would speak.
To the right were two empty chairs. McGill assumed the Republican congressional leaders had sent their regrets, insincere though they might be, and would not appear.
Patti appeared as the talking head intoned, “The President of the United States.”
But what McGill noticed was the presence of Putnam Shady in the East Room.
Baltimore, Maryland
Welborn found his way back to the well-kept row house of Eli and Nell Worthington. But he was having trouble focusing on the task at hand. Elspeth Kendry had called him little more than half an hour earlier, just as he’d emerged from his morning shower, and given him the news about Linley Boland, a.k.a. Stephen Tully.
Boland had been identified as the man who had tried to steal James J. McGill’s Chevy from Leo Levy’s garage and the man who was suspected of stealing the car in Las Vegas that had struck and killed Welborn’s friends Keith Quinn, Joe Eddy and Tommy Bauer.
The fact that an eyewitness had identified Boland as the auto thief in Las Vegas didn’t mean that he’d been behind the wheel when the car had caused the deaths of Welborn’s friends and the end of his career as a fighter pilot. Welborn liked to think of himself as a rationalist, someone who eschewed superstition, a guy who didn’t see signs and portents in cloud formations or tea leaves, but having Boland go after both Mr. McGill’s car and his Porsche … there had to be some force greater than coincidence at work here.
A force that seemed to be mocking him. Allowing him to arrest that sonofabitch Boland only to have him make bail and disappear. Where had the bastard come up with twenty-five thousand dollars to spring himself? That would bear looking into. In fact, Elspeth was already playing nice with the FBI, arranging to have them and the Secret Service work together on tracking down Boland.
Welborn told her, “Contact the Air Force OSI and get them involved, too. This SOB probably killed three of our pilots. We have a stake in this.”
To her credit, she hesitated only for moment.
“I’ll get right on it. Captain Yates, I’m really sorry this guy didn’t stay locked up.”
“Me, too.”
Elspeth had tried to reach him sooner, but the bureaucracy, after normal business hours, was stacked against her. It wasn’t until Kira arrived at the White House early to make sure her desk was clear before their wedding that Elspeth found someone who both knew and was willing to reveal the number of Welborn’s mobile phone.
It was going to be tough for him to push Boland off into a dark corner of his mind and get through his wedding and honeymoon without spoiling both, but he was determined to do so. He’d work the assignment that had brought him to Baltimore, too. Then …
If he had to, he’d beg the president for permission to join the hunt for Boland.
Welborn rang the doorbell at the Worthingtons’ row house.
This time he heard feet shuffling inside the dwelling. A man who looked to be at least eighty years old and no more than five feet tall opened the door. He was a natty gnome wearing black flannel pants, a crisp white shirt, a gray cashmere cardigan and a wine-colored beret. He cocked his head back to look up at Welborn through trifocal glasses.
With an expression of guarded tolerance, he said to Welborn, “Well, at least you’re not a Jehovah’s Witness or there’d be more of you.”
Welborn introduced himself, displayed his identification and took out the photocopy of the pig pin. He handed it to Eli Worthington. The little man gave it a cursory examination and handed it back.
“I remember it. Might still have the original drawing somewhere. The artistry was adequate to the task but far too derivative. I wanted to put my own imprint on it, but that schlockmeister Greenberg said it had to bear a resemblance to its cartoon progenitor.”
So Warner Brothers had reason to object, Welborn thought.
“Give Greenberg some credit, though. He did a fair job of fabricating the pin.”
“Do you remember who commissioned the work?” Welborn asked.
“Of course, I remember,” Worthington said testily. “The only reason I did the drawing rather than pass it along to a student was my admiration for the man. I was present when he picked up the order. I wanted to make sure he was satisfied.”
“Was he satisfied?” Welborn asked.
Worthington rolled his eyes. “He loved it, had a real taste for kitsch.”
“And the man’s name is?”
“I don’t suppose there’s an artist-client confidentiality privilege.”
“There is not,” Welborn informed him.
“Well, there certainly ought to be.”
“You might raise the issue with your congressman, sir.”
“You’re a polite young man, I’ll give you that.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And as you’re an investigator, and especially as you’ve mentioned elected officials, I’ll give you a clue rather than bore you with a name.”
“Sir?” Welborn asked.
“The man you want, the fellow who commissioned that pin, was so highly regarded at the time I did my drawing for him that he was called ‘The Conscience of the Congress.’”
Eli Worthington smirked and closed his door on Welborn.
That was okay. Welborn was sure he could find someone with that nickname.
Worthington wasn’t such a pain in the tuches after all.
Park Hyatt Hotel, Washington, D.C.
Ellie Booker ditched the guy at the Ristorante Treviso as soon as Hugh Collier had departed. In order not to ruffle any male feathers, Ellie paid the bar tab both the guy and his pal had run up to that point and added two more rounds for them on top of that. The deal was more than enough to satisfy them.
“Call on us anytime you need to pull a fast one,” the guy said.
That was almost enough to make Ellie think she might have had a good time with the guy, but she knew better than to take chances with a complete stranger. If he wasn’t infected with some virulent STD, he might be looking to launch or extend his career as a serial killer. Things didn’t have to be that dramatic, of course, b
ut the chances were pretty good that if a woman offered herself to a guy out of the blue he’d ask her to do something his wife or girlfriend would never consider.
Ellie had someone else in mind with whom to share the comped suite at the Park Hyatt, Dr. Amos Benson. The good doctor was a psychologist who had caused a momentary stir in his professional community by advocating for a change in the point of the professional ethics concerning sexual intimacy. The prevailing standard was the therapist was not to engage in sexual relations with a former patient for at least two years after the cessation of therapy. Amos Benson had wanted that interval to be shortened to six months.
Smelling a good story — a shrink lusting after a vulnerable patient — Ellie went to interview Benson. He declined to speak with her on the record, said she was free to infer what she liked about him, but if she libeled him he’d sic his cousin on her, and his cousin not only had graduated at the top of his law school class but also ate a pound of raw beef for breakfast every morning.
Ellie found the threat both scary and … strangely appealing.
She wrote him a check worth an hour of his time and said she had issues with vengeance herself. Once somebody got on her bad side, she just had to get even. Proportionately even as a first strike, but then she felt compelled to keep getting in little cheap shots, just to let the other person know she was still angry and never to be crossed again.
She wanted to hit back at almost everyone she’d ever known: her parents, her brother and sister, former schoolmates, people she’d worked with and that prick who delivered her morning newspaper and managed to throw it into any puddle he could find.
Then she asked him, “So, you going to get together with this person who stopped being your patient six months ago?”
“Five-and-a-half months,” he said. “And I hadn’t made up my mind, but now that I’ve met you, I think maybe not.”
