by Joseph Flynn
Caitie laughed and told him, “One or the other.”
Just as she would have at any other time.
Dr. Jones appeared outside the viewing window. Even exercises in joy could be tiring for a patient like Kenny. It was time to wrap things up. Francis Nguyen whispered a word to her and she nodded. The former Catholic priest said through the intercom, “Dr. Jones has given her permission for us to say a prayer, if Kenny would like to do that.”
Kenny had never met Francis Nguyen before, but he got a good feeling from him. He was quiet and peaceful, and if he was okay with everyone else …
“Sure,” Kenny said.
In unison, they all joined in saying The Lord’s Prayer.
Kenny said the final amen.
McGill Investigations, Inc.
McGill, Sweetie and Welborn formed a caravan, if not a motorcade, traveling from the hospital to McGill’s and Sweetie’s workplace. McGill had a parking place at the rear of the building; Sweetie and Welborn had the good fortune to find spaces on P Street just down the block. Once inside, they left Deke guarding the front door and McGill told him no interruptions, no visitors — the sole exception being Elspeth Kendry.
Sweetie got three bottles of Poland Spring from the office fridge and they sat around McGill’s desk. Welborn looked as if he had something he was eager to share, but both he and McGill saw the seriousness written across Margaret Sweeney’s face.
“You first, Sweetie,” McGill told her.
She informed them of Putnam’s arrest and that Putnam and his lawyer were awaiting the arraignment. Putnam had refused to say a word to the cops and his lawyer not only heaped scorn on the charge and the arrest, he threatened to sue the department and the cops involved. She expected the charge to be dropped or at worst Putnam would be RORed, released on own recognizance. If he had to post even a small bail amount, she was going to be highly displeased.
Sweetie’s displeasure looked like it could leave welts.
The cops might have more than an irate defense counsel to worry about.
“The charge is suspicion of murder, right?” McGill asked.
Sweetie said, “Three charges of suspicion, the murder victims being three of his friends. They think they have enough to hold him until they find what they need to wrap up a case against him.”
Uneasy now, Welborn asked, “What all do they have by way of evidence?”
“He was a guest at all three of his friends’ houses over the past year, and each of those friends had a handgun stolen from his house, and each of the friends was killed by a bullet that could have come from his own gun,” Sweetie said.
Welborn winced. “I’m afraid that was my doing. Finding out about the stolen guns and how they matched up with the murder weapons. I told Lieutenant Bullard.”
Sweetie looked at him. It was a measure of her discontent that she overlooked the fact that Welborn had acted without malice toward Putnam, had in fact done some good police work. McGill took all that in and it made him wonder just how far Sweetie’s relationship with Putnam Shady had progressed. He couldn’t recall seeing her so agitated.
He pushed that thought aside. It was none of his business.
But he said, “Surely, Putnam couldn’t have been the only one who’d had access to all three homes and might be considered a suspect.”
“He didn’t even have the opportunity to shoot Bobby Waller or Mark Benjamin. He was with me when those killings happened. But Lieutenant Bullard said he could have had an accomplice commit those crimes.”
Welborn said, “She’s liked Putnam from the start. I don’t understand why. I told her I didn’t see him doing it.”
Sweetie sighed. “Some cops get a hunch and become fixated on it. She had two of her detectives, a couple of guys called Meeker and Beemer, do some checking. They found a maitre d’ at one of the fancier steak houses in town who remembered Putnam and his friends having a quiet but very intense argument. He wasn’t able to overhear what was said, but the dispute concluded with Putnam standing abruptly enough to knock his chair over. He threw down his napkin and walked out. Stormed out, according to the maitre d’.”
McGill nodded. Under ordinary circumstances that would have been enough to make him suspicious, too.
He asked, “Why did Lieutenant Bullard feel it was necessary to pinch Putnam now before she had enough evidence for a prosecutor to make a case?”
Through compressed lips, Sweetie said, “It’s his parents. They’re fugitives. The feds want them on interstate fraud charges.”
“The sins of the father,” McGill said, “and the mother.”
“They abandoned Putnam when he was six years old,” Sweetie told McGill. “They’re the last people he’s going to use as role models.”
McGill said, “You know that, but …”
Sweetie looked as if she truly wanted to curse.
Vulgarity was crude, but it did vent steam.
She said, “But a cop would reasonably do what they did. The two things that burn me are they haven’t looked for any alternative possibility, and they didn’t take my word it wasn’t Putnam. For all I know, they might think I was a part of it.”
“We know that‘s not true,” McGill said. “And I know Putnam didn’t do the killings because —”
Welborn cut McGill off, saying, “Congressman Zachary Garner did.”
Sweetie looked at Welborn. Then she asked McGill, “Is that right?”
McGill nodded. “Yeah, but now I think he had to have had help.”
Deke knocked and opened the door.
“Special Agent Kendry is here,” he said. “So is Harlo Geiger.”
McGill went into the outer office to greet the two women. He asked Elspeth Kendry to join Sweetie and Welborn in his office. He got Harlo a can of ginger ale from the fridge and handed her a copy of the list of 24-karat dirt on the speaker that Galia Mindel had provided to him.
He said, “I hope that will do, and if you have any questions I’ll do my best to answer them in a few minutes. I have to wrap up a few things with my colleagues.”
Harlo had already started to read the list and her eyes got big and a smile appeared on her face. She looked up at McGill and the smile now stretched ear to ear. The speaker, McGill was certain, would soon be a man far more in touch with the financial realities of the American people.
“Thank you, Mr. McGill, thank you. I’ll recommend you to all my friends.”
“This was a one-time special, Ms. Geiger. I don’t do matrimonial investigations.”
“But other matters?”
“Possibly,” McGill conceded.
He was in business, after all. But the way politics in Washington were turning into a pitched battle, he suspected the only client he might have time for was the one to whom he was married. Of course, doing the odd job for an outsider or two might be good cover.
He added, “If you don’t mind waiting, I have a question for you.”
“I’ll be right here,” she said, and went back to her reading.
McGill told Sweetie and Welborn of his conversation with Zack Garner and the story of the man’s military experience, Garner’s study of the policy issues that led to his war wound, and his implied conclusion that he had been fighting for the wrong side. That and equating lobbyists with lackeys of the ruling class.
“Given the chance,” Welborn asked, “he was suggesting that he would have fought with the rebels?”
McGill said, “With the democratically elected government, one that proposed to make things better for the common people.”
McGill also told Sweetie and Welborn about Garner saying he would go to bat for Kenny if he got the chance to meet God face to face, but there was no use trying to plead his own case.
Sweetie understood the implication.
“He could speak on Kenny’s behalf because he’s a young boy, an innocent who has never harmed anyone. But Garner, maybe he killed somebody in the Dominican Republic before he got shot, and he tacitly admitted to being in
volved in the lobbyist killings.”
Elspeth refocused the conversation. “Thing is, he didn’t confess to anything, did he?”
McGill shook his head. “No, he didn’t. Which leads to a disturbing conclusion.”
Sweetie said, “He’s not done until he’s dead.”
Knowing his moment had come, Welborn said, “Here’s something that at least points the finger at the congressman.”
He told them about meeting with Eli Worthington and learning the art teacher had designed the pig pins found on the bodies of the lobbyists, and that the pins had been commissioned by Zachary Garner.
McGill, upon hearing Welborn’s description of Worthington, raised an important point. “If this guy is as old as you say, we’d better get a sworn statement from him while he’s still around to make that point.”
They all agreed on that. Welborn took a measure of comfort that he likely had taken some of the weight off Putnam as a suspect.
Sweetie replied, “Unless the Metro cops can find some connection between Putnam and Garner, a way for Putnam to have taken possession of the pins. I’ll cover that base.”
Elspeth said, “If the congressman’s going to die any time now, there’s no way for the justice system to punish him. That means all we have to do is keep him from killing anyone else.”
McGill sighed. “What I’ve learned about politicians since I’ve come to town is there are damn few of them who are lone wolves.”
“So you do think Garner has accomplices,” Welborn said.
McGill nodded. “The more I think about it, and having talked to the man, maybe he stole the guns and decided on the targets, but he must have had kindred spirits pull the triggers.”
“Who would that be?” Elspeth asked.
McGill told her, “My guess is at least some of the people at his wake. I hope you took nice, sharp pictures, special agent.”
Sweetie left after she called Putnam and learned that his lawyer had sprung him, ROR. He also told her the repairs on his townhouse had been made, completed to specifications to repel an attack similar to the previous one. That and a bit more. Sweetie told him she’d be there in fifteen minutes.
“You going to let the cops in if they get overeager again?” McGill asked.
Sweetie gave him a televangelist’s — or a politician’s — answer.
“I’ll pray on it.”
Welborn left to see Kira, telling McGill, “If I don’t get home soon, I’ll be beyond the power of prayer to help.”
That left Elspeth Kendry. McGill asked her, “If you study the pictures you took of the people entering and exiting The Praetorian Club, do you think you can tell which of them has murder in his or her heart?”
“I must have missed photo interp the day they taught that,” she answered.
McGill smiled. He liked his new fed. The time came when Deke needed a little time off, he could see letting her be his close-in bodyguard.
“That being the case,” McGill said, “how would you feel about keeping an eye on Congressman Garner’s house, maybe snap a few more pictures, see if anyone from his wake has any after-hours business with him?
She nodded. McGill was a special case, she could see. The guy was smart.
Had clout, too. Not even SAC Crogher held any sway over him.
“Something wrong, Elspeth?” McGill asked.
She got to her feet. “No, sir, not at all. I was just thinking that working this detail is going to require a lot of outside-the-classroom thinking. It should be interesting.”
“Feel free to talk with Deke,” McGill said. “He can give you pointers.”
McGill followed Special Agent Kendry into his outer office. Harlo Geiger was sitting there contemplating her future, humming “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.” She stopped and got to her feet when she saw McGill. Harlo spared a glance at Elspeth as she left but saw no competition or any other point of relevance.
McGill said, “Thank you for waiting, Miz Geiger.”
He gestured her into his office. Left the door open, as he didn’t have a chaperone.
They took their respective seats and Harlo said, “I want to give you a bonus. I’ve heard about your son. I’ll hold a good thought for him. I can only imagine how hard it must be for you to work at a time like this. So coming up with all this information …” She held up the list McGill had given her. “That was great work.”
McGill offered a wan smile.
Doing what little he had to push the case along had been the only moments — no, there were a few others — that allowed him to take his mind off Kenny.
He certainly didn’t deserve a bonus simply for thinking that tapping Galia Mindel’s wealth of oppo research had been the answer to his Harlo Geiger problem.
“Whatever you care to make the tab for my services,” McGill said, “I’d like you to divide it in two and make your checks payable to the scholarship fund of Saint Ignatius High School in Chicago and St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital in Memphis.”
Harlo took a notebook and pen out of her purse and wrote down the names, making sure she had them right. She told McGill he had a wonderful heart.
He did believe in charity, did whatever he could. But in this case there was the added benefit of having no money trail between the speaker’s former wife and him.
That business disposed of, McGill asked the first question he had for Harlo.
“If you don’t mind telling me, does the speaker own any handguns that he keeps in Washington?”
For a heartbeat, McGill could see that she wondered why he would ask that, but she pushed the curiosity aside. He’d come through for her; she’d come through for him.
“He used to have three: a semi-auto, a revolver and an exotic. The first two I put in his bags when I threw him out; the exotic, I think he said somebody took that right after the first of this year.”
“You mean, someone burgled your home? Was anything else taken?”
“No, no. Our house — my house — has fantastic security. Derek liked to carry that gun around with him. He said somebody took it from his briefcase while he was out. I don’t know if that meant at one of his offices on the Hill or somewhere else.”
“What kind of an exotic weapon was it?” McGill asked.
“It was one of those plastic guns, the kind that aren’t supposed to set off metal detectors. I think it was made in Austria.”
“A Glock?” McGill asked. He knew that company had long integrated polymers into the manufacture of its semi-autos.
“Not a Glock. I know that name. This was one of those jawbreaker names with ten syllables. Derek said you had to get them handmade to order, one at a time.”
“I see,” McGill said. He stood up and extended his hand to Harlo. “Thank you for your help.”
She leaned far over McGill’s desk and kissed his cheek.
“No, thank you, Mr. McGill.”
Reminding himself to be sure to wipe off Harlo’s lipstick before anyone saw it, McGill used her gratitude as license to ask two more questions.
“You saw this plastic gun?”
She nodded. “Looked like your usual semi-auto, only maybe a little smaller. Matte black plastic.”
“Did the speaker report it stolen?”
“He said he did.” She waved a hand and left with a bounce in her step.
McGill took his seat again. He called the White House, Edwina Byington’s extension.
“Is the president busy?” he asked.
“Now and for the next few hours, Mr. McGill.”
He thanked her. Recalling the other moments his mind had drifted away from Kenny’s ordeal, he called Clare Tracy. She said she’d love to meet him for a drink.
The Ritz-Carlton Bar
McGill and Clare sat at a corner table. Deke sat two tables away, facing out, setting a buffer, watching for anyone who thought to approach, his back to the people he was protecting. Couldn’t ask for better or more discreet security. Clare took a moment to marvel at the perks her old
boyfriend currently enjoyed. Paid to marry well, she thought.
She reached a hand across the table. McGill took it.
“How’s Kenny doing?” she asked.
“They’re throwing everything they have at him, and he keeps taking it. Won’t let anything break his spirit. I don’t know where he gets the strength.”
“I do. He has two strong parents and a whole lot of people who love him.”
McGill had to clear his throat. “Yeah. Tomorrow’s the day. My guess is the girl who needs the same marrow type as Kenny will have her procedure tomorrow, too.”
Clare nodded. “She will. Dr. Jones called me today, asked me to be ready.”
“Sorry you had to hang out in Washington all day. Be away from your work.”
“Oh, I got plenty of work done. My assistant routed all my calls here. You might not believe it, but without a word from me, everyone I talked to seemed to know why I’m here. I was told what a swell gal I am more times than I cared to hear. But apparently doing a good deed inspires people to be generous. I set a single-day record for fundraising. I was going to treat myself to a drink before I heard from you.”
Clare had a Virgin Mary in front of her.
McGill had a Sam Adams.
“Probably wise for you to go alcohol free,” he said.
“Doctor’s orders.”
“Too bad,” he said. “I’d love to have seen the Ritz-Carlton’s reaction if we’d ordered a pitcher of beer and a pizza.”
Clare laughed. “For someone with Secret Service protection, they wouldn’t have batted an eye. The beer would be cold, the mugs frosted and the pie the best you ever had.”
“Wasn’t that long ago I was a simple chief of police.”
“Yeah, in Winnetka. Mansions along the lakefront and everybody else having to make do with mere million-dollar homes.”
“True. But it’s still a long way from there to here.”
“Yeah, for a combination of privilege and power, you can’t beat the presidency.”
Clare turned away for a moment. Not exactly a subtle cue.
“What is it?” McGill asked.
