The Good Guy with a Gun (Jim McGill series Book 6)

by Joseph Flynn

  “A homicide in a national park? Wouldn’t that be your case?” DeWitt asked.

  He silently prayed that it would.

  “You’d think so, yeah. But we’ve also got a lady out here who thinks the … well, they’re more like remains than a body. Anyway, she thinks it’s her brother, and he had diplomatic status with the Jordanian Embassy.”

  “Bahir Ben Kalil?”

  The name had come immediately to DeWitt’s mind. The Jordanians had been greatly upset about the disappearance of their ambassador’s personal physician. Absent the attempt on the president’s life and the murder of a U.S. senator, the case would have gotten a higher priority.

  “Bingo,” Lang said. “That’s the name the lady gave us.”

  The park cop was right.

  The murder of a foreign diplomat was an FBI case.

  One more burden for him to bear, apparently.

  The National Mall — Washington, DC

  While the average District resident would have felt that Saturday morning had grown progressively more raw and chill, two other members of the capital’s diplomatic community thought it was fine weather for a walk. Rikkard Heikkinen and his wife Ruta represented the commercial and cultural interests of the Republic of Finland at its Washington embassy. They both came from the Sami people who herded reindeer above the Arctic Circle.

  Forced to accommodate increasing Western incursion and assimilation, some among the Sami thought it wise to send their children to government schools, the better to learn how to protect the Samis’ interests. Many of those children did just that. Others, however, fell prey to a form of seduction with parallels in other places: How you gonna keep ‘em up in the Arctic once they’ve seen Helsinki?

  For Rikkard and Ruta, even their nation’s capital wasn’t enough. They graduated at the top of their university class, got married and joined the Ministry for Foreign Affairs. During their twenty-five-year careers, they’d been posted, always together, in Cairo, New Delhi, Berlin, Buenos Aires and now Washington.

  Approaching the time when they’d be able to retire on generous pensions, they decided to go for a walk on the National Mall on what they considered a fine spring morning. Though they’d left the Arctic as teenagers, a thousand generations of Sami blood and genes insulated them against a temperature hovering just above freezing. A sweater and a nylon shell were all each of them needed to keep warm.

  The question the two Finns discussed as they walked was where they should spend their retirement years. Ruta wanted a place that was both scenic and peaceful where she might embark on a long-planned writing career. She wanted to do spy novels as told from the point of view of a Finnish diplomat. That was fine with Rikkard. He wanted a quiet and picturesque home, too, where he might begin to paint majestic landscapes. The point of contention was whether their new home should be sited in a temperate or a tropical climate.

  They were so caught up in debating the merits of median temperatures and relative humidity that they almost tripped over Jordan Gilford’s ballistically riddled, bloodied and ruined body. Ruta, with a keener nose, smelled something wrong, and pulled them aside at the last moment. They stopped and stared at the corpse, both of them struck dumb.

  Up to that point, they’d considered the possibility of settling somewhere in the United States. That notion was instantly quashed. As if experiencing a shared epiphany, they resolved the matter by deciding they’d live in Vancouver for half the year and Pape’ete the other half. The Canadians and the French Polynesians were both more peaceful people than Americans.

  Then they called 911.

  A Metro police patrol unit was the first to arrive in less than a minute.

  Two uniformed officers approached the Finns on the run with weapons drawn.

  The senior cop called in the dead body found on the Mall.

  “The vic’s been chewed up. Looks like he caught a burst. Yeah, an automatic weapon, definitely.”

  In short order, the scene was flooded with cops, their vehicles and tools.

  The U.S. Park Police showed up. They had jurisdiction for the body on the Mall.

  The Metro cops found Abel Mays’ dead body in his green Toyota SUV parked on Madison Drive. They recovered the weapon he’d used to kill his victims.

  Rikkard and Ruta Heikkinen presented their diplomatic credentials to assure they would be treated respectfully, and both the federal and local cops knew the drill. Diplomats got the kid glove routine: please and thank you, yes, sir and yes, ma’am.

  Even so, the cops requested the couple wait around for the time being.

  Until people above their pay-grade arrived to talk with them.

  They agreed, but Rikkard turned away from the body.

  He wanted none of his paintings to have an air of Edvard Munch about them.

  Ruta, on the other hand, paid close attention to the crime scene activity.

  An idea for her first novel was already forming in her mind.

  McGill Investigations, Inc. — Georgetown

  Roger Michaelson sat alone in McGill’s outer office, a cup of coffee in his hand that was every bit as good as any he’d ever had at Starbucks. McGill had hurried out, taking his Secret Service bodyguard with him. He’d barely paused long enough to tell Michaelson he didn’t have any time to talk, but someone would be along to speak with him shortly.

  A friendly little guy who told him he was the building’s owner did appear in a matter of seconds, introduced himself as Dikki Missirian and asked, “May I bring you something either warm or cool to drink, Senator?”

  Michaelson said thanks and went with the coffee.

  “A pastry perhaps?” Dikki inquired.

  Michaelson was tempted but he was trying to get back in shape.

  “No, thanks. The coffee will be fine. Black.”

  That was just what he got and quickly. Now, though, he’d been waiting about five minutes. A thought occurred to him: It might be interesting to look through McGill’s files. See what the SOB was up to these days. Only he was sure that McGill would keep his files under lock and key, probably had concealed cameras watching the premises, too.

  The guy was no fool; he couldn’t let himself forget that.

  If he did something stupid like trying to snoop and got caught, McGill would never help him — and it was galling enough to have to ask him for help as it was. Maybe the whole thing was a setup. McGill and his bodyguard were someplace nearby watching to see what he did. Hoping to disappoint them, he just finished his coffee and got up to leave.

  Repressing the desire to wave a single-finger salute to the four corners of the room.

  Before he could exit, the door opened and a tall blonde entered.

  They’d never met but Michaelson had seen photos of Margaret Sweeney.

  McGill’s former partner with the cops in Chicago and Winnetka.

  The current co-owner of McGill’s PI firm.

  She looked him up and down and extended her hand. “You good on the coffee,” she asked, “or would you like more?”

  “I’m good.”

  Sweetie nodded. “Let’s go into Jim’s office and talk.”

  “You can speak for McGill?”

  Sweetie smiled. “I speak for myself; Jim goes along more often than not.”

  She went into McGill’s office and left it to Michaelson to decide what he wanted to do. He followed. Took one of the guest chairs and looked at the woman sitting behind McGill’s desk. She seemed perfectly at ease. That told Michaelson something.

  The woman had good reason to be sure of herself.

  “You know the problem I’m having, Ms. Sweeney?”

  “The FBI is looking at you as a possible party to a plan to kill the president. Is there anything else?”

  “That’s enough. Just the fact I’m under suspicion makes my wife jump every time she hears a loud noise. The job I got doing commentary for WorldWide News is on hold, though they’re being decent enough to pay me. People I used to serve with in Congress won’t talk
to me, and I can’t blame them. Who wants to pal around with someone who might be a traitor? In short, my life has gone to hell.”

  “So you came to Jim for help?” Sweetie asked.

  “Yes. I know you can’t prove a negative, that I wasn’t involved in the plan to kill the president. But McGill can find out who really did it. For all the trouble I’ve had with him, and despite the beating he gave me —”

  Sweetie said, “You nicked him up pretty good, too.”

  Michaelson offered a genuine smile. “Kind of you to tell me that. Anyway, I respect the work he’s done. He’s a hell of an investigator, and he’s the one guy I can see who can keep the FBI from pushing him out of an investigation. I want him to find out who set me up to be the patsy and who really was involved in the plot to kill the president.”

  “He might be able to do all that,” Sweetie agreed, “but Jim told me he’s not going to work for you. He doesn’t have it in him to work for someone who despises his wife.”

  Michaelson offered a rueful smile and shook his head.

  “There was another reason I came to him. I wanted to ask him to tell the president that despite all the bad blood there is between us I’d never do anything to hurt her, especially knowing how she suffered after losing her first husband. I see how my wife is suffering right now; what the president went through had to be far worse.”

  Sweetie stared at Michaelson. She saw no sign of duplicity. The guy was baring his heart.

  “I can call the president for you,” she said.

  “You can do that?”

  “Sure, Patti and I are buds. Do you believe in redemption, Senator?”

  “I’m hoping for it. That’s pretty much all I’ve got left.”

  “I’ll take your case,” Sweetie told him.

  “You can do that, too? It won’t cause trouble for you to butt up against the FBI?”

  “I’ll play it straight with the Bureau. Keep them apprised of what I’m doing. And the president really is my friend. The people in power know that.” Sweetie picked up the phone. “I’ll call her secretary, Edwina Byington, ask when I might have a moment to relay your message.”

  Michaelson watched, still half-suspecting a practical joke was being played on him.

  “Edwina, this is Margaret Sweeney. Do you think the president might spare a minute or two in the next couple of days to speak with me?”

  If the woman was pulling a fast one, Michaelson thought, she was one heck of an actress.

  Then he saw Margaret Sweeney’s face undergo an amazing transformation. It became hard and fierce, but still allowed room for tears to form in her eyes. Nobody was that good an actress. For a dizzying moment, Michaelson wondered if someone had succeeded in killing the president.

  “I understand,” Sweetie said. “Yes, of course.”

  As she put the phone down, Michaelson asked, “What’s wrong?”

  Sweetie told him the news she’d just heard, about the massacre at the Winstead School.

  “You’ll have to wait a while for me to give the president your message.”

  But she reconfirmed that she’d take his case.

  Chapter 4

  FirePower America — Falls Church, Virginia

  Auric Ludwig, the most militant pro-gun advocate in the country, almost swooned.

  “You’re sure?” he whispered into his phone.

  Hearing an affirmative answer, he bunched his free hand into a fist and smiled.

  On Ludwig, the expression had all the warmth of a snake about to devour a hatchling.

  He listened another moment and nodded, as if the caller could see him. “Yes, of course, you’ll get your usual money. For news like this, there will even be a bonus.”

  Ludwig immediately had second thoughts about his generosity. People should do their work for the agreed upon compensation. Maybe he could make the bonus just a token amount. No, that would make him look cheap and ungrateful. Word would get around and the move would be counterproductive.

  “Tell you what,” he told the caller, “I’ll double your usual amount. How’s that?”

  The caller thought that was terrific. Ludwig ended the call on that high note.

  He decided to look at the bonus as an investment.

  The caller had been a Metro PD uniformed officer, calling from the crime scene on the National Mall. Abel Mays, the shooter at the Winstead School, had been found dead. He’d killed one more person, true, but Mays had been shot to death in his car by … who?

  The cops didn’t know yet.

  At least, his cop didn’t.

  FirePower America, needing to stay on top of any mass shooting that happened in the country, not only monitored police communications. It recruited cops as confidential informants, men and women below the rank of sergeant, who belonged to hunting clubs or attended gun shows. Any cop who was a card-carrying member of Firepower America was the first choice for recruitment.

  Their task was simple: give the organization the first word on any multiple-victim shooting.

  For the help they provided, the tipster cops received $500 per month. The payments weren’t made in cash, they didn’t come in unmarked envelopes, they weren’t left inside of newspapers at the cop’s favorite diner. Payment was made by check and each cop got an IRS 1099 tax statement at the end of the year.

  FirePower America made it clear to their “associate officers” that it was their responsibility to declare all the income they received.

  The stated reason for those officers receiving any compensation at all from FirePower America was to provide police-community dialogues about criminal threats in the locales where they served and to update concerned citizens regarding the legal use of their firearms.

  The police appearances took place once a month at breakfasts in the banquet rooms of good but not deluxe hotels paid for by FirePower America. Anybody with an FA membership card was welcome. Hot food, warm feelings, gun talk and gales of laughter were the usual menu items.

  Good times were had by all.

  No mentions were ever made, and nothing was ever written down, about the cops giving Auric Ludwig, and nobody else, the heads-up about the gun crimes that might affect his lobbying efforts.

  So Ludwig got advance notice that Abel Mays had been shot to death.

  It was news that fulfilled his fondest wish: A good guy with a gun had stopped a bad guy with a gun. The CEO of FirePower America was going to run with that for all it was worth. The only problem was, as he’d later find out, he ran too fast, overplayed his hand. Badly.

  People who thought they had the world by the tail never saw their comeuppance coming.

  Connecticut Avenue NW — Washington, DC

  That same Saturday morning, Ellie Booker, independent news producer with a first-look deal at WorldWide News, also got a big jump on the competition when Charlotte Mays — Abel Mays’ wife — walked into her office suite that morning. Ellie had a five-room layout: her office, one for her freelancers, a reception area, an interview room and an editing bay.

  Hugh Collier, the CEO of WWN, picked up Ellie’s rent on the suite.

  It was a perk stipulated in their latest contract.

  The network also covered the fees for Ellie’s freelancers.

  The soft drinks and snacks consumed at the office, too.

  So Ellie felt unconstrained by budgetary concerns when she offered Charlotte Mays something to drink or nosh on while they talked.

  “A Diet Pepsi, if that’s okay,” Charlotte said.

  Ellie looked at Ivy, her receptionist. She got a nod.

  “We can do that for you, sure.”

  She waited for Ivy to return and then close the door to Ellie’s office behind her.

  “We good now?” Ellie asked.

  Her guest nodded. Sipped. Put the glass of soda down on a coaster.

  Charlotte had spoken to Ellie earlier that morning, the call having been forwarded by an alert staffer at WWN’s Washington bureau. The woman had told Ellie she was afraid her husb
and was going to do something terrible at the Winstead School. She’d been so worried, she’d called the Metro Police, but she’d gotten the feeling the cops hadn’t taken her seriously.

  Ellie had quickly assessed the story elements: a threat of possible violence, a school for the children of wealth and police indifference. It wasn’t a close call. She asked Mrs. Mays to come right over. Ivy had met and paid for Charlotte’s taxi at the curb.

  Now, sitting with the woman in her office, Ellie asked, “Why do you think your husband might do something violent, Mrs. Mays?”

  “Because last night he locked himself in our apartment’s bathroom and said he was either going to kill himself or everyone who’d wronged him.”

  The answer was simple and compelling. Ellie called for a pause right then.

  She took the woman into her interview room, had her videographer set up his camera and repeated the question. Got the same answer. “What did you do next, Mrs. Mays?”

  “Quiet as I could, I took my daughter, Doreen, to the far end of our place and called the police. I spoke quietly, but I know the 911 lady heard me because I gave her the message twice and she repeated my address back to me. She asked me to wait right where I was. I told her I’d stay as long as I could.”

  “How long did you stay?” Ellie asked.

  “Just short of thirteen minutes.”

  “Why that length of time?”

  “Because I was afraid if I let it get to thirteen minutes, that’d be so unlucky Doreen and I would die.”

  “And the police didn’t respond in that time?”

  “No, and Doreen and I waited outside, downstairs in the building’s doorway, for another five minutes. They didn’t come then either. My sister came in her car and we went to her house.”

  “Why do you think your husband might act violently against the Winstead School?”

  Charlotte Mays’ face tightened with anger. “He’s a physical education teacher and the head football coach at Southeast High School here in the District, and he had his two best players, two freshmen, taken from him by Winstead … again.”