by Joseph Flynn
He didn’t transfer Benjamin to some remote FBI outpost because she was valuable to him as an investigator — and he knew she’d sue him for being punished without professional cause.
The most important reason he kept her close, though, was to remind him not to make the same mistake twice.
“There are worse things to be than a careerist,” Benjamin said.
She thought DeWitt might have come to share her sense of ambition when he declined to fight for child custody. But when he also passed up the chance to renew their sexual relationship, despite clear overtures from her, she understood things had changed. The deputy director was a smart and even decent guy. He’d treat her fairly, but now she was just another subordinate.
No, not really, she thought. Byron knew enough not to try to punish her for a personal decision, but if she ever made a serious professional mistake, one that would hold up before a board of review or in court, she wouldn’t get a second chance. Her career at the FBI would be at a dead end. She’d have to do the thing she’d least want to do: quit.
Realizing that now, she saw her implicit criticism of McGill was a mistake.
So she changed her tune and said, “You’re right. I was just griping about an outsider poking his nose into an FBI case. Sorry.”
“An outsider with considerable police experience who gave us a whole new take on our investigation of Jordan Gilford’s murder,” DeWitt said. How had he forgotten to account for that on his to-do list?
“You know,” Benjamin said, working on recovering lost ground, “Mr. McGill’s catch on the second killer using Abel Mays’ gun to kill Jordan Gilford gives me an idea.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, if the second killer was a pro, a hired hitman, he wouldn’t have left any of his fingerprints on Mays’ weapon, right?”
“Most likely right, but one can always hope,” DeWitt said.
Benjamin continued, “But at least a few of his gloved fingers must have overlapped points where Mays also held the weapon. So it stands to reason that the second killer must’ve smudged some of Mays’ prints, also right?”
DeWitt had to smile. If some of Mays’ prints were smudged, that would confirm McGill’s idea of a second killer. Redounding to Benjamin’s credit. If there were no smudged prints, that would mean the wound pattern on Jordan’s back was an anomaly, there was no second killer and McGill was a small-time jerk who should leave major investigations to the FBI.
Either way, Benjamin would get something out of it.
She might well be running the whole damn Bureau someday.
“Also right,” DeWitt conceded. “Check it out.”
“There’s more to think about.”
“Such as.”
“If Jordan Gilford was killed because someone was worried what he’d find as part of the DOD’s Inspector General Office, then the person who hired the assassin is probably some muckety-muck in the defense industry or the Pentagon. Maybe even Congress.”
DeWitt felt sure he’d known that but had repressed the thought.
Was there no end to his tribulations?
Benjamin, on the other hand, looked like she couldn’t wait to jump on the case with both feet. The instinct for self-preservation, as much as any intellectual calculation, led DeWitt to the answer. “Special Agent Benjamin, you now have operational control of the murder investigation of Jordan Gilford … if you feel you can play well with James J. McGill and any of the friends he may call upon.”
For the blink of an eye, DeWitt saw conflicting emotions race across Benjamin’s face.
Then she said, “Thank you, sir. I’ll do whatever’s necessary to make sure this comes out right for everyone.”
Her intention to please included calling him sir again. Letting him know she understood the new lay of the land. DeWitt both appreciated that and felt something once precious had just died.
Benjamin wasn’t quite done and said, “There’s one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“As my investigation — and Mr. McGill’s — proceed, the pressure on the guilty parties is likely to grow. The bad guys might get desperate. If they hired a hitman once …”
DeWitt knew just where she was going.
“They might make James J. McGill their next target.”
Chapter 12
McGill’s Hideaway — The White House
McGill had made a personal call on Zara Gilford before going back to the White House. Celsus Crogher was at Zara’s condo when he arrived. He spoke to Celsus, giving Zara the moment she said she needed to put on her face.
“Everything’s all right?” McGill asked.
“Security in the building is top notch, for a civilian structure.”
“You’re getting along okay with Karl Vasek?” The building’s security director and retired Marine.
“Yeah, I like the guy. Might ask him to go to work for me.”
“For you?” McGill asked.
“You’re the one who suggested I do private security, remember?”
“You didn’t sound too enthused.”
“I wasn’t. I’ve got a good pension. Don’t really need more money.”
“But you do need something to do,” McGill said.
“Just like you when you came to Washington.” Celsus sighed. “I hate to admit it, but I’m coming to understand you better. A little anyway. My reluctance to start a private firm was I thought I’d have to work for a bunch of dicks. Guys I’d sooner throw into a line of fire, not catch a bullet for. Mrs. Gilford, she’s a sweet lady. Opened my eyes to other possibilities.”
McGill said, “You’re in business for yourself, you get to choose your clients.”
“Yeah, that’s a whole new idea after a career in government.”
Zara Gilford appeared, looking apprehensive. McGill had told her he had news for her.
They sat next to each other on the living room sofa. McGill held both her hands in his and told her he’d found persuasive evidence that her husband had been killed by someone other than Abel Mays. He was taken by surprise when she asked what the evidence was, but he told her.
Celsus, standing nearby, overheard and nodded in agreement with McGill’s assessment.
Zara’s tears came, as McGill had felt sure they would, but she caught him off guard again when she smiled. She took the handkerchief McGill offered her and dried her tears. That done, she smiled.
“My heart is still broken,” she said. “I’ll always miss Jordan, but I’m so happy his death won’t just be wrapped up in another tragedy for the sake of convenience. If you can find out who really killed my husband, Mr. McGill, and see that justice is done, it would help me so much.”
Before McGill might feel obliged to make a foolish promise, Zara kissed his cheek and said she needed to be alone. She returned to her bedroom.
McGill asked Celsus, “You’ve got someone to relieve you?”
“I’m good for the night, and I’ve got an ex-Secret Service colleague coming in the morning.”
“Good.”
“You think you can catch the SOB who killed Mr. Gilford?”
McGill said, “I’m going to do everything I can.”
“From what I’ve seen, that usually works out. A couple of things, though.”
“What?”
“Tell Deke Ky to really be on his toes.”
Celsus had the same thought Abra Benjamin did. Somebody might be coming for McGill next. Then he added his second point of information.
“Mrs. Gilford says she’s going home tomorrow. Back to her real house.”
When McGill got back to the White House, he called his ex-wife, Carolyn, and spoke to her and their two children who still lived in Evanston. “Everybody’s okay?” he asked his ex.
“We’re good. Security, federal and local, is thick on the ground. Jim, how long will that be necessary?”
“You decide what you and Lars need.” Lars Enquist was Carolyn’s husband, the kids’ stepdad. “Why don’t we g
ive Kenny and Caitie an extra school week?”
Normally, Carolyn wanted the children to have as close to normal a childhood as possible.
What with having the president of the United States for a stepmother.
Now, however, she said, “I think that would be wise.”
As with most parents in the country, both McGill and Carolyn increasingly felt the simple act of sending your children off to school in the morning had become an exercise in faith and courage that they would return unharmed. That or an act of denial that there was any danger.
Kenny came on the phone and told McGill, “That was bad, Dad, what happened to those football players and their coaches. Danny Murtaugh said we should put posters up in every school: If you’re thinking about murder-suicide, skip step one, go directly to step two.”
“Danny’s father is a doctor, isn’t he?”
Kenny had gone to school with Danny since first grade.
“His mom, too.”
McGill had forgotten about that. “Okay. You think Danny’s parents would advocate suicide as a good public health policy? And how do you feel about what Danny said?”
Kenny was also planning a career in medicine.
“I don’t know how Danny’s parents might feel. I wouldn’t ever want to tell someone to kill himself, but Danny’s idea would cut down on the body count.”
“You’re angry,” McGill said.
“Yeah.”
“Because you don’t know what to do. You don’t want to meet violence with violence because then you’d just add to the problem.”
“Yeah.” Kenny’s voice broke. “I almost died, Dad. I pretty much know what dying is like. Why can’t people see how horrible it is to shoot someone?”
McGill didn’t have an answer for that. “Patti and I are going to do our best to make things better. Why don’t you see if you can think of something to help that doesn’t involve any body counts at all?”
Kenny said he’d try, but he didn’t sound optimistic.
Caitie came on. She’d obviously overheard a good deal of her brother’s conversation.
“I’m the one who’s really mad, Dad.”
“And your answer to the problem, my dear?”
“I’m going to become a cop.”
McGill was struck dumb.
“Dad, you still there?”
“I am, but I think either my hearing or my mind is slipping.”
“I’m not kidding, Dad. Somebody’s got to protect people.”
Caitie had only recently completed a speaking role in her first movie.
The premiere was set for the coming summer.
A stepping-stone, she’d said, to following in her step-mother’s footsteps to the presidency.
“I know what you’re thinking, Dad. I’m just a kid and I don’t know what I want.”
“I’m beginning to wonder,” McGill conceded.
“Well, Dennis Farina was a Chicago cop who also was an actor.”
“After he retired from the police department.”
“So maybe I’ll do some more acting, become a cop, then go back to Hollywood.”
Anything must seem possible when you were thirteen, McGill supposed, but to the best of his recollection his plans at that age were far more modest.
“What about politics and a run for the White House?” he asked.
“Patti told me the presidency is not all it’s cracked up to be.”
McGill was glad to hear that plan might be crossed off Caitie’s list. “Have you told your mother any of this? She used to worry when I was a cop.”
“I thought I’d better tell you first. I wouldn’t want to scare Mom but …”
“What?”
“She can’t divorce me.”
There were other forms of alienation, but McGill didn’t want to get into that.
“Do me a favor,” he said, “don’t tell your mother about this until we have a chance to talk in person, okay?”
“Okay, but if everybody in this country is going to have a gun, I want a badge, too.”
Now, that sounded like Caitie. It was also one of the saddest prospects for the future he’d ever heard. He told his youngest child he loved her and always to be careful.
“You, too, Dad.”
Ten minutes after saying goodbye to Caitie and staring at his still-active wood-burning fireplace — perfect for a day bleak in every sense of the word — McGill was joined by Patti. She sat next to McGill on the room’s large leather sofa. Took his hand in hers and sat in silence for a minute.
Staring at the fire along with McGill, she asked, “Would you care for a drink?”
“No, I’m depressed enough as it is.”
He told Patti of his phone call home and what Carolyn, Kenny and Caitie had to say.
“A cop, really?” Patti asked.
“She has no idea of what it means.”
“No, she has some idea. She understands there’s a legal advantage to being a police officer. You can carry a weapon openly in public. You have more latitude in the use of that weapon. And if you wear body armor you’re less vulnerable than most people.”
McGill looked at Patti. “You really think she knows about body armor? The last time I wore a Kevlar vest, she wasn’t even —”
Patti held up a hand. “What about the Evanston PD officers who provide security for Carolyn and Lars? She’s seen them for five years now.”
McGill hadn’t thought about that. “Sure, they wear armor. The idea of a drink is sounding better.”
“Let’s give it a minute. I’ll tell you about my meeting with Jean Morrissey.”
Patti had brought the vice president up to speed on where things stood with a response to the slaughter at the Winstead School, and she told McGill something new.
“I’ll be speaking to a school assembly at Winstead tomorrow. There will be no media presence. This is just for the school community and me. I’ll express the grief I share with them, give them an outline of what I plan to do and solicit ideas from the students, parents, faculty and administration.”
“You want me to be there?” McGill asked.
“I’d love to have your company, but you have your investigation to work, and I’d like you to confirm your interview with Ellie Booker and make it ASAP. I’ll speak to the country shortly after you do.”
McGill nodded. “I’ll get up early and hit the ground running. Did Jean have any suggestions for you?”
“She did. She’s a hunter. She’s going to see if she can recruit hunting clubs and organizations to support basic reforms of gun laws. And then she told me something else that broke my heart.”
“What?”
“Jean has a friend in Minneapolis who’s the head of an ad agency that’s won every award for creativity the ad business has to offer. She said the agency has a TV spot for gun control in the can. It’s been ready to air for three years, but the people who sponsored it decided not to run it. They aren’t afraid of push-back; they just don’t know if they can take the heartbreak all over again.”
“What does it say,” McGill asked, “what does it show?”
Patti told him.
“Jesus,” McGill whispered.
“Jean is going to talk to the sponsors, see if she can persuade them to let us use it.”
Better her than me, McGill thought.
He and Patti had one drink each and went to bed.
Connecticut Avenue NW — Washington, DC
Representative Philip Brock, Democrat of Pennsylvania, double murderer and anarchist to the bone, got home late. Two flight delays, one for a late-arriving flight crew, the other for mechanical problems, had made the trip from Costa Rica to Washington seem interminable. Brock had bought a copy of the New York Times during his layover in Miami and read about the nation’s latest shooting atrocity, the one at the Winstead School. Yet another sign, he thought, that the existing order had to be overthrown. No civilized country would permit the recurrent slaughter of its children and other innocents.<
br />
He hadn’t thought specifically about what might happen to the Second Amendment, should another Constitutional Convention be convened. Logically, it would be as up for grabs as any other part of the country’s foundational laws. He didn’t see, though, how the right to bear arms could be any more broadly interpreted. Allow John Q. Public to buy surplus from defense contractors? Every man could have his own armored fighting vehicle, attack helicopter and killer drones.
That’d make the neighbors think twice about their loud, late-night parties.
Unless they had superior firepower, in which case thing could get really loud.
The prices of large-scale weapons, however, would be beyond the reach of anyone but the country’s billionaires. Still, if a private market were allowed to develop, canny capitalists would likely find a way to meet consumer demand. If things came to that, though, Brock thought that moving to Central America might not be a sufficiently distant retreat.
Tasmania might look better.
On the other hand, do-gooders, and they were still a majority, would seize the opportunity to rewrite the anything-goes license currently afforded by the Second Amendment. Tighten it up considerably. Not that the other side would ever give up. It would be the abortion debate all over again, only with a lot more bang-bang.
Oh, well. The country needed to end its schizophrenic nature.
Decide who it truly was.
Brock’s taxi dropped him off at a high-security condo building, not far from the one to which Jordan Gilford had relocated himself and his wife. Unlike the Widow Gilford, Brock had no intention of leaving his secure nest until he departed the country. He settled down in his living room with two fingers of Pappy Van Winkle bourbon, the 23-year old reserve stuff, and returned his attention to the now ruffled copy of the Times he’d brought home.
The updated story of Bahir Ben Kalil’s death had made the paper, too. The Jordanian diplomat — no mention of his terrorist affiliations — had been tentatively identified by his sister, Dr. Hasna Kalil. The FBI was investigating the death as a homicide. Of course, they were. Accidental death and natural causes were out of the question.
Brock strained to think if there was any trace of physical evidence that could connect him with Bahir’s murder. He couldn’t think of one. Even if he’d made some unnoticed slip-up on Billy Goat Trail A the night he’d killed Bahir, shed a follicle of hair if not a tear, it would have been washed away by months of Washington winter weather.
