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

by Joseph Flynn

  “Politically, that would be a strong accusation,” Galia said. “With one-in-four people.”

  The president picked up a phone. “Edwina, please tell the secretary of defense, the attorney general, the director of the FBI and the secretary of state that I need to see them in the Oval Office immediately.”

  Galia intuited what was about to happen.

  She wanted to warn the president against taking precipitous action.

  But the look in the president’s eyes made Galia hold her tongue.

  “Mr. Drummond,” the president said, “do you have copies of everything you and Jordan Gilford found out about this Tabulation Team?”

  The inspector general took a thumb drive out of a coat pocket.

  “Right here, Madam President.”

  “Galia, please take that device.”

  The chief of staff took possession of the drive.

  “Mr. Drummond, you should have come to me earlier with your information.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Attorney General Jaworsky will place you in protective custody. For the moment, you are relieved of your official responsibilities.”

  “But Madam President, if I’m suddenly absent from my post, the people we want to investigate will know something is wrong. They’ll either destroy evidence or flee.”

  “They already know there’s trouble, Mr. Drummond. Jordan Gilford’s death is proof of that. Within hours, the FBI is going to arrest the Tabulation Team and anyone else you suspect of being involved with this rogue operation and the death of Mr. Gilford.”

  Patricia Grant could almost feel the apprehension radiating from her chief of staff.

  It wouldn’t be long before the news of the scandal went public.

  The political ramifications would be impossible to predict.

  But they certainly wouldn’t be good.

  The president picked up her phone again, “Edwina, please call Mr. McGill. I need to speak with him as soon as possible.”

  McGill Investigations, Inc. — Georgetown

  “No comment on Auric Ludwig’s tirade?” That was how Ellie Booker said hello when she called McGill at his office.

  He got right down to business, too. “The man’s words speak for themselves.”

  “Can I use that?” Ellie asked.

  “Yeah, if you preface it with your question. Be sure to use ‘tirade,’ too.”

  “Context, huh?”

  “Helps people to understand. You up for doing me another favor maybe?”

  “What’s the favor and what’s the maybe?”

  “If you know any car thieves, that’s the maybe, I’d like to put word out on their grapevine, that’s the favor. An assist would be worth five hundred dollars to the winning tipster, and payment can be made anonymously.”

  “What do I get out of it?” Ellie asked.

  “Increased good will.”

  “Oh, boy. Does that mean the next time I need an investigator you’re gonna help me?”

  McGill had turned Ellie down the first time she’d asked for his help.

  He asked, “Is Sir Edbert coming back from the grave?”

  Sir Edbert Bickford had owned WWN before he fell off his yacht and drowned in the Potomac. He’d been one of Patti’s most venomous critics. Ellie had been his minion when she’d needed McGill’s help.

  “God, I hope not.”

  “No luck getting Hugh Collier to announce the day’s gun deaths on his national news?”

  “Not yet. I’ll work on him some more.”

  “Okay, you need my help again, and you aren’t busy slamming the president, I’ll be there.”

  “And I’ll do your favor, never admitting I know any criminals.”

  “Of course not.”

  McGill emailed the photo of the car that had been parked in front of Abel Mays’ SUV to Ellie. So far no one with a badge had come up with any leads on it by checking junkyards. That led McGill to wonder if the car hadn’t just been left somewhere in the District to be stolen. Maybe, as bait, a wallet had been left on the dashboard, and to make things really easy the key was in the ignition, too.

  Someone with a suspicious turn of mind and a three-digit IQ might be wary of such easy pickings and back off fast, but criminals, by and large, weren’t critical thinkers.

  McGill’s phone rang again. Captain Rockelle Bullard, Metro PD, was calling.

  “You free to go for a ride?” she asked.

  “As long as it’s in my car, yes. What’s up?”

  “Detectives Meeker and Beemer came up with something interesting.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They found the car we were looking for, and the thief who stole it.”

  McGill laughed. “I was just thinking of that.”

  “Sure you were.”

  “Really.”

  “Well, my guys found it.”

  “That’s great. But tell me one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Did someone leave a wallet on the dashboard?”

  McGill heard Rockelle curse under her breath.

  He took that as a yes.

  She told McGill where she, her men and the car were.

  He’d just gotten into the back of his Chevy with Deke and Leo up front when his cell phone chimed. Edwina Byington this time. With a message the president wanted to see him immediately. Not to worry about anyone’s health, though.

  McGill’s heart unclenched. “Edwina, do you know if Welborn is in the building?”

  “Captain Yates is sitting not ten feet from me.”

  McGill sent Welborn to meet with Rockelle and her men.

  Special Agent Benjamin took it upon herself to tag along.

  Chapter 21

  The Oval Office — The White House

  With Leo driving like he was going for the checkered flag at Daytona, McGill beat all four of the poobahs Patti had summoned to join her. She was alone in her office and he saw immediately that something big was up. It wasn’t really the time to crack wise, but he had to make the effort. Otherwise the woman he loved might not have a laugh all day.

  “Sorry I took so long, but I had Leo stop for flowers.”

  Patti didn’t laugh, but she did smile. “You did not.”

  McGill brought his right hand out from behind his back.

  He held a dozen red roses in a vase. On impulse, he’d bought them off Aggie Wu, the White House press secretary, who’d received the bouquet for her birthday. He’d paid double what it would cost to replace the flowers and promised to tell her a great story she could share with generations of Wus to come.

  He didn’t tell Patti any of that; it never hurt to let your wife think you could do magic.

  Patti buzzed Edwina and told her, “No visitors for five minutes.”

  McGill asked, “You really think we can do it that fast?”

  Now, Patti laughed. She took the flowers from McGill and placed them on her desk. Then she embraced her husband. “We have time for this.”

  She gave him a kiss he’d remember for the rest of his life.

  He told her, “My knees will wobble for a week.”

  “That’s all?” Patti said. Then she led McGill to a sofa and the two of them sat close to each other. “Okay, time to get serious. Right?”

  McGill nodded. “Right.”

  Patti told him of her meeting with Hume Drummond, and the one coming up with the heavyweights from her cabinet.

  McGill sighed. “I don’t envy you, Madam President, but at least now we know the motive for someone wanting Jordan Gilford dead.”

  “You can’t tell Zara Gilford yet, Jim.”

  “Eventually?”

  “Maybe. Probably.”

  “May I have a copy of the information on the thumb drive Galia took from Drummond?”

  “Galia’s working on that right now, reading it and seeing what she thinks might apply to your investigation and what we’d better keep from someone who doesn’t have any security clearance.”
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  McGill frowned. “I’m not questioning your decision. I certainly don’t want a security clearance. But I’m not sure Galia would know what I’d find valuable to an investigation.”

  “I know. I thought of that, but this is best we can do for now. If you can’t find the man who shot Jordan Gilford soon, I might have to leave some top-secret material on my nightstand while I go to the loo.”

  “You’ve done that before and I’ve never peeked.”

  “This time, I won’t mind.”

  “So you want me to work my case? You and Zara Gilford are on the same page with that?”

  “Yes. It will be fine with me if the Metro Police or the FBI find the killer, but I put my faith in you first.”

  That earned Patti a kiss from McGill. Not in the same league as hers but close.

  “I’ll do my best,” he said.

  “Two more things, Jim. Nothing matters more to me than your staying alive and well, and if at all possible, I want the man who killed Jordan Gilford brought in alive. His testimony might well be the key to getting to the bottom of this mess at the DOD.”

  “Bring him back alive it is, Madam President.”

  That being the case, McGill thought, he might well have to find the bastard before anyone else did.

  Ritz Carlton Hotel — Washington, DC

  Darren Drucker stood at the podium in the conference room, a large portion of the capital’s political media seated in front of him. They waited politely as he arranged his notes and took a sip of water from a green bottle. With any figure of lesser standing than the president, the newsies might have been chattering among themselves or working stories on their phones. Not so with Drucker getting ready to speak.

  The reporters all harbored the fantasy of becoming a confidante of the down-to-earth multi-billionaire. Maybe even striking up a personal friendship. If being written into the great man’s will was too much to hope for, maybe getting a quiet stock tip would be possible. That could set you up for life, too.

  Standing several feet to Drucker’s right, in a corner of the room, was his closest political advisor, Putnam Shady. Putnam had won Drucker’s complete trust by giving him the most accurate readings he’d ever had about the day-to-day workings of Congress and the White House. That and never asking for a nickel more than the fees and perks they’d agreed upon when forming their partnership.

  While Drucker put his script in order, Putnam was having a quiet conversation with Sweetie, who’d charmed Drucker upon making his acquaintance that morning.

  “Your husband keeps telling me he’s a scoundrel with a law license, Ms. Sweeney, but all I’ve seen is one of the most bluntly honest men I’ve ever met. He claims any shred of virtue he might possess is all your fault.”

  Sweetie had replied, “Putnam likes to think of himself as Cary Grant in that movie where he plays the jewel thief who went straight.”

  Putnam said, “‘To Catch a Thief,’ and the only reason I might see myself as Cary Grant is because Margaret reminds me so much of Grace Kelly – with better muscular definition.”

  Once they were alone, Sweetie had asked Putnam, “Are you feeling any better about Maxi being at school today?”

  “No. How about you?”

  “It requires a vigorous exercise of faith.”

  “I found out something for you, about Representative Phil Brock.”

  He told her about seeing the man’s tanned face. “I found out through some people I know on Capitol Hill that Brock has land and a house in Costa Rica.”

  “And that’s significant because?” Sweetie asked.

  “I thought you might find out where Joan Renshaw likes to sun herself, when she’s not turning ghostly white in prison.”

  Sweetie beamed at Putnam. “I’ll make a detective out of you yet.”

  Putnam smirked. “Being a lifelong snoop is a pretty good headstart.”

  Standing in a room filled with newsies, Mr. and Mrs. Shady limited their public display of affection to squeezing each other’s hand. Then Sweetie leaned in close and whispered to Putnam, “I’m going to call Jacqueline Dodd, the new director of the Andrew Hudson Grant Foundation. She worked for Joan Renshaw. She might know how Joan used to spend her leisure time.”

  “Or where she traveled on business,” Putnam said. “Fun in the sun feels so much better when it comes with a legitimate tax deduction.”

  Sweetie grinned. Putnam was still a bit of a scoundrel.

  She quietly left the room as Darren Drucker began to speak.

  As Margaret left, Putnam’s phone vibrated; he’d received a text. His answering service was letting him know he’d received a call from his tailor, Jerry Nerón. He’d return the call later.

  Right now, Darren was starting his speech.

  “As some of you might know, I do a bit of investing.”

  The audience laughed.

  “For most of my career, I’ve put my money into the private sector, looking for promising new companies and undervalued established enterprises that were ready to make big comebacks. A few years back, after the Supreme Court ruled that money is speech and corporations are people, quite a few other people nearly as rich as me decided to buy their way into politics.

  “I’ve observed that they might have found more winners if they’d taken their money to the track and played the ponies.”

  The newsies chortled again. Everyone loved to see the wealthy make fools of themselves.

  Drucker continued, “I think part of their problem is that our two major political parties have proven to be far more interested in their own success than in having our country succeed. That’s unfortunate but also understandable. Both parties have been around for a very long time and it’s the inevitable nature of any institution to become self-serving.

  “Quite recently, a third party emerged: True South. Its core principles, though, are even more conservative than those of the Republicans. Part of my success as an investor comes from taking chances on companies that look to the future. It’s more comfortable, of course, to cling to what’s familiar and even long for the past. But the world keeps turning toward the future and countries around the world, with which the United States competes, keep racing forward.

  “The countries that are our competitors or even our adversaries would like nothing better than to see the United States simply run in place or better yet fall far behind them.

  “So, I feel it’s imperative for our country to have a vital progressive political party oriented strongly toward the future. With that in mind, Putnam Shady and I have put together a group of twelve candidates to run for the House of Representatives and and two candidates to run for the Senate in 2014 under the party banner of what we call Cool Blue.

  “The blue in our name stands for the end of the political spectrum in which our principles are based; the cool means our approach to politics will be based on reason and expressed in a friendly, temperate manner. Our candidates will not be or ever become professional politicians. They will be educators, business people, working artists and retired military. Each of them will limit himself or herself to no more than six years in Congress. Should they be tempted to stay longer, Cool Blue will withdraw its party affiliation.

  “In future election cycles, we will work to increase the number of our candidates running for Congress. We’ll run people for state legislatures, too, if the talent pool proves deep enough. At present, we have no intention of running any candidates for the presidency. If we prove to be successful as a party at the legislative level for, say, twenty years, we’ll reconsider having a presidential candidate.

  “We hope to raise funds from a large number of progressive donors in amounts both large and small, but to get us out of the starting gate, I have a few dollars I can spare.”

  The newsies liked that one, too.

  “You’ll receive handouts listing our core principles and profiling our candidates. This information will also be available online.” Drucker gave them the URL. “Before I take any questions,
I’d like to tell you of one issue on which all our candidates have unanimously agreed. Random acts of gun violence, especially those causing the deaths of large numbers of innocent people, must end. They must end as soon as possible.

  “Any future presidential candidate who does not include this goal as one of his or her top two priorities, along with defending the nation against foreign attacks, is at best not up to the job and at worst a coward.

  “President Grant has not solicited Cool Blue’s support, but we stand behind her efforts to keep guns out of the hands of felons and to change both the discussion and the reality of the place of firearms in American society.”

  Drucker asked if there were any questions.

  They flew at him like a hailstorm.

  The Oval Office — The White House

  Galia Mindel was well set financially and the idea of marrying for money had never occurred to her even in the days when she needed to work for a living. But upon hearing Darren Drucker speak she almost fell in love.

  She turned to Patricia Grant and said, “Wasn’t he wonderful, Madam President?”

  “He was certainly helpful. But I think Putnam Shady was the architect behind the questions that will be asked a thousand times during the 2016 presidential election campaign: ‘Mr. or Ms. Candidate, what will you do to end the glut of gun-death tragedies in our country? If you have no specific and effective plan you will push with all your might, are you an incompetent or merely spineless?’”

  Galia nodded. “It was a brilliant stroke, equating the prevention of domestic massacres with the defense against foreign attacks, and defining both as primary presidential responsibilities.”

  The president sighed. “We should have thought of it a long time ago. Meanwhile, we have to push as hard as we can in the time we have left in the White House.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “On another matter that won’t wait, have you made plans to speak with Erna Godfrey?”

  Galia nodded. “I have.”

  The woman who had killed the president’s first husband, Andrew Hudson Grant, was confined at the Federal Correctional Institution at Danbury, Connecticut, a medium-security prison for women. After Erna had given the names of former friends in the radical anti-abortion underground who had committed crimes up to and including murder to the attorney general, she had been provided with a special protective detail of correctional officers for her personal safety.