by Joseph Flynn
Galia nodded. “It shows, I suppose.”
The warden laughed. “Just a little. My guess is you had two good parents and a nice home, growing up.”
“Yes, I did.”
“For quite a few inmates here, this is a step up in living conditions.”
“You’re pointing out the correlation between poverty and criminality?”
“Well, that’s just one intersection between the general public and law enforcement. There are folks from middle-class backgrounds who are criminally stupid, and a few rich people who are just plain evil. Generally speaking, though, graduating from high school and getting a regular paycheck reduces the likelihood someone will rob a convenience store.”
Galia smiled. “I might have guessed that.”
“I’ve been trying to make up my mind about Erna Godfrey since I got this job. From what I’ve read about her former life, she wasn’t exactly rich but she was certainly well off. She had a college degree and her husband was a famous preacher. So what was it that set her off to commit a murder?”
“Zealotry.”
“Yeah, I got that, but what I wonder is how can some folks be so sure God is talking directly to them? Without parting the sea for them or dropping manna on them, you know?”
“I can’t say,” Galia replied. Then she asked, “Have you heard about Erna’s vision?”
The warden shook her head. “Something she believes she saw?”
“Something she’s shared with the president.”
Galia told the warden about Erna seeing Jesus and Andrew Hudson Grant when she tried to commit suicide and was on death’s door. “Jesus wasn’t pleased with her but Mr. Grant had clearly made the cut, and that’s when she turned herself around. She also gave us several people who hadn’t seen the light yet and are currently serving their own sentences.”
“So as long as she doesn’t have another revelation that sets her off down another path, she should continue to be a model inmate?”
“Well, I imagine you keep a close eye on all your inmates.”
The warden nodded.
“I don’t think Erna should be an exception, and what I have to ask her today she might find troubling.”
There was a knock at the door, and a correctional officer led Erna in.
Manacled, shackled and wearing a smile once she saw Galia.
“Why, Ms. Mindel, it’s so nice to see you again.” Needing just a heartbeat to determine the reason for Galia’s presence, Erna’s smile faded and she asked, “You want me to do something for you again, don’t you?”
Galia said, “The president sent me to ask for a favor.”
Marshall Heights — Washington, DC
Antawn Duke was Detectives Meeker and Beemer’s pinch so Captain Rockelle Bullard let them tell their story again, this time to McGill. Leo had made quick work of getting to the neighborhood in North East Washington, hard against the Maryland state line. Meeker and Beemer were happy to repeat their story; it still had plenty of emotional juice.
First, though, Meeker had a question for McGill, who was peering into the back of the Metro patrol unit holding Antawn Duke. The car thief, with a shaved head and a sullen expression, looked back at McGill and hocked something up from his throat. But some instinct told him not to commit even a symbolic assault.
Maybe he guessed the dude checking him out was someone not to be dissed.
Or he knew cops got pissed if you made a mess in their cars.
Whatever, he swallowed his spit and turned away from McGill.
Meeker asked, “You really figured out it could be a car thief?”
McGill looked at the detective. “God’s truth. I used to be a cop, too.”
Beemer smiled. “Still got some moves, huh?”
“I do what I can.” McGill said.
Meeker said, “Beemer and I were just driving around parts of the city where certain types of activities are known to happen. We saw the car we wanted and figured we might be in for a chase, Maryland being so close by. We radioed ahead for support from their state cops.”
Beemer laughed. “Only no sooner do we see old Antawn than, boom, he pops a tire. He ain’t goin’ nowhere fast.”
Meeker said, “But he does keep goin’, at least until we force him to the curb. Ask him why he’s drivin’ on a flat tire.”
“He says he doesn’t have a jack in the car,” Beemer said, laughing.
“We make him open the trunk. There’s the jack. Antawn says, ‘I meant my other jack.’”
The two detectives were rocking with laughter.
Beemer told McGill, “I say, ‘Antawn, you got a special jack for each day a the week?’”
Meeker said, “He says, ‘Yeah, man, that’s it exactly.’”
Rockelle, with Welborn and Benjamin standing beside her, shook her head.
“These two are going to audition for Arsenio’s show, soon as they retire.”
McGill said, “They did good work. What do we know about Mr. Duke?”
Meeker started to answer but his boss held up a hand.
“We don’t have time for another routine,” she said. “Antawn Duke’s been down twice for grand theft auto; this makes strike three. Cars’ll be flying by the time he gets out. He swears he didn’t see anyone park the car he stole or walk away from it. He claims …” Rockelle sighed. “He saw a wallet on the dashboard. He thought it would be the right thing to do to try to return it, and since the keys were in the car he could cover more ground driving than walking.”
Meeker and Beemer, unable to restrain themselves, started to laugh.
“I don’t suppose there were any picture IDs in the wallet,” McGill said.
Rockelle shook her head. “Our shooter’s smarter than our car thief. A little cash but no credit cards in the wallet. But Captain Yates with those fine eyes of his spotted a hair on the floor behind the driver’s seat that’s too long and straight to belong to any African American, but probably too short to be a woman’s. Special Agent Benjamin just happened to have an evidence bag and a pair of tweezers on her. She volunteered the FBI lab to see what they might tell us.”
“Sharing the results with everyone in a timely fashion?” McGill asked.
“Of course,” Benjamin said with a straight face.
As if the FBI was known for its willingness to share.
“Good,” McGill said. “The White House will be happy to hear the results, too.”
Letting Benjamin know there’d be no going back on her word.
McGill told the others, “Good work everyone. One more thing, Captain Bullard.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“When you and your detectives question Mr. Duke again, if you get any feeling at all that he might have seen the driver and is holding back to see what kind of trade he might make …”
“Yeah?”
“Tell him if he has information that pans out, there might be a presidential pardon in it for him. If he thinks that’s BS, remind him he saw me. Then show him a picture of me with the president.”
Meeker asked, “You’re talkin’ about playin’ him, right?”
McGill said, “If he helps us grab the guy who killed Jordan Gilford, maybe not.”
Rockelle asked, “You hear about the guy we nabbed for shooting the sign at Saint Martin’s?’
“No,” McGill said.
“Man was a convicted felon. Wasn’t supposed to have a gun much less shoot one.”
“Same with one of the two guys caught in Virginia for shooting the death counter opposite FirePower America,” Benjamin said.
“Just one felon?” McGill asked.
Benjamin nodded. “The other one was the shooter’s son. Fifteen years old, driving daddy’s getaway car on a learner’s permit.”
“Damn,” McGill said.
The boy was younger than his son, Kenny, and his life was already going to hell.
Benjamin added, “Both Virginia and DC are going to kick the cases to federal courts. So it looks like t
he president has her first two mopes to send to Alaska.”
“Won’t be any pardons for them,” McGill said.
McGill Investigations, Inc. — Georgetown
Sweetie sat in McGill’s chair, behind his desk and used his phone. He didn’t mind her use of his space and office equipment. Putnam had suggested to Sweetie that she and McGill should find a new suite of offices, one with a space for her befitting her status as a partner in the firm. She’d kissed her husband but said she was the kind of girl who had never wanted to be put on any kind of pedestal.
When she’d been a Chicago copper she was content to stop her climb through the ranks as a sergeant, a position of respect and authority but still a working cop. She had no doubt she could have passed the lieutenant’s exam, but she never really saw herself in that role. Same thing happened when Jim had brought her with him to the Winnetka PD. As the new chief of the posh suburb’s department, he’d offered to make her deputy chief.
She’d declined, forgoing a substantially larger salary.
When she’d first moved into Putnam’s townhouse, she’d occupied a one-room basement apartment. She’d been entirely content with it. She had only gradually adjusted to moving upstairs with Putnam. She had come to appreciate the greater comforts available to her, but she never attached any importance to the status of living in eight rooms rather than one.
There was a great deal to be said for living a modest life, Sweetie thought.
If you placed no importance on material wealth, such things as fancy houses, cars and clothes held no temptation for you. There were far fewer opportunities for anyone to lead you astray. Making the moral choice became far easier.
There were still times when Putnam was traveling that she liked to revisit her basement digs. She found a sense of quiet and peace there that was unavailable anywhere else. In a similar way, she felt at home sitting at her desk in the outer office of McGill Investigations, Inc.
It made her feel like a front desk sergeant again.
As to leaving Dikki Missirian’s building for another location, that was not going to happen. Sweetie knew that McGill’s Secret Service code name was Holmes. His leaving their P Street offices would be like Sherlock moving away from Baker Street. It would just be wrong.
Sweetie used McGill’s personal office when it was available and she thought it might be advantageous to help her with an investigation — in a metaphysical sense. Just as she could and did pray anywhere, she went to church when she felt the need to be closer to God. In a similar way, she sat behind McGill’s desk when she wanted to feel closer to understanding a riddle of police work.
Not that McGill was anywhere close to being the Almighty, but he was the sharpest cop she ever knew. With that comforting thought in mind, Sweetie called Jacqueline Dodd — Joan Renshaw’s successor at the Andrew Hudson Grant Foundation in Chicago — and asked if she might answer a couple of questions.
Jacqueline listened to what Sweetie wanted and told her, “I don’t know if I can find out where Joan went on vacation. She never really shared that information with me. But I certainly have records of where she traveled on foundation business. Those expenditures have to be listed as part of our filings with the IRS, and Mr. Grant, from the beginning, made them part of the public record so the foundation would be seen as being beyond reproach.”
“Of course,” Sweetie said, “but it’s reasonable to think that travel and lodging accommodations weren’t done on the cheap, right?”
Jacqueline laughed. “We work hard around here to make other people’s lives better, but nobody wears sackcloth. Per Mr. Grant’s guidelines, anyone working on a foundation project flies business class at a minimum. Four star hotels are the norm. I fly first class and stay at five star hotels; so did Joan when she was here.”
That fit nicely with Lisa Stone’s description of Joan Renshaw as a social climber.
Joan had to be furious with Patti Darden when the movie star had snagged Andrew Hudson Grant. Even so, she’d stayed on at her job to keep her salary and perks. That went to show what could happen when someone got hung up on goodies. It became harder to move on when that was the right thing to do.
And now look at where Joan was.
“Would you like me to email you the list of business trips Joan took while she was with the foundation?” Jacqueline asked.
“Yes, please.”
“Will this …” There was a beat of silence.
“What?” Sweetie asked.
“I’m not going to put Joan in any more trouble, helping you, am I? I know whatever she did had to be horrible to lose her job and get arrested, but she was always nice to me.”
“You can’t hurt Joan any worse than she’s hurt herself. What you might do is help someone else avoid being punished for something he didn’t do.”
“Oh, okay. I can do that, sure. I’ll send the list to you within the hour.”
Sweetie gave her the email address and said, “Thank you.”
She hung up, wondering how she might search for records of Joan Renshaw’s private travels, asking herself how McGill might do it. Turned out that wouldn’t be necessary. Jacqueline Dodd’s email came in only twenty minutes after she’d spoken with Sweetie.
During Joan Renshaw’s time with the Grant Foundation, she had traveled dozens of times domestically to cities large and small. Internationally, she’d visited London, Paris, Geneva, Tokyo, Nairobi, Johannesburg, Manila, Sydney, São Paulo …
And San Jose, Costa Rica. Twice.
The last time just a year and a half ago, August, 2012.
Sweetie’s immediate impulse was to fly down there and see if she could find someone who could put Joan Renshaw together with Congressman Philip Brock. Only Putnam was up to his eyeballs in work getting Cool Blue off the ground. And the two of them now had someone besides themselves to think about: Maxi. Sweetie couldn’t just leave her alone.
So what could she … No, who could she ask to do the job?
The answer came to her immediately as if it had been channeled through …
McGill or an even higher power.
Father Inigo de Loyola. Who’d been born, raised, ordained and fought in Central America. He’d do better down there than she would. He knew the territory and the language. He was a man so selfless in terms of the material world he lived under a staircase in Dikki Missirian’s other office building. There’d be no temptations to distract him from completing his quest.
Sweetie would have called him, only the priest had no phone.
She left the office to look for him.
Kalorama Circle — Washington, DC
Celsus Crogher opened the door to Zara Gilford’s home for McGill and let him step inside. Deke stood guard outside the large red brick house. Leo had McGill’s Chevy parked out front at the curb. On the drive from the other side of town, McGill had thought briefly that maybe he should bring the widow flowers, as he had to Patti.
The gesture would be made to convey condolences rather than affection. He’d never expressed such a sentiment to a client before, but the regret of not having sought out Jordan Gilford before he’d been killed still gnawed at McGill. He had no doubt it would continue to do so for a long time.
So what would it hurt to bring the lady some flowers?
He would have followed through on the notion if it hadn’t inspired another idea. From everything Zara had told him, she and Jordan had had a close relationship, not unlike the one he and Patti did. Jordan had realized he and Zara were in some danger from his work, so he’d moved them into their high-security condo.
Part of that move, though, might have been a head-fake, McGill thought, a feint to get the opposition to lean one way when they should have gone the other way. If you moved into a secure location, most people would think you’d take your most valuable secrets with you. It would be foolhardy to leave anything valuable behind in a house where they might be far more easily seized.
But where would you hide any prized information? It had to
be a place that your wife would look, but no one else would pay it any special attention.
You’d hide it in a bouquet of flowers, McGill thought.
Not literal blossoms, of course, but somewhere a grieving widow would find emotional healing. Some object that held sentimental value. A memento that she might take into her hands and regard closely to bring back memories of a happier time. Only to notice something new and different that would point her in another direction.
That or he was all wet and imagining things, McGill thought.
Celsus closed the door behind McGill and told him, “An FBI team came by and with Ms. Gilford’s help they went through every room in the house. Ms. Gilford didn’t notice anything out of place. Neither did the FBI people and they didn’t find any bugging devices.”
“That’s good.” McGill took a close look at Celsus.
“What?”
He’d never seen bags under the man’s eyes before. “How long have you been awake?”
“Who keeps track? You’re the guy who said I just plug myself in when I need to recharge.”
McGill was able to laugh at his own expense. “Yeah, but now you’re an older model.”
Celsus snorted. “I’m still good for at least another night.”
“Good. Where’s Zara? Is she up for a little chat?”
“In the kitchen, and I think so. You making any progress?”
McGill told Celsus that the cops caught the guy who stole the murder suspect’s car, and Welborn had found a suspicious hair.
“That’s a start.”
McGill followed Celsus’ directions and found Zara sitting at a breakfast island, picking at a green salad. Seeing him, her face took on a hopeful expression, as if he’d bagged the bad guy and could soothe at least a little of her heartache.
“You have news?” she asked.
McGill gave her the same rundown he’d shared with Celsus.
Being careful not to share the information Patti had told him to withhold.
