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

by Joseph Flynn

  And maybe some visceral sense of challenge, too.

  An urge to arm-wrestle, if nothing more.

  They spoke privately in Hugh’s hospital room before Clooney and his crew came in.

  “I thought I got to the bastard in time, Ellie. Landed my punch before … well, you know.”

  “Should’ve used both hands,” Ellie told him.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “You just thought of clocking the shithead, right?”

  “Putting my fist through his face, yes.”

  “You should have slapped his gun aside at the same time you threw your punch. That’s why God gave you two hands.”

  Hugh smiled. “Oh, is that why?”

  “Well, also so you can diddle yourself and answer the phone at the same time.”

  That made Hugh laugh, which caused him to wince.

  He’d been shot in more than the leg. Ellie had stolen a glance at Hugh’s medical report when a nurse was looking the other way. The slug fired at Hugh had indeed grazed the soft tissue of the inside of his left thigh. That would leave an interesting physical scar. What would certainly linger in his mind, though, was the fact that the projectile had also sliced open the outer left side of Hugh’s scrotum.

  The description of his effort at self-defense as balls out was literally half-true.

  He’d had to be repacked and stitched up.

  There was no indication of lasting physical damage, but the leg wound wasn’t why the doctor had prescribed bed rest at home. Ellie decided not to let Hugh know what she’d found out. She’d also have to be a little more careful from now on about suggesting where he might have left his balls.

  She even humored him to the extent of bending over and letting him kiss her cheek after he got seated in his car. “I’ve said it before,” he told her, “but there really are times when you almost make me wish I was straight.”

  “Yeah, I get that from all the guys.”

  A minute later, Hugh’s car was out of sight; smart man, he was on his way home.

  The media posse took up pursuit.

  Alone on the sidewalk, in terms of newsies anyway, Ellie made a call to a rival.

  Didi DiMarco at MSNBC answered, listened to what Ellie had to tell her and asked, “Why are you giving this to me?”

  “Because you had the class not to try for a bedside interview with a guy you can’t stand.”

  “Maybe I’m just too busy working on something else,” Didi said.

  “But you have the time to talk with me?” Ellie laughed.

  “Okay, so I know the reason you called. You’re trying to use me.”

  “Right, but in a nice way.”

  “And if I put a national gun death counter on my show, Hugh Collier will have a much harder time either not putting one on WWN or yanking it soon after he does.”

  “Yeah,” Ellie said. “So you gonna do it? Not wait and be a me-too?”

  “Tune in and find out,” Didi told her.

  The Oval Office — The White House

  Byron DeWitt looked so tired when he met with Patricia Grant and Galia Mindel that morning that the president insisted he have a cup of coffee.

  “If it’s all right with you, ma’am, I’d prefer a cup of tea,” DeWitt said.

  “Darjeeling?”

  “Oolong. Any variety will do.”

  A Navy culinary specialist brought a tea service within minutes. Galia took hers with honey. The president and DeWitt had theirs without a sweetener.

  “What did you find in Boston, Mr. Deputy Director?” the president asked.

  “The names of two members of the House of Representatives and estimates of how long the looting of the Pentagon has been going on and how much money has been stolen so far.”

  “And the details?” Galia asked.

  “The House members are Wesley Tilden, Republican, South Carolina and Tanner Rutledge, True South, Texas. The plan went into operation in the sixth year of your predecessor’s presidency. The take from the scam thus far exceeds $10 billion.”

  “My god,” Galia whispered in awe.

  “These are just Jordan Gilford’s preliminary estimates. His notes say there have to be several more people involved and the money stolen might be twice his initial estimate.” DeWitt shook his head and took another sip of tea. “When I first read Mr. Gilford’s report, it made me think that Willie Sutton’s reasoning is way out of date.”

  “Saying he robbed banks because that’s where the money is?” the president said.

  “Yes, ma’am. These days, the real money is in the federal budget, and nowhere do you find more of it than at the Pentagon. Mr. Gilford speculated that the plan was initially intended to last only until your predecessor left office. But when the perpetrators saw how well the Tabulation Team worked without any suspicions being raised, they saw no reason to stop.”

  Galia’s eyes momentarily lost focus as her mind went in another direction.

  The president and DeWitt waited quietly for her to seize whatever thought was passing through her mind. A minute later, she had it. “That name, the Tabulation Team, it’s a perfect fit for Wesley Tilden. Before coming to Congress, he was an accountant, and his brother, James, went to prison for fraud in the DataCom scandal back in 2001.”

  DeWitt nodded. “Mr. Gilford noted that, too. James Tilden was a senior partner in DataCom. The company supposedly audited the books of a number of mid-size banks and found every penny accounted for when in fact the banks were about to collapse from bad investments and outright theft of funds by and for bank officers. The taxpayers wound up on the hook for billions of dollars.”

  “And James Tilden committed suicide the night before his trial was supposed to begin,” the president said.

  “A point that counsels urgency, Madam President,” DeWitt said. “Representative Tilden certainly knows about the death of Jordan Gilford; he has to be getting very frightened. With a family history of suicide, he might decide that’s the easy way out.”

  Galia added, “And if his co-conspirators see Tilden as a weak link, they might do him in. Possibly making his death look like a suicide.”

  The president asked, “If you were to bring Representative Tilden in for questioning, Mr. Deputy Director, do you think he’d break down and confess? Tell us everything he knows for some measure of leniency?”

  “He very well might, ma’am, but I can’t make any guarantee.”

  A ruthless smile appeared on Galia’s face.

  “Ma’am?” DeWitt asked her.

  “It’s an old police ploy to make one bad guy look like he’s snitching out his accomplices, isn’t it? Then make the sap think if he doesn’t cooperate and is released, he’s certain to be killed by his own people.”

  “That tool has been used before, yes, on both the local and federal levels,” DeWitt said.

  “If it is used here,” the president said, “I’d want FBI agents watching Representative Tilden quite closely, ready to step in and prevent his murder. If Tilden were to see an actual threat to his life, I’d think he might be more forthcoming.”

  “Most likely, ma’am.”

  “Catching a would-be killer in the act should make that person open up, too, wouldn’t it?” Galia asked.

  “Possibly,” DeWitt said, “but if the assassin weren’t a part of the larger plan, simply a contract killer, he might not have much information to share.”

  Galia looked a bit humbled. “I should’ve thought of that.”

  “I’m relieved that you don’t have a complete understanding of the criminal mind, Galia,” the president said. To DeWitt, she added, “Please bring Tilden in for questioning, discreetly but at the first opportunity. We don’t want to lose him to his own hand or anyone else’s. But, Byron.”

  DeWitt blinked at the president’s use of his first name.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Delegate this job to someone else. You’re clearly exhausted. Would Special Agent Benjamin be a good choice for this job?”


  “Yes, ma’am, she would.”

  “All right then. Brief the special agent and then get some sleep.”

  “There is one more matter to discuss, ma’am, as long as I have this opportunity to speak with you.”

  “And what’s that?” the president asked.

  “Congressman Philip Brock, ma’am.”

  DeWitt told the president and Galia of the conversations Brock had with Senator Howard Hurlbert shortly before the senator’s murder. He also told them how Hasna Kalil, a suspected terrorist sympathizer, had informed him that her late brother, Dr. Bahir Ben Kalil, had Brock as a friend before he disappeared and was recently found dead.

  “And then, of course, Brock visited Inspiration Hall before its official opening with Tyler Busby, whose whereabouts still remain unknown. Representative Brock bears close scrutiny, ma’am. I’ve shared this information with Director Haskins, but I thought you should know my opinion, too.”

  “Thank you,” the president said. “Galia, do you have anything to add?”

  “I assume the FBI is using its considerable resources to find Busby. Doing so and getting him to tell us how Representative Brock fits into all this would be a great help.”

  “The FBI and several other agencies have hundreds of people looking for Mr. Busby. I recently received a suggestion from Mr. Putnam Shady that I’m acting on. He said we might look at recent purchases of, well, what amounts to palaces around the world. Mr. Shady suggested that Mr. Busby’s ego would demand that he find the biggest, most opulent hiding place possible.”

  Once again, Galia was struck by an idea.

  This time she didn’t have to wait to articulate it.

  “A palace, an estate, a mansion, however you want to characterize it, has a fixed location. If it’s a big fancy place, it will also have a high profile, physically and in terms of public awareness. You’re bound to find it eventually. But isn’t Busby a yachtsman?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He was anyway. He had three yachts, but we haven’t been able to find any of them.”

  “Yachts can be reconfigured, repainted and renamed,” the president said, getting into the flow of Galia’s idea. “And looking at things through Mr. Shady’s lens of Busby dealing only in superlatives, he might have wanted something grander than any of the vessels he already had.”

  Galia suggested, “Maybe Busby traded up.”

  DeWitt liked the idea. He wrote it down so he wouldn’t forget it.

  The president said to Galia, “Let’s have Attorney General Jaworsky get warrants to listen in on both Congressmen’s phone calls. If they’re getting antsy, they might let something slip.”

  Then she repeated her instruction to DeWitt to get some rest and he left.

  The president told Galia, “Please contact Special Agent Benjamin. As soon as the warrants are issued and the taps are in place, have her bring Congressman Tilden in for questioning. Give her all the background information she needs to be effective.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I assume you want the taps for both residential and mobile phones.”

  “Office phones, too. We can’t worry about propriety or politics, if these characters are robbing the government blind.”

  Galia knew Patricia Grant would never face another election, but she still had almost three years left in office, and there was her legacy to consider. Bugging Congressional offices would cause a monumental uproar. But the look on the president’s face told Galia she didn’t want to hear about any of those things. So Galia took the easy road.

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s a shame we can’t nab Brock now, too.”

  “All in good time,” the president said.

  Metro Police Headquarters — Washington, DC

  Captain Rockelle Bullard met McGill and Sweetie at the main entrance security station. She told the cop on duty, “These people are with me.”

  She led her guests to a conference room with a uniformed officer guarding the door. He saluted the captain and opened the door for her and the two civilians. Sitting on the far side of the table, facing the door, was a man wearing a navy blue sweatshirt. He had dark hair, a two-day growth of beard and looked to be in his early thirties. He grimaced upon seeing Rockelle, revealing that he wasn’t big on dental hygiene.

  Rockelle sat directly opposite the man.

  McGill sat to her right, Sweetie to her left.

  Rockelle told her guests, “This is Officer Leonard Garry. He’s eight years on the job and after reading his personnel file I’m kinda surprised it took him this long to get in trouble.”

  Garry said, “I’m not saying a —”

  “Shut up,” Rockelle told him. “Nobody asked you to talk.” Glancing at McGill and Sweetie, she added, “He’s pretty stupid, too.”

  Sweetie asked Rockelle, “With all that time on the job, didn’t he ever take a test for promotion?”

  Rockelle shook her head. “Probably didn’t want to embarrass himself. But now he’s screwed up big time. We have a phone record for Officer Garry’s personal mobile phone. He made a call to the office of Auric Ludwig at FirePower America during the time he was on duty at the scene of Abel Mays’ death. Two other officers saw him talking on his phone there. Then he called Mr. Ludwig’s office again later that day.”

  McGill asked, “How do Officer Garry’s calls line up with Auric Ludwig going public about Abel Mays being shot?”

  Rockelle said, “His first call was made shortly after he arrived at the crime scene. Detectives Meeker and Beemer located other officers who saw Officer Garry looking right at Abel Mays’ body. They said he couldn’t have missed seeing the man’s head wounds. The second call from Officer Garry’s phone to FirePower America was made just a minute before Mr. Ludwig made his announcement that Abel Mays had been killed by a good guy with a gun.”

  Sweetie nodded. “I can see why the officer doesn’t have anything to say; he’s talked too much already.”

  “Yeah, and guess what?” Rockelle said. “Officer Garry, he’s a member of FirePower America.”

  “This poor guy has dug himself a deep hole,” McGill said.

  Garry began to grind his grubby teeth.

  “Metro PD has to have regulations against compromising an investigation,” Sweetie said.

  “Oh, yeah,” Rockelle agreed. “And if you do it for money or other material gain, then it’s not just regulations you’ve got to worry about. Then you’ve broken the law.”

  McGill shook his head. “Never easy for a cop to do time.”

  “He’s going to make his union lawyer work hard, that’s for sure,” Sweetie added.

  Rockelle smiled. “Now, that’s the real interesting part. He didn’t ask for an FOP lawyer. Guess who he called for help.”

  McGill looked at Garry with disbelief. “Don’t tell me it was FirePower America.”

  Rockelle said, “Okay, I won’t tell you, but it was.”

  Sweetie looked at Garry now, too. “You are one dumb bunny.”

  “Sad thing is, there have to be other cops just as stupid,” McGill said. “There always are when someone is handing out money.”

  Rockelle nodded. “That’s what I told him.”

  “But he’s too tough to turn them in and save his own backside, right?” Sweetie asked.

  “A stand-up guy,” McGill agreed. “But, hey, you know what?”

  “What?” Rockelle asked.

  “If it turns out that Mays’ death is connected to the death of Jordan Gilford on the National Mall, Officer Garry might have compromised a federal investigation, too. If that’s the case, he might serve his time at that new prison up in Alaska.”

  Rockelle said, “‘Specially if that FirePower lawyer doesn’t ever show up. It’s been going on two hours now since Officer Garry made that call.”

  Garry developed a tic at the corner of his right eye.

  The three conversationalists got up and left.

  Garry called for Rockelle five minutes later and started talking.

  En route to McGill Investigations
, Inc — Washington, DC

  McGill and Sweetie rode in the back of his Chevy. Leo maneuvered through traffic as if every other vehicle was standing still. Deke observed the shifting threat horizon moving his eyes from the windshield to the mirrors and dashboard monitors that gave him a 360º view.

  A separate radar display watched for threats from above.

  But monitoring that and taking evasive action was Leo’s responsibility.

  Sweetie told McGill, “I’m having second thoughts, Jim, about sending Father de Loyola to Costa Rica. I didn’t know he was wanted anywhere, much less everywhere in Central America except Costa Rica.”

  She added the priest’s comments about altering his appearance.

  McGill said, “Maybe he just wants to look like the photo on his passport.”

  Sweetie considered that. “I might find that reassuring if it didn’t also mean he changed his appearance from that likeness when he came to this country.”

  “Ask yourself this, Margaret: Do you have any doubts about Father de Loyola’s character?”

  Sweetie said, “No.”

  “How about his chances of doing the job?”

  “No.”

  “You think he’s going to overthrow the government in San José?”

  That one gave her pause. “I don’t know. Does it need overthrowing?”

  “It’s the most stable democracy south of the Rio Grande.”

  “Then no.”

  “How far has he traveled so far?”

  Sweetie glanced at the dashboard clock. “If his first flight is on time, he should just be about to land in Miami. From there, it’s on to San José.”

  “You want me to call him in Miami?” McGill asked.

  Sweetie sighed. “No, I’ll try to have a little faith.”

  McGill looked at his longtime friend. “It’s not like you to get nervous, Margaret. You’re usually the rock on which everyone leans. Even me on occasion.”

  “I know. It’s just … I worry about Maxi. Being in school, you know. I think I should be with her all the time. Only I know that’s no way for a kid to grow up, in the shadow of a bodyguard. I’m starting to make progress with Maxi, and I don’t want to blow that.”