by Joseph Flynn
Now he saw ghouls. The ones with their FREE ERNA signs. Marching without letup in their infernal circle, like foot soldiers of the damned.
“Fry Erna,” McGill whispered. “And if you fuck with my kids, God help you, too.”
Chapter 12
Friday
McGill rapped gently on the front door of A-Sharp Sound, the commercial recording studio on the ground floor of the P Street building where McGill Investigations, Inc. was located. It was early morning, not yet business hours, but there was a light on in the back.
“Might have to give it a little more than that if you want them to hear you,” Deke said, looking over McGill’s shoulder.
“Or you could let off a burst with your Uzi,” McGill replied.
Deke rolled his eyes.
“That reminds me,” he said. “We haven’t gotten you out to the range to shoot yet.”
“Lunchtime today if they have an open firing lane.”
“I think they might squeeze you in, considering who you are.”
McGill still wasn’t used to perks of his position; didn’t want to get to point where he took special privileges for granted. He nodded to the interior of A-Sharp.
“Someone’s coming.”
It was Maxwell Lucey, the owner and chief recording engineer. He was tall and slim. His shaggy brown hair was streaked with gray. But he had a baby face, looked like he didn’t need to shave more than once a week. He unlocked the door.
“Mr. McGill,” he said, extending his hand. He nodded at Deke. “Special Agent.”
McGill shook hands, Deke nodded back.
“Hi, Max. We’re not interrupting an early start on something, are we?”
“Uh-uh. Just winding up an all-nighter.” He waved his visitors inside and relocked the door. “Something I can do for you gents?”
“Did you hear us knock?” Deke asked.
Max grinned and shook his head. “There’s a pressure plate under the doormat. Step on it, and it makes a light blink back in the studio. So what can I do for you, Mr. McGill, and are there any Redskins tickets in it for me?”
McGill asked if Sweetie had talked with him: she hadn’t. McGill explained what he needed. Asked if Max could do it; said Redskins tickets would be forthcoming if he could. Max said he’d be up in fifteen minutes.
Max checked McGill’s phone lines for taps and his office for bugs. He told McGill he’d traded the Army three years of his time in return for tuition to music school. Along the way, Uncle Sam had taught him some useful electronics skills. He pronounced McGill’s offices snoop-free and said four tickets to see the Skins play the shit-heel Dallas Cowboys would compensate him nicely.
Confident that he could speak freely now, McGill called Chana Lochlan at home.
“Any more problems?” he asked.
“There was a hang-up on my phone machine last night.”
They’d agreed Chana should screen all of her calls.
“Could have been a wrong number. Or did you get a bad vibe from it?”
McGill heard Chana laugh but didn’t detect any humor.
“You mean, am I feeling paranoid?”
“I mean, a smart cop respects intuition.”
There was a drawn-out silence. “I’m not sure how much you should trust mine. I’m jumping at shadows right now.”
“I’ve had an idea about that. Protecting you, I mean. My associate, Margaret Sweeney, will be back in town tomorrow. She could safeguard you inconspicuously.”
“Is she any good?”
“She stopped a bullet for me.”
“Jesus … but does she look like a cop?”
“She looks like an angel. An archangel.”
“That’s the kind with a sword?”
“Exactly.”
“Let me think about it, okay?”
“Your decision,” McGill said. “In the meantime, I’d like to speak with your bureau chief.”
“Why?”
McGill told her that his office had been declared free of eavesdropping devices. That meant Galia Mindel must have learned about his working for Chana from her end of things.
“And you think Monty would be able to pinpoint the leak?” she asked.
“That’s my hope.”
“But how is that relevant to my problem?”
“It’s a good idea to know about anybody who’s poking his nose into your business.”
“All right, but not at my office.”
McGill said, “Ask your boss if he’d like to see me shoot.”
“He’ll cream himself.”
“We’ll try to keep that out of the news.”
McGill got up from his desk and went to the outer office, where Deke waited.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Where are we going?”
“Bloomingdale’s. In McLean, VA. You still got that thong I gave you?”
“Yeah.”
“You know if the store’s open yet?”
“No idea,” Deke said.
“Well, if it’s not, maybe they’ll let us in early. Me being such a big shot.”
Deke suppressed a laugh. “Yeah.”
Then he called down to Leo to get the Chevy ready.
Welborn sat in his White House office studying a four-color brochure for the Dodge Viper. Resting on his desk were folders containing the service records of the two principals in his case. The colonel’s folder was open, revealing a headshot of Carina Linberg. Even unsmiling for a service photo she was an eyeful. Captain Dexter Cowan’s folder was closed.
Welborn’s first hint that he had company was the smell of perfume. The scent almost made him leap to his feet until he discerned that it wasn’t the president’s fragrance. Funny to think that the commander in chief of the world’s only superpower wore perfume.
Welborn looked up and saw Kira Fahey. She was staring at the Viper brochure. She lifted her eyes to meet his. “You have family money, Lieutenant Yates?”
The question was impertinent, but Welborn answered anyway.
“My mother is comfortable, Ms. Fahey, but not wealthy.”
She ignored his frosty tone and moved around the desk to stand at his right shoulder.
“And the Air Force doesn’t let you moonlight?”
“No, Ms. Fahey, it doesn’t.”
“Then you might want to set your sights a little lower, Lieutenant.”
“Is that right?”
“Well, a Viper starts around $81,895, I believe, and goes up from there.”
Welborn gave her a look. She had the starting price for the base model exactly right. But that was using one of the standard exterior colors. Captain Cowan’s navy blue model was a custom paint job. With that and the gas guzzler tax and sales tax, it had to push the cost over 90K. Navy captains earned more than Air Force lieutenants, Welborn knew, but they didn’t make enough money to buy Vipers.
Not when the captain’s father and mother were a housepainter and a secretary. Welborn, too, had wondered about family money. Cowan didn’t have any. Nor did his wife.
“A boy I knew in Columbus had a Viper,” Kira told Welborn, which explained her knowledge of the car’s price. “His was red. He said he liked the way it went with my hair. But I think my hair would look more striking in a black Viper, don’t you?”
Welborn declined to offer an opinion. Kira turned her attention to Colonel Linberg. “The Post used that picture this morning. That’s what I came to tell you, if you hadn’t already heard: Your case has made the news. She’s an attractive woman. I hope I age as nicely.”
He wasn’t going anywhere near that one, either. Kira pointed a delicate finger at the closed folder.
“Is Captain Cowan lurking under there? His picture was in the paper, too.”
Welborn flipped open Cowan’s folder. Kira moved his photo next to Carina Linberg’s.
“Handsome couple,” she said.
“But which one of them is lying?”
“Could be either one,” she said. “Could be both.
”
Kira walked around Welborn’s desk and headed for the door. “Come on, I’ll show you the story in the paper.”
Welborn watched her slim hips swivel around the doorframe; then she unexpectedly leaned back and caught him looking. Smiled like she knew he’d have his eyes on her.
“Oh, yes, I forgot. Ms. Mindel wants to talk with you. About the newspaper story.”
Bloomingdale’s did, in fact, let McGill and Deke inside before the public had access to its wares. The general manager introduced herself as Lida Dalman.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. McGill,” she said.
Ms. Dalman was a handsome woman, smartly turned out.
“I’m sorry to put you to any trouble,” he said.
“We understand that some of our customers have special needs.”
McGill had never shopped at Bloomingdale’s in his life.
“How may I help you?”
He decided maybe he should start shopping there. After the case was over.
“May I count on your discretion?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“I’m working on a case. Perhaps you’ve heard that I do private investigations.”
“I believe I’ve read that, yes.”
McGill turned to Deke. “Special Agent.”
Deke handed Ms. Dalman the green thong Chana Lochlan had found in her unmentionables drawer. He’d taken the trouble to put it into a plastic evidence bag.
“By any chance,” McGill asked, “does your store carry that item? I ask because it was found in the company of similar garments that bear Bloomingdale’s labels.”
Lida Dalman gave him a smile so subtle Da Vinci should have painted it.
“Very delicately phrased, Mr. McGill. But I believe it’s still acceptable to call a thong a thong. I also believe this is one of ours.” She held the plastic bag up to the light and turned it any number of angles. “May I remove it from the bag?”
“Go right ahead.”
She did. Searched for a label, came up empty.
“Come with me, please.”
McGill and Deke followed, Deke leading the way in case an assassin lurked behind a mannequin. They entered the lingerie department. Ms. Dalman stopped at a display table where an array of thongs in an assortment of sizes and colors rested. She plucked one from their midst without disturbing any of the others. She held up the garment she’d selected behind the one she’d been provided. The match was perfect for both color and size. Ms. Dalman smiled again.
“French design, Chinese silk, natural dye, all for the very reasonable price of $14.99,” she said. “Does that help?”
McGill nodded, then paused as he sought additional delicate phrasing.
“You have another question?” Ms. Dalman asked.
“I do, I’m just not sure how to put it.”
“Simply is usually best.”
“All right. How does someone know if a thong is the right fit?”
Ms. Dalman’s smile grew a touch more impish.
“She tries it on. Over the undergarment she wears to the store.”
“And if a gentleman is buying for a lady?”
“Well, with something this personal, you suspect he’d have knowledge of the size in advance. Or access to that information.”
McGill considered that. Then he returned to a point Ms. Dalman had raised earlier.
“Would a man buying a thong for a woman be interested in value-pricing?”
Ms. Dalman shook her head. “Romance dictates otherwise.”
“But the ladies?”
“Always appreciate value. She knows a man who sees her in something like this is unlikely to say, ‘Honey, how much did you pay for that thing?’”
McGill laughed; even Deke cracked a smile.
“So a woman who spots a good buy can feel smart and sexy at the same time.”
“And her man,” McGill said, “will never be the wiser.”
“Never,” Ms. Dalman agreed.
McGill thanked her for her gracious help.
There was one more question he could have asked, but it would have put Ms. Dalman in an awkward spot. Which would have been a rude way to treat someone so cooperative.
Instead, he asked for an application for a Bloomingdale’s credit card.
As McGill’s government-issue Chevy approached the unmarked building that housed the federal firing range, also in suburban Virginia, Leo asked him, “All right if I watch, boss?”
“Long as you make sure none of these feds steals our ride.”
Leo grinned.
“SAC Crogher’s likely to be on hand,” Deke told McGill.
“Why?” McGill asked.
“Today’s the day he shoots each week.”
“Lucky me.”
Leo pulled into the parking lot and McGill saw a pearl gray Jaguar XJR parked near the entrance to the range. Leaning against it, communing with his BlackBerry, was Monty Kipp, Washington bureau chief for World Wide News.
Kipp was an ex-pat Brit, now a naturalized American citizen. He’d once been editor in chief of a London tabloid. Now, he styled himself as a responsible television journalist. He admitted to conservative leanings but swore he never let them affect his news judgments.
Uh-huh.
Kipp had come to McGill’s attention after the newsman, in a drunken moment, had whispered into Press Secretary Aggie Wu’s ear that his last great journalistic ambition was to get a current photo of Patti Grant topless. Sell it for a bloody fortune. Page three, all over the world.
Once a tabloid guy, always a tabloid guy.
Kipp had really upset Aggie with that little gem, but what could she do about it? Nobody else had heard a word. What she’d done was tell McGill.
Who’d thought earlier that day it wouldn’t be a bad idea to show Kipp how he handled a gun. Plant the seed that realizing his ambition could come at a very high cost. Then he’d talk to the SOB about Chana Lochlan.
“Pull in next to our friend from the media,” McGill told Leo.
McGill didn’t have to worry about finding space at the range; he had the whole firing line to himself. The range manager had done him the courtesy of hanging his first target for him. Set it up in the center lane. McGill nodded his appreciation. He took off his sport coat and handed it to Deke.
“You knew it was going to be like this, didn’t you?” he asked.
Deke shrugged. “You lock onto the target, doesn’t matter who’s watching.”
He was right about that, but McGill had not only Deke, Leo, and Monty Kipp for an audience, he also had Celsus Crogher and a couple of dozen other feds who’d normally be honing their own lethal skills at that moment.
“Everybody’s here except SportsCenter,” McGill said.
“They’re on their way.”
It was the first joke Deke had ever cracked in his presence.
Well, at least McGill had set the ground rules. He would shoot CPD qualifying numbers: one hundred rounds at distances of seven, fifteen, and twenty-five yards. He put on the shooting goggles that had been left in the booth and was glad someone — probably at Deke’s insistence — had made sure they were clean. As often as not, you’d find fingerprints on the lenses, blurring your field of vision.
Cop humor.
He donned his ear protectors, undid his holster restraint, and toed the line. He drew his Beretta, checked and reseated the magazine, racked a round into the chamber, and took the safety off. He assumed a Modified Weaver position — strong side of the body away from the target about thirty degrees, arms thrust forward slightly bent — and held the weapon in the ready-pistol position — pointed downrange at a forty-five-degree angle.
“Fire when ready,” came the amplified voice of the range manager from the control booth.
McGill began shooting before the words stopped echoing. He shot, reloaded, changed targets and distances, shot and reloaded again, all at rapid but rhythmic pace. Technique was essential to good marksmanship, but so was consi
stency. Following the same motions, just so, over and over again. Practice became muscle memory. Everything kept pace with the timepiece within the shooter’s body. Some guys said they shot in sync with their heartbeats, and while McGill believed them, that seemed impossibly slow to him.
He shot in time with the strobe light that went off inside his head anytime he had to fire his weapon, the muzzle blast following the internal flash by a nanosecond. He’d had several instructors and colleagues tell him he’d improve his scores if he slowed down. Just a little.
He couldn’t do it. Anytime he held a gun in his hands, his survival instinct screamed at him to get off the first shot before the other guy did. He fired, and fired, and fired.
It always took him by surprise when a range manager ordered, “Cease fire!”
It couldn’t be over already, could it?
But it was and he had scored ninety-two lethal hits out of a hundred rounds fired.
In Chicago, seventy was passing. Eighty-five to ninety-five was considered good. Ninety-six to one hundred was considered great.
“Better than I expected,” Deke said. Praise as high as the special agent’s stoicism would allow.
McGill wasn’t satisfied, though. “But not as good as you or Sweetie, right?” Then he added, “A hundred more rounds. This time from the holster.”
A Chicago cop was expected to be able to draw his weapon, bring it to bear, and fire two shots accurately within six seconds; fire two rounds, tactical reload, and fire two more rounds within eighteen seconds. Three-round strings of fire got slightly more time. All that was with the target seven yards away. Longer strings at greater distances got proportionately more time.
Everything depended on a fast, clean draw. No wasted motion. The arm drawing the weapon was kept close to the body and moved backward in a straight line. The weapon was withdrawn only far enough to clear the holster. The weapon was thrust forward to meet the supporting hand. The movement to eye level was a straight line.
McGill’s draw was textbook.
