by Joseph Flynn
“Guy at the end of the bar has a newspaper with your picture on page one. Started showing it around. Somebody got on his cell phone, called the local TV station. Sounded like they thought you eating a burger and having a few brews is news. Might be a camera crew coming through the door any minute.”
Welborn pushed the all change back to Carleen. She’d earned it.
“All right if I buy you a beer, too?”
“Sure,” she said.
Welborn slid the bottle over to her. She returned his car keys.
Without looking around, he asked, “Is the time right to make a break for it?”
“Sure is. Your ride’s waiting for you.”
Welborn looked around, expecting to see a cab driver, thinking Carleen hadn’t wanted him to be seen driving with any alcohol in his system.
Instead, he saw Kira Fahey.
Giving him her wicked little grin. Waggling her fingers at him.
They got into Kira’s black Audi TT with her behind the wheel just as the rain moving in from the west started.
“What’re we going to do about my car?” Welborn asked.
Kira followed his gaze to the Civic as she pulled out of her parking space.
“If you’re lucky, someone will steal it, and you’ll get the insurance money.”
Welborn frowned, but he was jerked back into his seat by the sportster’s acceleration before he could reply. He decided to move past his pique and get straight to the point.
“How did you find me?”
“You noted your dinner with the Quinns on your appointment calendar. Mr. Quinn told me you’d left without eating and suggested a place where I might look for you. Voilà!”
Welborn thought that even for a beautiful, affluent, supremely well connected girl, Kira Fahey was far too pleased with herself.
“All right. Why did you find me?”
“Colonel Linberg called the White House and asked for you.”
“She did? What did she want?”
“Well, I’m not up on all your military jargon, but she spelled it out for me. She wanted you to know she intends to ask for a RILO. That’s all uppercase, I was told.”
There was silence in the little German coupe as Kira took the on-ramp onto Route 50 West and merged smoothly into the rain-snarled traffic heading toward Washington. Making sure no one was about to cut her off in the next second or two, she spared a glance at Welborn, who wore a look of disbelief.
“Since I came all this way to fetch you, would you care to enlighten me as to just what that means?”
“RILO means resignation in lieu of.”
“In lieu of what?”
“Court-martial. Colonel Linberg wants to give up the fight.”
“Maybe she doesn’t like the odds.”
Welborn nodded, more to himself than Kira.
“Maybe the other side’s fighting dirty,” she said.
“You think?”
“It’s possible. Look what they’re doing to you.”
Welborn said, “You mean the newspaper story?”
“That and the fact that somebody’s following us. Has been since we left that bar.”
Welborn wanted to look. At least flip down the passenger-side visor and use the vanity mirror. But he didn’t want to give himself away.
“Can you describe him?” he asked “It is a him, right?”
“Yes.” Kira checked her mirror. “The visibility’s only so-so, but I’d say he’s … a black man, medium dark, solid … maybe angry, if I’m seeing him right. Could be military. No uniform, but he has that severely groomed look, you know.”
Welborn could think of only one angry black military man who’d have any interest in him. Major Clarence Seymour. General Altman’s aide.
Kira asked, “Want me to lose him? I took a high-performance driving course.”
So had Joe Eddy, Welborn remembered. And it hadn’t been raining in Las Vegas.
He told Kira, “Stay in your lane. Drive defensively.”
The president was working late in the Oval Office when Special Agent Eb Jenkins, Celsus Crogher’s right-hand night-shift man, opened the door.
“Mr. McGill, ma’am,” he said.
The president looked up from the document she was reading.
“You’re sure it’s not Rory Calhoun?”
Special Agent Jenkins, no movie buff, offered a blank look.
“Probably not,” the president said. “I believe Mr. Calhoun left us some time ago.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He let McGill into the room.
He took a seat opposite his wife.
“You’re working all by yourself?”
“Me and the guys.” The Secret Service and the Marines guarding all interior and exterior approaches. Patti saw the tense look on McGill’s face.
“You have news,” she said. “Something you think shouldn’t wait. Please tell me it’s not the kids.”
McGill shook his head. Liked the way Patti had said the kids, not your kids. He hoped someday she’d feel comfortable saying our kids. He’d bet Lars referred to them that way.
“The kids are fine, but there are a couple of other things. One I think maybe I was a little impetuous about. The other ties into the first … but I’d have to violate a confidence to tell you.”
“A dilemma.” Patti pushed away the paper she’d been reading, sat back, and opened her arms wide. She’d listen, but only if McGill felt he could talk.
He told her about the secret Aggie Wu had shared with him and his little chat with Monty Kipp at the firing range. The ghost of a smile flitted across Patti’s face.
“I wish I had seen you shoot,” she said. “Will you show me sometime?”
McGill nodded. “You’re not upset? You don’t think I went too far?”
“From what you told me you were just cleaning your gun. You didn’t point it at Mr. Kipp or make any direct threat.”
“No, I didn’t. You’re not bothered by what he had in mind for you?”
Patti laughed. “I don’t sunbathe topless. Never have. And I don’t think anyone’s about to sneak up on me in my shower.”
“Just the thought then.”
“Some people think that way. I got used to it a long time ago. But it’s still new to you.”
“New and unwelcome.”
Patti came around her desk and sat next to her husband. Took his hand.
“I think you handled matters very well.”
“Maybe.”
She studied McGill as he wrestled with the other matter that had brought him to the Oval Office. “Jim, I’m pretty good at keeping secrets. It’s part of my job. I haven’t blabbed anything in my sleep, have I?”
“One or two things.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. We’ll have to sleep in separate bedrooms from now on.”
“Or I could wear earplugs.”
She smiled and gave him a quick kiss.
“Okay, let me start,” Patti said. “You’ve told me about Monty Kipp, you’ve said the other thing on your mind ties into that, and you’re concerned about violating a confidence. Your only client, as far as I know, is Chana Lochlan. So she’s the one who’s confidence you don’t want to violate. And she works for Kipp. Who talked about getting some illicit cheesecake shots of yours truly. So … you’re worried Kipp and Ms. Lochlan might be conniving to embarrass you, or me, in some other way?”
“I am.”
“Why? Despite the editorial slant of her employer, I believe Ms. Lochlan is a serious reporter.”
“You do?”
Patti nodded.
“And what I tell you stays between us?” McGill asked.
“We’re husband and wife. You know what that means.”
So McGill told her what Chana Lochlan’s problem was. Allegedly.
“That’s terrible.”
“You never had any stalkers while you were modeling or acting?”
“Nothing like that,” Patti said.
“Maybe Ms. Lochlan doesn’t
either.”
“What do you mean?”
McGill told her about the appearance of the mysterious thong.
“It had no label, but I tracked it down to Bloomingdale’s. The general manager there was very helpful. From what she told me, I concluded that it was more likely a woman bought the thong than a man. A man, I was told, would have spent more on lingerie for his lady.”
“How much was the thong?”
“Fourteen ninety-nine.”
Patti nodded. “I think you’re right. A woman. And so?”
“So this afternoon I did a little data mining.”
“Private individuals can do that?”
“There are services on the Internet,” McGill told her. “Anytime you pay for something with a credit card, whether it’s groceries or thongs, a record is created of your purchase, and it becomes available to other merchants who want to pitch you their merchandise.”
“You’re not a merchant.”
“It’s also available to spouses or parents who want to know how spouses or offspring are spending somebody’s hard-earned money.”
“You’re not a spouse or a parent, in this case, either.”
“I lied. It’s why I go to confession every week.”
Patti knew where else McGill was going.
“Chana Lochlan bought the thong herself. The one she claims appeared so mysteriously.”
“Her Bloomingdale’s credit card did,” McGill said.
“Did she mention having lost the card?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“Then I wonder if this whole case isn’t a Monty Kipp production.”
“Me, too,” Patti said, “I’m glad you told me.”
The phone on the president’s desk rang. She picked it up.
“Yes … please escort her to the residence.” She hung up and looked at McGill. “Sweetie’s here to see you. Say hello for me, will you?”
Chana was in her home office working when the doorbell rang. She wasn’t expecting anyone. People from work didn’t drop in unannounced. Nobody did. Looking out the window, she saw it was raining harder than ever. Not likely to be a kid selling band candy out there.
She waited.
The doorbell rang again. She thought to call the cops … and tell them what?
McGill. She had his private number at the White House. He could get there fast.
But fast enough?
And what if it was some innocuous visitor? She’d feel like a fool.
She put her eye to the peephole in the front door just as the bell sounded a third time. She saw a familiar face standing outside, getting drenched, not seeming to mind at all. But she didn’t move until he realized she was there on the other side of the door.
And he said, “Hey, Gracie, it’s me!”
She opened the door, and Damon Todd stepped in. He picked her up in his arms, swung her around, and gave her a big kiss. He kicked the door shut.
Her heart was racing; her head was spinning. She couldn’t work out whether she was scared of this man or thrilled to see him again. She even had a hard time remembering just who she was.
Todd saw the confusion and anxiety in her eyes. He felt a momentary flicker of annoyance. A strobe flash across the brain. But it passed quickly. He smiled at her.
“Oh, Gracie, it’s only me. Sorry to show up half-naked and soaking wet, but I couldn’t wait to see you again. Don’t worry, I know just what you need to feel right again.”
He led her to her office. He knew the way. He put an arm around her shoulders, felt the firm muscle there.
“You’ve been working out, Gracie. Getting ready for me?”
“Yes.”
“You buy a new thong?”
And now she remembered. She had bought the thong. She always bought one before he came. This year it was time to buy a green one.
“Well, I certainly hope you’ll model it for me,” he said.
She nodded her acquiescence, but her face clouded.
“What’s wrong?” Todd asked.
Maybe she shouldn’t have gone to see McGill, she thought.
“Gracie?”
No, she definitely shouldn’t have gone to him. She knew that now.
She looked at Todd like a penitent little girl.
“There’s something I have to tell you,” she said.
Chapter 14
“Patti says hello,” McGill told Sweetie.
“Back at her. How’s she doing? Holding up okay?”
“Pretty well. I wouldn’t want the job, but she seems to like it.”
They had settled themselves in McGill’s Hideaway. Every First Family was afforded the privilege of furnishing and decorating the residence to their own tastes. Patti had asked McGill for his input on the matter during the run-up to her inauguration.
He’d said, “I’m a man of simple needs. All I want is a comfortable chair, a sofa where we can snuggle, and plenty of reading light.” A genie couldn’t have done a better job of wish fulfillment.
McGill sat in his huge dark brown leather chair. It was so sensuously comfortable the nuns from his parochial school days would have considered it sinful. Sweetie sat on the equally luxurious sofa where McGill and Patti liked to hold each other close, but the fireplace they spent hours gazing at was cold. The lighting was fine for either reading or conversation.
The president had given McGill’s Hideaway its name. McGill liked the room so much he thought he might come back someday as a ghost and take up permanent residence.
There was a soft knock at the door, and Gawayne Blessing, the White House head butler, one of the six butlers the place had, entered carrying a silver tray bearing two tall frosted glasses of ice tea. Best ice tea in the world, as far as McGill was concerned.
He’d called the order in barely two minutes ago.
“Ms. Sweeney,” Blessing said, serving her, “how nice to see you again.”
“Thanks, Gawayne. I spoke to Bishop Dempsey. He’s saying a novena for your sister.”
Sweetie’s words almost pierced the butler’s professional demeanor. His eyes flickered with anxiety, but the moment of personal feeling was so brief McGill wondered if he hadn’t imagined it. He also wondered how Sweetie had learned anything of Blessing’s family and why the butler’s sister needed the prayers of a bishop.
“Thank you, Ms. Sweeney.” He turned to McGill. “Your ice tea, sir.”
“Thank you, Blessing.” McGill always had to be careful when addressing the head butler that he didn’t lapse into a faux-British accent. His life and times had prepared him for many things, but properly relating to one’s butler wasn’t one of them.
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
“Sweetie?”
“I’m fine.”
“Me, too.”
“Very well, sir.” Blessing took his leave.
And McGill gave Sweetie a questioning look.
“Gawayne’s sister is undergoing a kidney transplant soon. His younger brother is the donor. He’s torn up that it can’t be him, but his blood and tissue are incompatible.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“You already have.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, Bishop D’s a good guy, and he likes me well enough, but adding your name to the request for the novena put it over the top.”
McGill grinned and shook his head.
“Gawayne and his family are all Baptists, but he said anyone asking Jesus to lend a hand would be fine with him.”
“And just when did you meet?” McGill wanted to know.
“That first time you and Patti had me over to dinner. I got here early. Gawayne made me feel welcome, and we got to talking.”
McGill nodded, unsurprised. He sipped his ice tea. It was flavored with a hint of strawberry that night. The elves in the kitchen always managed to surprise him in some pleasant way. Fighting the battle against being spoiled under the White House roof was an uphill proposition.
&n
bsp; “How did things go in Gambier, Ohio?” he asked.
“Eamon Lochlan was out of town. I didn’t miss him by much. He’s due back on Monday. I can go back if you want me to.”
“Tell me what you learned.”
“You mean, do I have you sponsoring a novena for anyone else?”
“Exactly.”
“No, but I did talk to a neighbor.” Sweetie sipped her ice tea and smiled. “They ought to bottle this stuff.”
“I suggested that. I got a polite note back from the kitchen, basically said thanks for the idea but don’t hold your breath. So what did the neighbor have to say?”
“Her name is Harriet Greenlea. She’s eighty-four years old. Reads without glasses. Can hear her cat walking across her carpet. Very little escapes her notice.”
McGill grinned. “Does she keep dossiers?”
“Yeah. All in her head.”
“Let’s start with the missing mom.”
“Marianne. Like dad, a full professor at the university. Onetime professor, anyway. Left the school, the town, and her family when she was passed over for the chair of the Women’s Studies Department. She’d taught a course called Theories on the Construction of the Liberated Woman.”
“How old was Chana when Mom left?”
“Nineteen. Just back from her freshman year at UCLA. A choice of schools that didn’t sit well with Mom. Marianne wanted her daughter to go to the Ivy League. Or better yet, the Sorbonne. Somewhere she could be on the ramparts of the feminist struggle. Instead, she went to L.A. and played softball.”
“Sounds liberated to me. Like she had her own theory.”
Sweetie grinned.
“How about Dad?” McGill asked.
“The good guy, Harriet said. Tolerated his wife’s ‘foolishness’ for far too long. The class he teaches falls under the rubric of World Literature. He wrote a book called The Pen and the Hangman: The Voices of Oppressed Peoples. It’s a collection of short biographies, writers from around the world who risked their freedom and sometimes their lives to tell their stories.”
McGill connected a couple of dots, which Sweetie took for looking thoughtful.
“What?” she asked.
“Chana Lochlan told me she wants to be another Bill Moyers someday. Said she has a list of projects she wants to do. I bet one of them is bringing her father’s book to television. Maybe even have him narrate. I’d also bet Chana was Daddy’s girl right from the start. Which would have made it easier for Mom to leave.”
