Jim McGill 02 The Hangman's Companion

by Joseph Flynn

  Thinking of the case in those terms did make it seem more daunting.

  “Yeah, but that’s Chicago,” McGill said. “Don’t you think the French are more…suave?”

  Sweetie said, “They probably dress better, too, but I don’t think that’s going to make a lot of difference.”

  McGill shrugged. “Then there’s only one thing to do. I’ll have Patti put the fix in for me.”

  “And why would she do that?”

  “I just did one favor for her and agreed to do another.”

  He told Sweetie about showing Patti some Dark Alley moves and agreeing to escort her to the Queen’s soirée at Buckingham Palace.

  “The Queen of England?” Sweetie asked, wanting to be sure.

  “That’s the one,” McGill said.

  Sweetie shook her head in disbelief.

  “I know,” McGill said. “The places old Chicago coppers get to go these days.”

  “So we’re going to work both cases,” Sweetie said.

  “Yeah. Let Ms. Ky know you’re on board, but wait until I’m out of the country to start working the case. It’ll be less conspicuous that way. You can use Leo to drive you, if you want. We’ll stay in touch by phone.”

  Sweetie asked, “You’re already packed?”

  McGill’s answer was another excursion into the surreal.

  He said, “My butler takes care of that.”

  The White House

  12

  The president’s secretary, Edwina Byington, buzzed Patti the moment Galia left.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Madam President, but SAC Crogher is here with me and he’d like to know if you might spare him a minute. On a personal matter, he says.”

  “Do I have the time, Edwina?”

  “You do, ma’am, if you see him now and he doesn’t have too much to say … He says he doesn’t.”

  “Send him in,” the president said.

  She watched the door to the Oval Office open and the chief of her security detail enter. A personal matter, Edwina had said. That caught her off guard. It had never occurred to her Celsus might have a personal life.

  She gestured to a guest chair.

  “Please have a seat, Celsus,” she said.

  She’d have left him standing if it had been a business call. He looked as if he’d have been more at ease on his feet, too, but he did as he was bid.

  “What can I do for you?” Patti asked.

  “Madam President, I have the greatest respect for you.”

  “Thank you, Celsus.”

  “I didn’t vote for you, but I might next time.”

  The president repressed a smile.

  “Then I’m making progress,” she said.

  Crogher nodded. “Even so, ma’am, I’d like to request a transfer.”

  This time Patti was caught unaware on a couple of levels. Heading the president’s personal security detail was the crown jewel of a Secret Service career. Being the director just meant you were the top bureaucrat. So why would Celsus want to … Well, really, she knew why. But she hadn’t seen it coming. The other surprise was that by approaching her directly with his request Celsus had gone over the director’s head. She would have thought SAC Crogher to be a chain-of-command man.

  But maybe cutting a corner was Jim’s influence, too.

  “Would you care to elaborate, Celsus?” she asked.

  It looked as if he wouldn’t, but the SAC wasn’t yet to the point of denying a direct request from the president.

  Crogher said it had been more than six months since Holmes—James J. McGill’s Secret Service code name—had any Secret Service protection. “I find that—”

  “Unacceptable?” the president said.

  “Impossible to deal with. There is no modern precedent. There’s no procedure for it. There’s no workaround.”

  The SAC pressed his lips together before he started to sputter.

  But Patti could see the pressure inside him was continuing to build.

  She had no answer for the man, except distraction.

  “How are you doing at keeping me safe?” the president asked.

  For the first time since she had met the SAC, Patti saw surprise in his eyes.

  “Madam President, only an act of God will keep you from completing your term, and if He gets cranky, I’ll take the lightning bolt.”

  This time Patti let the SAC see her smile.

  But she softly said, “You would if you were still here, Celsus.” Before he could reply, she added, “You’re not planning to let me go to London without you, are you?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Good. Well, here are two questions you’ll have to answer before I can approve your request to be transferred: Who else can I count on to take a lightning bolt for me, and who can find a workaround for that enigma Holmes?”

  Sensing he’d been dismissed, Crogher got to his feet.

  But the president had one last question for him.

  “What was the personal aspect of all this, Celsus?”

  “Telling you I’m thinking of voting for you.”

  “Yes, of course. I should have seen that.”

  “There’s one other thing, ma’am.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m starting to do something I never let myself have time for before.”

  “What’s that?”

  “As regards Holmes, I’m starting to worry.”

  Georgetown

  13

  McGill put a call through to the White House from his office. In keeping with his hands-off politics and policy stance, he knew only a few direct phone numbers, but he could reach all of the people who mattered to him, starting with the president and working his way down to…

  “Captain Welborn Yates, United States Air Force, Office of Special Investigations, detailed to the White House.”

  “That’s quite a mouthful, Welborn, just to say hello.”

  There was a pause, and then the youthful voice with the South Carolina drawl asked, “Mr. McGill?”

  “The same. I forgot to ask the president, but you’re not traveling abroad with her, are you?”

  “No, sir, I’m staying in Washington.”

  “You have enough to keep you busy?”

  They both knew Welborn had become the president’s personal—official—investigator. Personnel serving with the Air Force OSI were duly sworn federal agents. Just like the FBI, the DEA or other assorted feds. What distinguished Welborn was that if in the crush of events the president forgot to throw some work his way, he was left with too much time on his hands.

  “I do have my wedding coming up,” he said.

  “How much fun can you have picking out floral arrangements?” McGill asked.

  “Not a lot,” Welborn admitted.

  “How would you like to help Margaret Sweeney with something more substantial?”

  Given that he reported directly to the commander in chief and had yet to see his twenty-fifth birthday, Welborn was understandably hesitant about the idea of moonlighting.

  “I’m pretty sure I’d need permission to do that, sir, but I can’t rightly say who should ask for it, me or you.”

  Celsus Crogher wasn’t the only one for whom McGill caused procedural problems.

  “I’ll do the asking,” he said. “What I’d like to know is whether you’re available and interested?”

  “I do have the free time, sir.” He was going crazy, in fact, trying to find something useful to do, something that would legitimately excuse him from any more wedding planning. Welborn suspected that the invasion of Normandy had been a less complex exercise than what Kira had in mind for their nuptials. “This case with Ms. Sweeney, sir, it’s something that would reflect well on someone with my position in the White House?”

  Welborn’s first case had involved an allegation of adultery in the military.

  McGill said, “I think both you and the president would be pleased by a successful outcome.”

  There was a moment of sile
nce and McGill could almost hear the young officer thinking. If the president was going to take notice of the case, it had to be something important. If it was something important and it involved McGill, chances were it…

  “You can probably guess what the focus of the investigation is, Welborn. I’m sure the president will, too, when I ask her to let me borrow you for a week or two. But she’ll be smart enough not to ask me directly. At this point, I think it would be best if you didn’t either.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So you’re in?”

  “Just as soon as I get the go-ahead from the president, sir.”

  “Good. One more thing. The next time we talk, see if you can manage to call me Jim.”

  “Yes, sir. The next time.”

  Edwards Air Force Base

  14

  McGill thought it would be in keeping with the creature comforts of Air Force One if you boarded the 747-200B via an escalator instead of a flight of stairs. Of course, the American people expected to see that their leader possessed the physical vigor to climb and descend a stairway equal in height to a three-story building. In the event the electorate ever chose another wheelchair-bound giant like FDR, or a guest of the president rolled instead of walked, a ramp with a switchback was available. Neither member of the First Couple had any trouble making their way to the top, but McGill walked a half-step behind the president in case she put a foot wrong and needed catching. At the platform outside the doorway to the plane, he stayed at her side, being watchful and feeling just a bit like Celsus Crogher, as the president waved goodbye. He then let his wife enter her aircraft first, literally having her back.

  McGill went to the president’s private suite while Patti convened a meeting with cabinet members and other such dignitaries who were essential to the success of the trip to London. By the time the president made her way to the First Couple’s private quarters, her henchman had his feet up, a beer in hand, and was engrossed in a ninth inning drama between his beloved White Sox and the accursed Yankees. The Sox had been cellar dwellers the year before but their new manager, Robin Ventura, had the team scrapping hard in every game and they led the AL Central by two games going into New York for a three-game series. The score was tied at four with the bases loaded and two out in the top of the ninth. The batter was the wonderfully named rookie right fielder, Bobby Bang. The count was two and two. McGill knew that most of his fellow Pale Hose fans were screaming for a grand slam; the kid had the power for it.

  Ever the contrarian, McGill whispered to the screen, “Lay one down, kid.”

  A dangerous strategy with two strikes on the batter; foul off the pitch and you were out. But what better time to catch New York flatfooted?

  The batter stepped out of the box, making sure he had the signals from the third base coach right. That was when McGill saw he had company. Patti had slipped into the compartment without disturbing him. He gestured to the seat next to him, handed her his beer when she sat. Bobby Bang stepped back into the batter’s box. A close shot of the batter’s face showed a look of fierce determination, and McGill knew what was coming.

  “Watch this,” he told his wife. “This is going to be good.”

  She nodded, took a swig from the bottle and returned it.

  The pitcher gazed down from the mound, another portrait of grit and intensity. He threw a sinker that was clocked at 98 miles per hour. Bobby Bang looked like he was running away from the plate before the ball ever arrived. But at the last instant he flicked out his bat and pushed the ball toward third base just inside the foul line. The runner on third, having left with the pitch had to skip over the ball and then dived for home. The Yankees catcher jumped over the runner, knowing he had no chance to get the man at home. He picked up the ball and fired it to first. He would have been a step too late even if the throw had been on the mark, but it sailed high, bounced off the wall separating the field from the box seats and ricocheted into right field.

  Three runs scored. Sox up 7-4.

  “Yes!” McGill said.

  “That was exciting,” Patti agreed with a smile.

  McGill kissed her and turned the TV off.

  “Aren’t you going to watch the rest of the game?” she asked.

  “Don’t you need to get some sleep?” McGill asked.

  “I do.”

  “So the choice is watching baseball or going to bed with you.”

  “Not a close call?”

  Now McGill smiled. He stood and extended a hand.

  Patti took it, stood and put her arms around McGill’s waist.

  He glanced at a Flight in Progress screen. They were cruising above Nuuk. He’d never heard of the place. But he recognized the shape of the map on which Nuuk appeared.

  “I’ve never made love flying over Greenland before,” he told his wife.

  Over Greenland

  15

  Patti snuggled against McGill, their bodies still warm from their exertions. The president was on the edge of sleep, looking at McGill through slitted eyelids, saw his head reclining against a couple of pillows, his eyes open but looking at nothing in particular.

  “What are you thinking?” Patti asked.

  McGill said, “It’ll keep. Get your rest.”

  The president sighed, pushed herself up on an elbow.

  “You know me better than that. Talk to me or I won’t get any sleep.”

  McGill pulled his wife close. She rested her head on his chest.

  “I need a couple of favors,” McGill said.

  “And you didn’t want me to think you made love to me just to get them.”

  McGill chuckled. “Foolish, I know.”

  “So what do you want, sailor?”

  “I’d like to borrow Welborn for a week or two. Have him help Sweetie with a case.”

  Patti was quiet for a moment. McGill kept his breathing even to maintain a steady heartbeat. He was sure Patti was figuring out what he was up to but he didn’t want her to think there would be anything risky about it. With her ear to his chest, he wanted her to hear a measured thump-thump to reassure her.

  “Okay,” the president said, “I’ll make the call when we get up. Have Welborn take the time as a leave from official duty.”

  “Thank you,” McGill said.

  “What else? You said a couple favors.”

  “I got a new case this morning. Daughter of a copper I knew in Chicago wants me to clear her dad’s name.”

  “Of what?”

  “He killed a guy.”

  “Oh, my. Was there any justification?”

  “He said he was defending a woman who was being attacked.”

  “That’s a pretty good start on justification.”

  “The woman took off, hasn’t been seen since the night in question.”

  Patti sighed. “Never easy, is it? So you need to find the woman.”

  “I do.”

  “You’ll be flying back to Chicago while Sweetie’s working her case in DC?”

  “This is where the second favor comes in. Glen Kinnard lost his wife shortly before the trouble started. In fact, he was carrying her ashes in an urn when the fight began. He had intended to scatter them in the Seine.”

  Patti sat up, her eyes now opened as wide as McGill’s.

  “You’re going to do an investigation in Paris?”

  “Yeah. You think you can fix that with the French?”

  The president lay back on her pillows. Thought a moment.

  “Sure, I can,” she said.

  Chapter 4

  Tuesday, June 2nd — Approaching the United Kingdom

  1

  McGill was alone when he awoke. He shaved and took a shower, dressed in a freshly pressed suit for the president’s arrival in the United Kingdom. An Air Force steward brought him a breakfast of two eggs over easy, two strips of crisp bacon, and a glass of orange juice, not from concentrate. A laptop computer was up and running, featuring the sports section of the Chicago Tribune online.

  The White
Sox had held on to beat the Yankees.

  It would be tough to go back to flying commercial, McGill thought.

  He ate carefully, didn’t get a dab of yolk or a crumb of bacon on his suit.

  The president joined McGill, just as he finished his breakfast and dabbed at his mouth with a linen napkin. She was dressed even more stylishly than he: a charcoal gray jacket and knee length skirt, the gray softened by a French vanilla blouse. Her shoes matched her suit. McGill judged the heels to be no more than two inches, stylish but not impractical.

  There were those who thought that President Patricia Darden Grant should emulate the fashion of her recent predecessors and wear an American flag pin on her lapel. One curmudgeon of the right went so far as to ask at a press conference why she wasn’t wearing the sacred accessory. Looking him in the eye, the president gave him a deadpan response.

  “I don’t need to wear a pin because I have a flag tattoo just above my heart.”

  The room became so quiet everyone could hear the questioner’s jaw drop.

  No one had asked to see the tattoo. Yet.

  To maintain confidentiality, McGill had passed the word he’d break the nose of anyone who asked him to confirm the president’s claim.

  An Air Force steward came in and cleared away the breakfast dishes.

  Patti sat next to her husband and said, “Buckle up. We’re going to be landing soon.”

  A moment later, the first officer confirmed the fact over the public address system.

  “You got the jump on everyone else again,” McGill said, fastening his seat belt.

  “I also have possession of a fact you neglected to share with me.”

  “What might that be?”

  “Your friend Glen Kinnard—”

  “He’s not really a friend.”

  “Your client, then. He killed France’s preeminent sports star, Thierry Duchamp.”