by Joseph Flynn
“You know about France’s Good Samaritan law?” he asked.
“I’ve been told,” McGill said. “You had no idea who you were fighting before you got into it with him?”
Kinnard shook his head.
“Was he drunk?” McGill asked.
“Smelled like he’d been drinking wine, but he fought like he was on PCP.”
Angel dust. A cop’s worst nightmare.
“What did the woman look like?” McGill asked.
Kinnard looked back at Gabbi. “Kind of like her, only maybe ten years younger. Not exactly smart looking, but shifty, you know. Someone who got wised up young.”
“Height and weight?” McGill asked.
“Again, about like her.” Kinnard said. “Maybe a little chestier.”
He told McGill what the woman was wearing, as best he could remember.
“Was she drunk or high, too?” McGill asked.
The question made Kinnard sit up straight, revelation lighting his eyes. He leaned forward again. “No, she wasn’t. She wasn’t slurring at all. Just yelling real loud, wagging her finger at him, telling him with this nice mean edge to her voice how little his dick was. That was when the fucking guy caught her finger in his teeth.”
“What?” McGill asked.
“Yeah, he bit her and wouldn’t let go. Things went to hell from there, and that was when I intervened. I mean, what are you going to do, you see some asshole’s about to bite a woman’s finger off and he’s pounding on her at the same time?”
McGill took all that in. Good Samaritan Law or not, no self-respecting cop, current or former, would have walked away. Still, Kinnard’s account had raised a question in his mind.
“She said it in English?” he asked. “About the guy having a little dick.”
“No, French. I picked up a fair bit from Suzanne. I understand more than I can speak.” Kinnard paused. “Let’s keep that between us. The frogs think I’m your standard English-only American dummy.”
McGill nodded. He got up to go. Kinnard stood and looked at him.
“Probably a good thing we never got into it way back when. Doubt you’d have taken the case if we had.”
“Probably not.”
“Of course, you might think you’d have come out on top,” Kinnard said.
McGill just shrugged.
If a guy wanted to think he was tougher than you, the best thing was to let him.
En route to Washington DC
15
Sweetie’s personal car, a 1969 Chevy Malibu, was in the shop for preventive maintenance so Leo Levy had chauffeured her to Arlington and was now taking her back to the office. Sweetie had asked Leo if he’d like to come to the door with her and say hello if Deke were available. He’d declined, saying he’d prefer to renew acquaintances when Deke “was up to tippin’ a glass or two.”
That didn’t keep him from asking, “How’s Deke?” after they got rolling.
“Deke is strong in spirit,” Sweetie said, “so the flesh shall surely follow.”
“Love it when you talk biblical like that,” Leo said with a grin. “We in any hurry to get back to town?”
Before getting into government work, Leo had driven the NASCAR circuit. He’d left professional racing because it made his mother nervous, and with her weak heart he hadn’t wanted to be the death of her. Still, he enjoyed driving at high speed any time he could. With his White House credentials, it was a pleasure he could indulge knowing no cop in the country would write him up.
Even so, it was good to have a nominal reason to drop the hammer.
Sweetie said, “Time’s a terrible thing to waste. Especially when neither of us is getting any younger.”
“Ain’t no arguin’ that,” Leo said.
In the blink of an eye, they were passing every other car on the road, without ruffling anyone’s feathers. Most of the other drivers never saw Leo until he’d zipped past them. He moved in, out, and around cars doing the speed limit like they were gates in a slalom course and he was a downhill racer going for Olympic gold.
Sweetie thought maybe she should ask Leo for a few driving lessons.
The roar of the car’s engine precluded casual conversation, giving Sweetie time to think about what she’d learned from Musette Ky. If a bad guy had bared his soul to a priest, he could feel pretty comfortable that the cleric wouldn’t rat him out. But if that bad guy found out a bishop was going to kick his confessor’s backside out of the priesthood, what was he going to think?
He’d made a bad mistake.
And the priest had to go.
Musette Ky had given Sweetie the bad guy’s name, Horatio Bao. To the public, Bao was a respected lawyer, a pillar of the Arlington community, and a power among the Viet Kieu population. He would never stoop to shooting Donald himself, but Musette had said he had a vicious young thug named Ricky Lanh Huu working for him.
The clear implication was Ricky was the guy who’d shot Deke.
Ms. Ky had declined to reveal the exact nature of the crime in which Bao had sought to involve her. “It is too horrible to speak of. I try to push the very thought out of my mind.”
Asked to characterize Deke’s mother in three words, Sweetie would have said: “Tough as nails.” She didn’t see the woman backing down from anyone much less letting an idea bother her. Sometimes, though, working with an informant—how Sweetie was coming to think of Ms. Ky — was a dance, and you had to follow the choreography.
“Why would Horatio Bao seek your advice?” she’d asked.
Musette said, “I am a successful businesswoman. I give informal seminars on getting ahead in America. I can only think Mr. Bao thought he might turn my expertise to … his purposes.”
Sweetie saw she would get only so far pushing that line of inquiry.
So she went in another direction.
“When your son was shot, you said you rushed to his aid.”
“Yes.”
“And Francis was having dinner with you?”
“Yes.”
“Did he run to the door to help, too?”
“Of course.”
Sweetie gave it a beat then asked, “Do you think he might have looked across the street and seen the shooter?”
The question gave Musette Ky pause or at least she acted that way.
“As I recall … the streetlight adjacent to the park was on. The park itself was partially illuminated. Francis may have seen the shooter … or he may not.”
Sweetie would bet he had. The shooter had seen he’d been spotted, and who the witness was. He’d made a point of rushing to confess his sin to Father Nguyen as soon as he could. Fearing the law’s punishment far more than God’s judgment.
In principle, Sweetie had trouble reconciling a loving Creator with the architect of Hell. Eternity was just too long to punish any sin. But there were people she thought should burn for a good long time, and someone who would pervert a sacrament would be prominent among them.
As she mulled the jurisprudence of mortal sin, her phone chirped, Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring. The caller was Putnam Shady, her lawyer, landlord and would-be suitor.
She answered by saying, “I’m too busy to save your soul right now, Putnam.”
He replied, “We’ll get to that after the champagne is chilled. Right now, I’m calling with a news bulletin: Erna Godfrey’s first appeal of her conviction has been denied.”
Erna Godfrey was the murderess of President Patricia Darden Grant’s first husband, philanthropist Andrew Grant. She had perpetrated her crime with a rocket-propelled grenade. Her defense was a claim of divine justification. She’d acted to save an untold number of fetuses from abortion. A jury of her peers had found her guilty and she had been sentenced to death.
Sweetie figured she’d earned a long while in the rotisserie, too.
“How much time does that leave her,” Sweetie asked, “before she’s executed?”
“Figure at least five more years if someone behind the scenes isn’t hurrying the process.”
> Meaning if the president wasn’t actively seeking revenge, which Jim had assured Sweetie she wasn’t. Sweetie thanked Putnam for calling, knowing better than to ask him to reveal the source of his information.
It was turning out to be quite a day. Erna Godfrey had moved closer to finding out what the Almighty really thought of her. Deke’s mom had told Sweetie the names of the people behind her son’s shooting. She also continued to hide the extent of her own involvement in the matter.
In Musette’s favor, though, she had let Sweetie take four Chocolate Marthas home
Georgetown
16
As Sweetie entered the lobby of the building where McGill Investigations, Inc. had its offices, Dikki Missirian told her she had someone waiting to see her.
“Who?” she asked.
“Me,” Captain Welborn Yates said, stepping out of Dikki’s cubbyhole under the staircase. He wore casual civilian clothes. “Mr. McGill thought you might be able to use a hand. Said I might be of help liaising with the federal justice system. The president approved and gave me leave time — if you’re interested.”
Sweetie smiled. How thoughtful of Jim.
Giving her Welborn: her own personal FireWire into all sorts of government databases.
“Well, of course, I am, Welborn. Help is always welcome.”
Winfield House, London
17
Galia knocked on the door and heard the president say, “Come in.” She entered the spacious bedroom the president was using. With James J. McGill out of town, Galia didn’t worry about stepping into any potentially embarrassing situation—although she already had walked in on McGill in his bath when an urgent situation required it. The chief of staff thought she might find the president reviewing yet another briefing book as she sat on the settee in the room. Perhaps she would be sneaking in a few minutes of leisure reading. Possibly, she would be moving with a dancer’s flair through a tai chi sequence.
That last conjecture came closest to the mark. The president was on her feet, taking two or three normal strides and then seemingly catching her foot on some invisible obstacle. The displaced foot then came down hard, heel first. The arm on the same side was suddenly flung backward, hard enough that the president had to catch her balance.
All Galia could think of was that the president, for some inexplicable reason, was practicing a pratfall. Try as she might, Galia couldn’t recall any former leader of the free world doing a Vaudeville routine.
“Madam President, may I ask, what you’re doing?”
Patti turned to look at her. “You may not.”
Galia kept her face blank, but instinctively felt McGill was responsible for this odd behavior. Damn the man. Seeing the president studying her, Galia knew her poker face wasn’t all it might be. She moved on to the business at hand.
“You asked for word on the Russian situation, Madam President.”
Russia was the only G8 nation not to be in London for the economic summit.
“Has anything changed?” Patti asked.
“The dialogue continues to be heated, but there are no significant military movements.”
Patricia Darden Grant’s predecessor in the Oval Office had planned to place interceptor missiles in Poland, ostensibly to keep the Iranians from nuking Central Europe. Russia interpreted the U.S. plan as a hedge against its own missiles. Patti saw the whole thing as a cowboy-versus-cossack pissing contest and canceled the missile pact with Poland, assuring Warsaw that along with all of Poland’s other NATO allies, Washington would never allow Iran to rain nuclear destruction on Europe.
In a rational world, that would have been that, the status quo ante restored. But fears once raised were not easily quelled. Pride once bruised did not heal quickly. Poland, having suffered through decades of Soviet oppression, was in no mood to listen to any lectures or to tolerate any threats from the Kremlin.
“Warsaw is going to carry out its NRA plan?” the president asked.
The Polish government was initiating a plan to arm every head of household in the country with an assault rifle. With a population approaching forty million, the government had placed an enormous order with Fabrique Nationale de Herstal, the Belgian manufacturer of the F2000 assault rifle. The funds being used to arm Poland were a hundred percent domestic, but the Russians claimed that economic aid from the EU and the U.S. was allowing the Poles to create, de facto, the world’s largest standing army.
Warsaw replied it would happily disarm if Russia did likewise, starting with its nuclear weapons. Russia said it would never disarm while the U.S. and China continued to build their arsenals. The world, as ever, grew more complicated and dangerous.
Galia reminded the president, “The Poles describe their plan as following the Swiss model.”
The president said, “The Swiss allow only their soldiers to keep their rifles, and only after they’ve completed their military service. The soldiers who do keep their rifles have to pay out of their own pockets to have their assault rifles modified into the required civilian configuration. They also have to demonstrate continued shooting proficiency every summer. And the number of soldiers electing to keep their weapons is steadily declining.”
Galia nodded, thinking what a pleasant change it was for the country to have a president who had truly mastered her coursework.
“You’re right, of course, Madam President, and I believe the secretary of state has made all those points to Warsaw, and the first shipment of arms from Belgium has yet to be distributed.”
“And perhaps never will be?” the president asked.
“Possibly, if the Russians dial back their rhetoric.”
“The secretary of state is working on that, too?”
“He is.”
“Good. Someone else should have a job nearly as awful as yours and mine.”
The two women laughed, only to be interrupted by the phone ringing.
The president answered, listened for a moment and said, “Yes, thank you.”
“If there’s nothing else you need, Madam President,” Galia said, “I’ll—”
“Just a minute, Galia.”
There was a knock at the door. A female Secret Service agent entered and handed an envelope to the president. After the agent left, Patti gave it to Galia.
“For you,” she said. “From Buckingham Palace.”
Galia’s eyebrows rose, and she opened the envelope. She took out a card and read the message, then read it again as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.
“What is it, Galia?” the president asked.
“An invitation.” She looked at Patti. “Sir Robert Reed would like to know if he might be permitted the honor of taking me to dinner.”
The president beamed.
Galia knew what Patti was thinking: Sir Robert was asking her for a date.
She shook her head and said, “The man obviously has ulterior motives.”
“Most men do,” the president responded. “Try to enjoy them whenever possible.”
Paris
18
Gabbi left her car with a valet at a restaurant called Monsieur Henri on the Ile de la Cité.
McGill got out of the Peugeot and asked, “You made a reservation?”
She smiled and inclined her head upward. McGill saw two flats above the restaurant. “Home,” Gabbi said. She led him to a doorway at the left side of the building. The lock on the door was biometrically keyed: palm print and retinal pattern. Gabbi had McGill add his bio-info to the system’s memory. “Now, you have a key to the place, too,” she said.
What a place it was. Gleaming wood floors throughout; Oriental rugs; artful lighting; original oil paintings on the wall. Still lifes, landscapes, portraits. McGill walked over to one, a portrait of an old man, smiling as if his life had been one grand adventure after another. He examined the painting closely, liking it more with every detail he observed, and then he took note of the artist’s signature: G. Casale.
He turned and looked at the woman to whom
his welfare had been entrusted.
“My compliments,” he said. He gestured at the collection of paintings. “These could hang in the Art Institute. Or any local museum.”
Gabbi bobbed her head in gratitude. “Thank you. I’m an alumna of the School of the Art Institute. Came to Europe to do post-grad studies.”
“But?” McGill asked.
“But I was starving, which was perfectly acceptable. What couldn’t be endured was the inability to buy art supplies. I refused to ask Mom and Dad for support. Rather than sell my body, I said yes to a gentleman who walked up to me in the Tuileries Gardens one day while I was doing charcoal sketches and asked me in a whisper if I’d like to add spycraft to my portfolio.”
“CIA?” McGill asked.
Gabbi nodded. “What hooked me was I thought I could fool anyone into thinking I was a native. But he spotted me for an American right away. We smoothed out my rough spots, but it turned out I really wasn’t agency material. I did like the government paycheck and perks, though, and I managed to catch on with State.”
McGill looked around. The apartment’s furnishings were also museum quality. A government paycheck wouldn’t cover the wall paint much less all the Architectural Digest goodies.
“There’s more than the taxpayer’s dollar at work here,” McGill said.
Gabbi smiled at him and stepped behind a wet bar. “Drink?”
McGill asked for a sparkling water.
She poured him a San Pellegrino as he took a stool opposite her.
And waited for an explanation.
“My family comes from the comfortable side of middle class. Dad was a State Farm agent. Sold a fair amount of insurance. In his spare time, he was a state senator. Had things all planned out for the family.”
McGill knew a cue when he heard one. “And then?”
“And then, oops, Mom got pregnant with Giancarlo. Plans had to be readjusted. I got to be Gianni’s baby-sitter throughout high school, so Mom could stay on with Dad at the office as much as possible. I didn’t mind—too much—because Gianni is such a sweetie.”
