The Echo of the Whip

by Joseph Flynn

  “I should have seen that,” he said.

  “It’s easier to suspect enemies than friends.”

  He nodded and gave her the name of the clinic in Anaheim from which she’d already retrieved the embryos. He’d come across with the information he’d promised. Mira thought Whelan’s honesty deserved some measure of recompense.

  She told him about the intruder who’d visited her that morning.

  “The guy wanted to know who hired him to steal the embryos. Seems like he should have figured out it was you, the ex-husband. Who knows? Maybe he did and just wanted me to confirm it. If so, that’s what I did.”

  Edmond Whelan seemed to shrink before Mira’s eyes.

  “What?” she asked. “You paid the guy for his work, didn’t you?”

  Whelan didn’t say a word.

  “Hell, Ed, if you didn’t, you better get him his money fast. This wasn’t some guy you want to jerk around.”

  As in try to coerce him into killing James J. McGill, Whelan thought.

  He realized that now it would be so much easier for Beck to kill him than McGill.

  The echo of the whip ran from his ex-wife’s house.

  Buenos Aires, Argentina

  Special Agent Abra Benjamin signed the registration form of the five-star hotel on the Avenida Alvear and had the bellman take her luggage to her suite. She headed directly to the lobby bar, taking a table with a street view and putting in an order for a Chivas Regal. After completing the 5,290-mile, 11-hour flight from New York, sleeping only intermittently, studying her new identity and getting up from her seat every hour to walk the length of the executive jet’s cabin so she didn’t develop a deep vein thrombosis, she was tired, wired and more than a bit cranky.

  Normally, she was the most moderate of drinkers. It was always a matter of professional advantage to let everyone else get more soused than you did. Even so, you couldn’t forgo at least a little booze or you’d be looked at like you were a prig or some other figure of suspicion. Like most things in an ambitious woman’s life, deciding how much to drink was a balancing act.

  But, damn, didn’t that glass of fine Scotch go down like something that would get you evicted from Eden. It warmed her from head to toe, loosened knotted muscles and made her feel two-thirds human again. One more might put her over the top and let her sleep like Mom was singing a lullaby.

  She was just about to order a second drink when the waiter and someone else anticipated her. “The gentleman at the bar sends his regards, Señora,” the waiter said, presenting her with a second Chivas.

  There was no confusing whom the waiter meant. At that late hour, shortly before closing, there was only one guy at the bar, whether he was a gentleman or not. He looked old enough, just barely, to fit the description and he was wearing a well-tailored suit. His hair was a bit oily, but who knew if that was the style south of the equator?

  Abra told the waiter, “Thank you. Would you also do me a favor?”

  “Certainly, Señora.”

  “Tell the gentleman I said he should match your tip to the price of this drink.”

  The waiter arched an eyebrow. “At one hundred percent?”

  “More if he’s feeling generous.”

  The waiter couldn’t quite hide his smile. “Sí, Señora.”

  Abra watched as the waiter delivered his message. The guy who’d bought Abra her drink looked across the room at her. She raised her glass in a salute. The big spender took out his wallet and gave the waiter a currency note that earned him a bow.

  Then he took it as assumed that he was free to join Abra.

  The closer he got, the more she liked his looks. He was a very handsome fellow. Might have been a telenovela actor for all she knew. Maybe she should let him know the wet-head was dead, even in Argentina.

  Of course, an old American TV commercial slogan might be regarded as offensive in another culture. Abra decided not to get too cute with the guy. She’d just play the part that was written for her. She was a well-off, headstrong woman from New York visiting distant relatives while waiting for —

  The guy to surprise her by taking her hand and kissing it.

  Abra laughed. It was either that or get to her feet and clock him.

  “I have made a mistake?” the guy asked without looking at all embarrassed. “You are not European?”

  “If I were, would you be speaking English? I don’t look like a Brit, do I?”

  For just a moment, he looked to Abra like he realized he had made a mistake and she’d spotted him for a bullshitter. If he was the guy she was looking for, she didn’t want to scare him away. She gave him a wink and said, “Hey, I’m just joking. The last man who kissed my hand was my grandfather, that’s all. It caught me off guard, but thanks for the drink.”

  His confidence restored, the guy asked, “May I join you?”

  “Only if you’ll drink with me. Understanding this is my last one for the night.”

  While he was still on his feet, the guy gestured to the waiter, who was monitoring developments closely.

  “Lo mismo para mi.” he said. The same for me. He took his seat.

  His drink came quickly and he raised his glass to Abra. “Salud.”

  “L’chaim,” Abra replied.

  The guy smiled. They both sipped their Scotch, and the guy asked Abra, “You are Jewish?”

  “I am,” she said, fighting off a yawn. “Is that a good or bad thing for you?”

  “I am open minded on the subject of religion. I was raised Catholic, but I do not go to church very often any more.”

  “No? You don’t want to go to heaven?”

  “Yes, of course. Every day I train myself for a life of eternal bliss.”

  Abra laughed and took another sip of her drink. “That’s pretty good.”

  The guy gave her a charming smile and changed the subject.

  “May I ask what brings such a beautiful woman to my beautiful country?”

  Abra, sticking to her script, said, “I’m following my lawyer’s advice.”

  “He said to visit America del Sur and be sure to start in Buenos Aires?”

  Abra smiled broadly, as her stage directions said she should. “He told me to visit my most distant relatives and he’d get me the biggest divorce settlement any woman could want.”

  “Bravo. This is a gentleman who clearly has your interests at heart.”

  “His, too. He gets a cut of every dollar he squeezes out of that bastard I was stupid enough to marry.” Abra took a hit off her drink, an improvisation. “That’s the last time I ever let my mother tell me that a man is a great catch.”

  Her new friend beamed in delight. “You followed your mother’s advice about choosing a husband?”

  “I said I was stupid, right?” Abra started to slur her words, just a little.

  “No, no. That I can not believe.” He shrugged. “It was only your mother who misjudged.”

  “Yeah, well. She was right about him being rich, and I’m going to skin him good. So that part will work out all right.”

  “Other matters were not so … fulfilling?”

  “Hey, let’s not get too cozy here. I mean you bought me just the one drink.”

  “Only because you set that limit.”

  Abra squinted as if her vision had started to blur. “You know what, I’m not really stupid. I know when I’m tired and I’ve had enough to drink. It’s been fun, but I’m going up to my suite now, alone. Thanks for the drink.”

  As if he were the perfect gentleman, the guy got up and helped Abra to rise. He placed a hand lightly on a forearm, nothing more. But still got a sampling of the merchandise. Nice firm muscle tone. Standing back at an appropriate distance, he asked, “May I have the pleasure of knowing your name?”

  “Wendy Wasserman. That’s my married name. If we see each other again after my divorce is final, I’ll let you know if I change it.”

  He nodded and smiled. “I am here quite often.”

  “Yeah? What’s your nam
e?”

  “Guillermito Medianoche.”

  Abra frowned, as if trying to concentrate. “I took some Spanish in school.” A true statement. “So your name is … Billy Midnight?”

  With a small bow, he said, “At your service, Señora.”

  “You’re not the devil, are you?”

  Giving Abra a grin, he said, “Only on certain occasions. And you, by any chance, have you ever visited Israel?”

  “Sure, several times,” Only once, in fact. “I have a cousin who lives there, married a local boy. Now, they have kids. A home in Tel Aviv and a house on the beach.”

  “Why did you not hide out there?”

  “My bastard, soon to be ex-husband, has family there, too.”

  Her script had anticipated that question.

  Billy nodded, executed a small bow and said, “It has been a pleasure to spend this time with you, Señora Wasserman. I hope we will have another chance to talk. Buenas noches.”

  He turned and sauntered out of the bar.

  Abra wanted to question the waiter about Billy Midnight, but decided that would be out of character for Wendy Wasserman. She only nodded at the waiter and gave him a small smile. Let him know she thought of him as a person not a menial.

  Stepping very carefully, which due to fatigue and the two drinks was a necessity, Abra made her way to the bank of elevators and up to her suite. She kicked off her shoes and slipped out of her dress, fell on the bed and bounced back up to pee.

  Returning to bed, her head spun as it hit the pillows …

  Even so, she was sure Billy Midnight was the pimp she was hoping to meet …

  If he knew American accents, he’d know she was from New York, and had connections to Israel, too …

  A perfect substitute for the hooker who’d begged off banging Tyler Busby …

  Still, she’d have to make Billy work to lead her into a life of depravity …

  With that happy thought in mind, Abra fell asleep.

  Chapter 10

  Saturday, March 28, 2015, The White House — Washington, DC

  Upon arriving home, McGill had asked Patti if they could skip any talk of business, hers or his, until the morning.

  “Gladly,” the president said. “Until the sun rises, I’m just some dame you picked up and took to a fancy hotel guarded by Marines and guys with machine guns.”

  “So you’re saying the neighborhood’s not so good?”

  “It’s rotten with politicians, but we won’t talk about them either.”

  They didn’t. Beyond endearments and occasional banter about their kids, they didn’t talk at all. Other forms of communication more than sufficed. When the new day did break, however, it was time to get back to the real world.

  Patti told McGill just how much money she had to her name.

  “Yikes,” he said.

  Then McGill told Patti of his opportunity to be on a TV show.

  “Double yikes,” she said.

  “Yeah, but who knows if the writing will be any good?” he said.

  “You’re smart to wait and see about that. Most actors will take almost any role because they need to work. You, lucky man that you are, have a rich wife.”

  “And two pensions and a small business above an accounting firm.”

  Patti took McGill’s hand. “I’ve heard rumors that your business might be growing, beyond the European office in Paris. Is that true?”

  “I’m considering opening another office in L.A.” McGill looked thoughtful for a moment. “If I do that, I don’t see how I could neglect to do the same back home in Chicago.”

  “Sounds like you might be very busy.”

  “Could be,” he said, “but if you like, you could buy a small tropical island for just the two of us, and I could spend my days collecting sea shells and rubbing sun screen all over you.”

  Patti said, “That does sound appealing, but I have this new venture capital firm to get off the ground.”

  “That’s right, you do, and I think it’s a terrific idea. I know, maybe your appointments secretary could get together with my appointments secretary and work out a schedule of when we might see each other.”

  “How romantic. The idea almost makes me swoon.”

  McGill laughed, got out of bed and extended a hand to Patti.

  “As long as we’re both here right now, we might as well shower together. I’ll wash your back, you wash mine. No need for scheduling at all.”

  She took his hand, stood and wrapped her arms around his waist.

  “Promise me, Jim, we’ll never bring our appointments secretaries into the shower with us.”

  “Certainly not,” McGill said. “Water conservation goes only so far.”

  After the president had gone down to the Oval Office, McGill made a quick trip to his White House Hideaway. He looked around at the huge leather sofa, the fireplace and the artwork on the walls he’d bought with Patti. He murmured to himself, “Damn, this is the one room in the place I’m going to miss.”

  Oh, well, he thought, with Patti’s money, he could ask for a copy of the Hideaway as a birthday gift. He plopped down on the sofa and called Los Angeles. It was just after six a.m. on the Left Coast. He hoped the person on the other end wasn’t still in bed or in—

  “Goddamnit, I told you not to call!”

  A bad mood.

  “You did?” McGill asked. “I don’t remember that.”

  “Terry?”

  “Jim McGill. Sorry about the early hour.”

  “James J. McGill?”

  “Yes, but don’t let that spare me any righteous anger.”

  Lieutenant Emily Proctor of the LAPD laughed. “Oh, sure, and while I’m at it, let me give the president an earful, too.”

  McGill said, “Please don’t do that. She has too many troubles as it is.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard. Probably shouldn’t have said that. Hey, tell her I’m rooting for her.”

  “I will. Every bit of good will helps shore up her morale.”

  “So what can I do for you, sir?”

  “I had to leave town in a hurry and —”

  “You’re not in L.A.?”

  “I’m back in Washington, but I thought your detectives, Zapata and MacDuff should know that Mira Kersten got her embryos back. At least, I assume she did.”

  “How’d that happen?”

  He told her about the guy who stole them dropping in uninvited at Mira Kersten’s house.

  “So your partner, Ms. Sweeney, had a gun on a home invader and Ms. Kersten said to let him go.”

  “In a nutshell, yes. I can send you a computer-generated likeness of him, if you like.”

  “I would, yeah. I get the feeling that Ms. Kersten has a secret or two to hide.”

  “You’re probably too young, but John Lennon had something to say about that.”

  Emily chuckled and said, “I know what you mean. My dad used that line on me when I was growing up. ‘Everybody’s got something to hide except me and my monkey.’”

  “Was your father a cop, too?” McGill asked.

  “Worse, a lawyer and city councilman.”

  “So you know politics isn’t a pretty business, to put it mildly. This whole situation, stealing the embryos, was mostly political, I think, with a little crime thrown in for spice. Though I’m sure Ms. Crozier could have done without getting tased.”

  “Yeah. Let’s not forget that. I still want to catch this guy.”

  “I’d like to get my hands on him, too. Anyway, I just wanted to give your department a heads-up. Zapata and MacDuff might do a last interview with Ms. Kersten, but I don’t know if they’ll want to go much farther than that.”

  “They’ll go as far as I tell them to,” Lieutenant Proctor said.

  “Sure. Anyway, I hope my information helps the LAPD.”

  “Your assistance is much appreciated, sir.”

  McGill said goodbye, having the feeling that if he did open a shop in Los Angeles it would be a good thing to have Emily
Proctor as a friend. He had a feeling the young woman was going places. High places.

  He called Sweetie and asked her to forward a copy of the thief’s likeness to L.A.

  McGill was just finishing breakfast in the Residence dining room when his phone rang. The ID screen told him Ellie Booker was calling. She was the only member of the media his phone didn’t automatically divert to voice mail.

  He answered by saying, “I hope there’s some small chance you have good news, Ellie.”

  “What I have is important news. I’m going to interview Chief Justice Craig MacLaren in fifteen minutes. You and the president will want to be watching.”

  McGill’s mind took a beat to think about that. He wondered for a moment if he’d missed a day somewhere and had woken up on Sunday not Saturday. No, he hadn’t slept that long; it was Saturday. Normally, that was the quietest day of the week. The political news and analysis yakfests weren’t due for another 24 hours.

  Meaning that something big, a story that wouldn’t wait, was about to break.

  “What’s happening, Ellie?” McGill asked.

  “I can’t say a word before we go on. Just be sure you and the president are watching.”

  “On WWN?

  “No, PBS. We’ll also be streaming on WETA’s website.”

  The Washington affiliate of the Public Broadcasting System.

  “Come on, Ellie, give me a hint.”

  “Can’t. Gotta go. Watch.”

  With that, she was gone.

  McGill picked up a house phone and called the Oval Office. He got the president’s personal secretary, Edwina Byington. He said, “Edwina, unless the president is busy acting as commander in chief to stave off an invasion of the United States, I’ll need to see her in the Oval Office in the next ten minutes. Better get Chief of Staff Mindel in on this, too, if she’s in the building.”

  Unflappable as always, Edwina replied, “Yes, sir. Will you need coffee, tea and a bite to eat as well?”

  Chevy Chase, Maryland

  Senate Majority Leader Oren Worth, Republican of Utah, opened the door of his suburban Washington home and admitted Associate Supreme Court Justice Daniel Crockett. Worth’s house was one of the few in the immediate surroundings that did not have household staff. Not because Worth lacked the wherewithal — his fortune was measured in the billions — but owing to his sense of self-reliance and efficiency.