The Good Guy with a Gun (Jim McGill series Book 6) Page 11

  “You know the only good thing to come out of all this?” Michaelson asked.

  Sweetie shook her head.

  “I don’t have to worry about becoming a victim of street crime these days, what with all the FBI agents watching me.”

  Sweetie told him, “You can bet the Secret Service is doing the same.”

  Chapter 7

  McGill’s Hideaway — The White House

  Captain Welborn Yates, United States Air Force, Office of Special Investigations, was admitted into James J. McGill’s private retreat within the Residence by Blessing, the head butler of the White House. McGill looked over his shoulder from the long leather sofa placed in front of the room’s fireplace and waved to Welborn. The captain waved back.

  He still had to fight the impulse to salute McGill.

  The two of them had worked as mentor and protégé since the early days of the president’s first term of office. Welborn had learned as much, and probably more, about being an investigator from McGill and Margaret Sweeney as he had at Glynco — the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center.

  The other side of the coin was that Welborn, as a sworn federal agent and a military officer, could provide a legitimate front for the times when McGill, a civilian, needed to poke his nose into governmental affairs.

  Beyond the professional dimension of their relationship, the two men had become friends. Welborn had gone to McGill for help after he’d heard a rumor that the president intended to promote him to the rank of major. Welborn and Celsus Crogher had done a bit of good work in helping to foil the recent conspiracy to assassinate the president. He hadn’t been looking for McGill’s help to lock in the promotion.

  He’d told McGill he wanted to remain a captain.

  “Something wrong with being rewarded for doing a great job?” McGill had asked.

  Welborn hemmed and hawed a bit before confessing, “I don’t want to be seen as another Alexander Haig. For one thing, I don’t have his combat experience. He has to be respected for that, but —”

  McGill held up a hand. He knew the story. “After Al Haig went to work for Richard Nixon in the White House, he rose from being a colonel to a four star general in four years. The only other guy who had ever done that was Dwight Eisenhower.”

  “Exactly,” Welborn said.

  “I don’t think you need to worry about having stars on your shoulders, Welborn.”

  “I’d still feel more comfortable continuing to serve at my present rank.”

  “All right,” McGill said. “I’ll have a word with the president.”

  And that was that. Welborn remained a captain.

  He got an earful from his wife, Kira, though, after revealing what he’d done.

  She thought any chance for advancement was to be seized with both hands.

  Welborn had factored that into his decision. Still felt he’d done the right thing.

  “May I bring you a drink, sir?” Blessing asked Welborn.

  The captain looked at McGill. He held up a bottle with a label that said State Street Pilsner. The fine print, that Welborn was able to discern with his former fighter pilot’s eyesight, told him the brew originated in Geneva, Illinois. Close to Mr. McGill’s hometown of Chicago, Welborn guessed.

  Always good to show solidarity with the people who supported you.

  “I’ll have one of those, please,” he said to Blessing.

  “Yes, sir. Right away.”

  Welborn joined McGill on the sofa, leaving an appropriate distance. Blessing returned with a chilled bottle, a glass and a coaster. “Shall I pour for you, sir.”

  Welborn took the bottle and said, “Thanks, but I’ll manage.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  McGill told Blessing they’d call if they needed anything else.

  Once the butler had left, McGill extended his bottle. Welborn tapped it with his and they both drank, not bothering about glasses. Then McGill asked, “Other than your duty weapon, do you own any firearms?”

  “I do,” Welborn said. “A Remington pump-action shotgun for bird hunting, a Winchester lever-action 30-30 hog-killer and a LeMat ‘Grapeshot’ revolver.”

  McGill raised an eyebrow. “Never heard of that last one.”

  “It’s a nine-shot weapon that was the sidearm of Confederate Army officers.”

  “So it’s a collector’s piece.”

  “Yes, it is. Fewer than three thousand were made, and mine is a family heirloom. It’s also fully functional. It’s in a safe at my country home in Virginia. When Kira, the girls and I are in residence there, I keep it in my nightstand drawer.”

  “You’ve heard about the killing at the Winstead School this morning?”

  “Yes.” Welborn sighed and took a hit of his beer. “Kira has a friend with a son on the football team there.”

  McGill braced himself for bad news.

  It came, but not in the way he expected.

  Welborn told him, “Jack was one of the smart ones. He ran and wasn’t so much as nicked by the gunfire, but he was grievously wounded all the same.”

  “Survivor’s guilt?” McGill asked.

  “More like survivor’s agony.”

  Welborn knew all about that. He’d been the sole survivor when a car thief running a red light in a stolen vehicle killed three of his friends in the car in which they’d all been riding. Welborn had found physical recovery, peace of mind and even an existential measure of justice but the process had taken years.

  He told McGill, “When Jack’s parents picked him up this morning he was sobbing so hard he was shaking. Kept on at home until he wore himself out and fell asleep. Before that, he told his mother and father that he and all the other guys who had saved themselves were cowards. They’d done a shameful thing. They should have charged Abel Mays, too. He couldn’t have killed them all, and the one who’d lived could have torn the guy apart with their bare hands.”

  McGill could understand that impulse.

  But what he said was, “The parents, all of them, have been told to keep a close watch on their boys, right?”

  “Kira said the counselors who came to the school advised just that. The administration is reaching out to the student body at large. The faculty and staff, too.”

  “The families have to secure their own firearms, if they have any,” McGill said.

  Welborn nodded. “I passed that word along to Kira. She didn’t understand the point at first. She thought I meant the boys might try to take vengeance on some innocent third party.”

  “That’s a possibility, too, but it’s not what we’re talking about.”

  Suicide was what they had in mind. A teenager who considered himself a coward, someone who should have been willing to risk his life the way his fallen teammates had, might take an alternative way of rejoining them. Raising the body count even higher.

  “Kira passed the phone to me and I raised the point to Jack’s dad. Then I went to my office and called the Winstead headmaster. Said I was calling from the White House to get through to the man. That was true, though I was acting on my own. I passed the word about gun safety along. As shaken up as the headmaster was, he couldn’t honestly remember if that had been mentioned but he said he’d get the word out immediately.”

  Having covered the preliminaries, McGill told Welborn about the case Zara Gilford had brought to him and how it had evolved.

  “I could use your help acting as an intermediary between the Pentagon and me. Smooth out ruffled feathers, if need be,” McGill said.

  Welborn took a long pull on his bottle.

  “Will there be a role in the actual investigation for me? I’d like to help.”

  McGill nodded and said, “Sure.”

  He extended his hand and Welborn shook it, sealing the deal.

  McGill was impressed that Welborn hadn’t thought to say he’d need the president’s approval first. McGill didn’t correct that oversight. He’d make sure to get Patti’s approval.

  The President’s Private Dining Room �
� The White House

  There was precious little the chefs in the White House kitchen couldn’t provide to the president and McGill on a moment’s notice. Despite having a world of culinary choices, Patti went with a simple smoked trout salad and a glass of California Chardonnay. McGill made do with a corned beef on rye sandwich and a Green Line Pale Ale. It was a day to obey the imperative to sustain oneself not one for feasting.

  The First Couple limited themselves to a brief recitation of grace and went without speaking as they nibbled at their spare meals. Then Patti caught McGill’s eye. He saw a look there unlike any he’d seen from her. He thought it held an element of rage and perhaps a touch of madness. The combination was disturbing. Patti had always been the most rational —

  “Do you want to know a secret?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure,” McGill said. “Will it keep me up nights?”

  “It might.”

  “Will you be up, too, right alongside me?”

  She nodded.

  “Okay, then.”

  “For a long time, presidents have been described as the most powerful men — and now woman — in the world. Truth is, we do have enormous and powerful resources at our disposal: the military, the intelligence agencies, a national police agency in the FBI.”

  “Yeah?” McGill said.

  “If a president were able to direct even a small portion of that combined might against —”

  McGill shook his head. “Don’t even let the words cross your lips.”

  “All right, how’s this? For all the power a president possesses, she’s also tied down like Gulliver by the Lilliputians. In matters of domestic policy, laws, rules and precedents constrain all but your smallest, most inconsequential movements. There are times, as president, you simply want to break free of all those bonds and seize control, do what you know is right. I doubt if there’s been a president in this country’s history who hasn’t felt that way.”

  McGill pushed his chair back six inches, picked up his glass of ale and took a drink.

  “Tell me something,” he said. “Would you cast yourself as the first president in American history to attempt a coup? Circle tanks around the White House. Put Congress in leg irons.”

  The anger and irrationality fell from Patti’s eyes.

  “Well, if you’re going to put it that way,” she said.

  McGill told her, “The reason neither you nor any other president has gone around the bend and tried to become king is you’ve all known that even making the attempt would ruin our grand experiment with democracy. How would the people ever be able to trust any candidate for president ever again?”

  Patti gave her husband a weak smile. “You’re pretty smart for a guy who went to a small religious college in the Midwest.”

  McGill laughed. “You must be thinking of Notre Dame. DePaul has the largest enrollment of any Catholic university in the country. We have our share of first-class scholars, too, some of them quite surprising.”

  “You won’t rat me out? Me and my delusions of grandeur.”

  “What happens between us stays between us.”

  Patti leaned over, McGill leaned in and she kissed him.

  “Derivative but appreciated,” she said.

  “May I ask for a favor or two?” McGill said.

  “Anything within my less than absolute powers.”

  “I need help from Welborn.”

  “That I can manage. He’s yours as long as you need him. What else?”

  “The late Jordan Gilford was known as a champion whistle-blower. He was killed not long after he hired on with the Inspector General’s Office at the Pentagon. The detective in me thinks he must have made someone in the DOD or on one of the armed services committees nervous. If my investigation should lead in any of those directions —”

  “Talk to Galia. Then, if necessary, come to me. Is that all?”

  “For now. I’m sure something else will come up.”

  Patti stood, extended a hand to McGill. “Will you take me to bed and hold me close until we’re sure I’m ready to lead the free world again?”

  “My pleasure. You’ll let me decide just how long that takes?”

  “It might be all night. The idea of Congress in leg irons truly captivates me.”

  Chapter 8

  Old Ebbit Grill — Washington, DC, Sunday, March 9, 2014

  Sunday brunch at the restaurant a stone’s throw from the White House didn’t begin for the public until 8: 30 a.m. After receiving a call from the White House, a private party consisting of McGill, Ellie Booker and Deke Ky was admitted at seven o’clock. The manager, the chef and two wait staffers arrived a half-hour earlier to prepare for their VIP guests.

  Deke checked out the premises, let the restaurant swipe McGill’s business credit card and instructed the staff to do their jobs and then give their guests plenty of room. If the guests required further attention after receiving their meals, Deke would summon a staffer. With McGill’s approval, Deke allowed the request for McGill’s autograph to be provided to all present. Ellie Booker also yielded her signature.

  An entreaty for a photo was denied.

  Ellie ordered the Buttermilk Pancakes, bacon side and large orange juice.

  McGill, hungry that morning, chose the Steak and Eggs with coffee.

  Service was swift, the food hot and tasty. Then McGill got down to business.

  He told Ellie, “I’d like to know if you and WWN would care to have first crack at an hour-long interview with me. It would have to be recorded and aired within the next five days.”

  The producer stared at McGill as she chewed on her pancakes.

  She swallowed, sipped some orange juice and replied, “Anything in particular you’d like to discuss? I haven’t heard that you’ve written a book. You have something else you want to push?”

  “Take one guess,” McGill said.

  “Yesterday’s shooting.”

  He nodded.

  “Is this something you’re fronting for the Grant administration?” she asked.

  “It’s something the administration knows about and approves, but I got the ball rolling on my own, before I spoke with the president.”

  All true, McGill thought. He went to see Father de Loyola before he talked with Patti. The idea for him to do the interview was Patti’s, but Ellie Booker needn’t know that. It was enough that she understood his action had a presidential stamp of approval.

  The longer he lived in the White House, the more devious he was becoming.

  Still, a glint of skepticism registered in Ellie’s eyes.

  She wanted to pin down the president for whatever was about to happen.

  McGill saw her doubt and said, “You don’t want to do this, I’ll find someone else. Be a little embarrassing for me since you were my first choice, but I’m sure one of the other networks will be interested.”

  “How do you know I’ll even go to WWN?” she asked. “I’m an independent producer.”

  “You have a first-look agreement with Hugh Collier. You really think he’s going to turn down a chance to air an interview with me? From what I understand, I’m considered a big get for TV people.”

  “You are,” Ellie conceded. The president’s henchman often polled higher than his wife in favorability. Of course, that was easy to do when you didn’t have to take the lead on political issues. That and half the male members of Congress found it wise to soft-pedal any criticism of McGill, fearing he might beat the crap out of them if they got on his bad side.

  That was a lingering effect of the “basketball game” McGill had played with then-Senator Roger Michaelson. That little sporting event had landed Michaelson in the hospital and had taken on the air of a cautionary myth.

  Right now, McGill and Ellie were sparring about who would set the parameters for her interview with him. They both knew neither she nor Hugh Collier would forgo the opportunity McGill was offering them. Having him speak candidly, as he always did, on the shooting at the Winstead Scho
ol, the ratings would absolutely …

  Kill. Unfortunate characterization, but true nonetheless.

  The other thing that was indisputable was McGill would get his way on pretty much any conditions he set for the interview. Ellie could try to win a point or two, but she knew she was fighting out of her weight class.

  But that didn’t mean she couldn’t land a jab or two.

  She asked “Are you going to raise the points you made in your ‘Cop’s-Eye View’ paper, the one you wrote when you were on the CPD and taking night classes at DePaul?”

  That sat McGill back on his seat.

  Made him realize how closely his life had been examined.

  By Ellie anyway.

  She’d caught him off guard. But he rolled with the blow. He’d made an unspoken bargain with the rest of the country when Patti had been elected. Most of his life would become public fodder, the extent to which he was now reminded.

  But the idea that someone would take the time to examine his schoolwork?

  How far back did the snooping go? To his gold-star papers in parochial school?

  He took a sip of coffee and got back to the moment at hand.

  “The points I raised in that paper will come up. Are you interested, Ms. Booker?”

  “One more thing. Why me?”

  “We’ve worked together before and it turned out well.”

  A newly arrived lobbyist in Washington, Earnest Deveraux, had tried to smear McGill’s reputation by leaving a bagful of dubious cash out back of his office on P Street. With Ellie’s help, McGill had turned that around. Deveraux was the guy who wound up with egg on his face, and Ellie was there with a video camera to see it happen.

  That Deveraux was the cousin of the late Bobby Beckley, the former hatchet-man of the late Senator Howard Hurlbert, only made the story more titillating. Ellie got to renegotiate her contract with WWN upward on the strength of it.

  Even so, she felt there was something more underlying McGill’s request.

  But she saw that if she probed further he’d walk away, go somewhere else.