Jim McGill 04 The Last Ballot Cast, Part 2 Page 13

  DeWitt nodded and asked, “Your opinion, Doctor? A good idea?”

  “Todd is very smart. He’ll see it for the provocation it is. Nonetheless, he’ll respond.”

  “If he knows he’s being baited, why would he respond?” DeWitt asked.

  “You know that Todd lost his parents and sister to a series of tragedies?” Cheveyo asked.

  “I do,” DeWitt said.

  Cheveyo told him, “As far as I was able to learn, Chana Lochlan was the most significant relationship Todd has ever had outside of his family. He thinks, accurately, that Mr. McGill took her away from him. Not for any romantic interest of his own, but his actions led to Ms. Lochlan’s marriage to another man.”

  DeWitt picked up the ball. “That’s a strong lure, getting your old flame back and, what, whacking the guy who caused all your troubles?”

  McGill said, “Both those things and proving to the CIA they made a big mistake not hiring you when they had the chance.”

  “A three-fer, then,” De Witt agreed.

  “There’s probably one more grudge to settle,” Cheveyo said, “me. I was Todd’s first point of contact with the Agency. He probably thinks if I’d been more supportive of his efforts to sell himself to my superiors, he’d be happily toiling at Langley today.”

  “Why didn’t you push harder for him?” DeWitt asked.

  “He seemed just a touch erratic,” Cheveyo said deadpan.

  “Certainly can’t have nonconformists doing government work,” DeWitt said. “So has Mr. McGill persuaded you to offer yourself as bait, too, Doctor?”

  Cheveyo said, “He makes a good case that it would be preferable to have Damon Todd come out of hiding at our urging, when we’re prepared for him, than at some future moment when we might be looking the other way.”

  McGill told DeWitt, “We’re starting out by raising Ms. Lochlan’s and Dr. Cheveyo’s media profiles.”

  “Have they been offered federal protection? Say from the Secret Service?”

  “They have. We hope that Todd will make a move on one of them before coming for me.”

  DeWitt looked at Cheveyo. “Very charitable of you and Ms. Lochlan.”

  He said, “We’ve both spoken to SAC Crogher and Special Agent Kendry. We’re comfortable with the measures they’re taking to protect us.”

  McGill continued, “If Todd plays it cagey, we’re going to put out the biggest prize we can: Ms. Lochlan, Dr. Cheveyo and me, live, all in the same place, one night only. If it comes to that, we thought your people might like to collaborate with the Secret Service.”

  “The Secret Service has agreed to your idea?” DeWitt asked.

  “The president has talked with them; you’ll be hearing from her, too.”

  McGill was usually reluctant to invoke the power of the presidency, but there were times when you didn’t want anyone dragging his heels.

  “Well, then, that’s settled. Will I be working formally with SAC Crogher?”

  “Him or Elspeth Kendry. You’ll hear from them as details are worked out.”

  “Would you care for any input on our part?”

  “On your part, sure,” McGill said. “After you filter out any FBI ideas you don’t like.”

  DeWitt grinned. “I’m not nearly as high up the food chain as you are, Mr. McGill. Sometimes ideas are presented to me from on high. They’re not easily disregarded.”

  “Some revolutionary you are,” Sweetie told him.

  DeWitt told her in a conspiratorial tone, “I’m biding my time.”

  “Let me make things a little easier for you,” McGill said. “While Ms. Lochlan and Dr. Cheveyo will be on hand for the grand finale, should there be one, they will have only cameo appearances. At that point, I’ll be the center of hostile attention, and I’ll have lots of help. Anything goes wrong, it’s on me.”

  DeWitt turned back to Sweetie. “You’ll be there, of course, Ms. Sweeney.”

  Sweetie nodded.

  “If something unfortunate were to happen to Mr. McGill,” DeWitt asked her, “would you concede he was solely responsible?”

  “No.”

  “I’m afraid I wouldn’t either.” Turning to McGill, DeWitt said, “Sorry, sir, but I just don’t like the idea of any civilian personnel placing themselves on the front lines, especially when they’re near and dear to the president.”

  You and Celsus Crogher, both, McGill thought. Welcome to the club.

  What he said was, “So save us all the trouble. Catch these guys before I do.”

  Wishard Hospital Billing Office — Indianapolis, Indiana

  Sheryl Kimbrough thought the hospital billing lady, Joan Miller according to the nameplate on her desk, was pulling her leg.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?” Sheryl asked.

  “Your daughter’s bill has been paid in full, Ms. Kimbrough. You have a zero balance.”

  Joan had articulated each word clearly, as if speaking to someone for whom English was a second language.

  Sheryl saw no sign that she was being jerked around.

  Joan Miller didn’t look like she was about to guffaw, slap her thigh and say, “Just kidding!”

  “My insurance has a deductible and a co-pay,” Sheryl said.

  “I know,” Joan agreed.

  “Will you bear with me just a minute?”

  “Of course.”

  As Joan waited patiently, Sheryl sent a text message to Cassidy’s father, Blake, asking if he’d paid the balance of Cassidy’s hospital bill.

  The response was all but instantaneous. HOSP BILL? FOR WHAT?

  Blake’s alarm, indicated by the upper-case shout, was palpable.

  Damn, he was right, Sheryl realized. She hadn’t told him.

  He was working on his new book. On his typewriter. Listening to jazz on vinyl. Away from all forms of twenty-first century communication, except his smart phone.

  Sheryl texted back, even though she now knew he hadn’t paid the bill.

  Minor burns. (Comparatively, Sheryl thought.) Discharged today. Going home.

  ON MY WAY.

  Sheryl was stunned. Blake never interrupted his writing for anything. Except his daughter, apparently. His concern made her eyes mist over.

  “Ms. Kimbrough, are you all right?” Joan asked.

  Sheryl backhanded the emotional display from her face.

  Returned to the matter at hand.

  “Yes, I am, thank you. I was trying to see if I knew who paid the balance of my daughter’s bill.”

  “Oh.” Now, Joan looked nervous.

  “Are you all right, Ms. Miller?”

  “I thought you’d be happy,” the billing lady said.

  “You paid the bill?” Sheryl asked.

  “No, no. I couldn’t afford to do that.”

  Sheryl switched from being a concerned mother to a bulldog reporter.

  “But you know who did pay it,” she told Joan.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do. If you don’t tell me, I’ll go to your boss. If that doesn’t work, well, I’ve already talked to the hospital’s CEO once. If I have to, I’ll do it again.”

  Joan Miller was agog.

  She’d have been doing pirouettes if someone covered a big bill for her.

  “I can’t tell you,” she told Sheryl.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t know.” As Sheryl started to rise from her chair, Joan added, “Look!”

  She turned the hard copy of the billing form in front of her around. As expected, Sheryl’s insurance had covered most of the hospital charges, but a not insubstantial amount was noted as … paid by anonymous benefactor.

  What the hell?

  Sheryl settled back onto her chair. “You really don’t know who this person is?”

  Joan told her, “No. I guess I’d be upset, too, if I thought this was just a mean trick, but it isn’t. Your bill has been paid. The hospital has received the funds. It’s a true act of kindness. Isn’t that enough?”

&
nbsp; Sheryl explained, “I used to be a newspaper reporter.”

  “Oh,” Joan said, as if that explained everything.

  Who paid her charges was just the first of Sheryl’s questions. Right behind it was: Did Terry Pickford have his charges covered by the anonymous benefactor? What about the kids in the car? You added the costs of treatment for those four kids to Cassidy’s you were talking big money.

  There was a story here.

  Not that Joan was going to be any help.

  Sheryl said, “Thank you, Ms. Miller. I’m sorry I got upset. I am happy some goodhearted person has helped me out.”

  The billing lady nodded and smiled.

  Sanity had been restored to her domain.

  Sheryl went up to Cassidy’s room. She was going take her daughter home. Baby her as much as she’d allow. Tell her that her dad was coming to see her.

  If Cassidy looked like she was up to answering a question or two, Sheryl would ask if she heard any good news about the other kids with whom her life had become intertwined.

  Turned out Sheryl didn’t have to ask.

  Cassidy gave her a bigger smile than usual upon seeing her.

  Followed that with a hug that almost squeezed the breath out of her.

  “Oh, Mom, wait till you hear. Somebody’s picking up the hospital bills for all of us. No matter how high it goes.”

  That forced Sheryl to ask, “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Henderson. They’re Nancy’s mom and dad; she’s the girl whose hair was on fire. You know, that I put out with my hands. They told me. They came by to thank me for what I did, and they told me. We were all crying.”

  Sheryl embraced her daughter and added her tears to the others that had been shed.

  Still wondering who the anonymous benefactor was, and determined to find out.

  McGill Investigations, Inc.

  “I should have thought of that,” McGill told Sweetie.

  “Of course, you should have,” she agreed.

  The two of them were in McGill’s office. Elspeth and Leo occupied the reception area.

  McGill had been discussing the meeting they’d had with Byron DeWitt. On the way back to the office they’d dropped Daryl Cheveyo off at Georgetown University. His Secret Service detail was already in place. As long as they were at the campus, McGill and Sweetie caught Abbie between classes and had lunch with her.

  Never hurt to see your child, be reassured she was alive and well.

  Returning to the office and getting back to business, the two former Chicago coppers were evaluating the new fed they had to deal with. Sweetie had pointed out that DeWitt was far more socially and psychologically deft than SAC Crogher.

  The deputy director had scored a direct hit by equating his concern for McGill’s welfare with Sweetie’s. His motivation was different, but his point of view was, if not identical, at least similar. As McGill had just been forced to admit.

  “You think DeWitt will be able to capture Todd and those other two?” McGill asked.

  “Cheveyo confirmed he has a good rep, even among CIA people.”

  McGill said, “I don’t get the feeling he’s holding back on us. He’s sharing the information he has. For a fed, that’s damn rare.”

  “It is, but what does he have to lose? You’ve already come up with one idea that almost bagged Todd. Why wouldn’t DeWitt want you to keep your thinking cap on? Even if you’re directly responsible for catching Todd, everyone’s going to think you just got credit because you’re married to the president.”

  McGill laughed. “Yeah, that’s true. And if everything blows up in my face, I’ll get the blame for that, too.”

  “We’re not going to let anything blow up around either of us, are we?”

  McGill shook his head. “No. We’ve both got too much to live for.”

  Neither of them carried the idea any further, but they both felt they were working on an existential plane this time: Somebody wasn’t going to come out of this situation alive. Better it was the other guys than them.

  Sweetie had talked to her old cop contacts in Chicago and the North Shore suburbs when she went to Evanston to check out the rock that had been thrown through McGill’s living room window. There had been no record of partisan political rock throwing on any police blotter in the area or even the whole state.

  In Illinois, elections could be pitched battles, but they were fought with political wiles and bags of unmarked cash far more often than blunt objects. John F. Kennedy’s 1960 election to the presidency was often credited to the late Mayor Richard J. Daley’s vote stealing in Chicago. What usually went unremarked was that downstate Republicans had been stealing votes for Nixon as hard as they could.

  But nobody threw any rocks through any windows.

  Certainly not rocks with party icons on them.

  Given their knowledge of the local culture of political corruption, both McGill and Sweetie were convinced the elephant on the rock that shattered McGill’s window was the work of an outsider who thought he was being tricky. Say a former CIA agent who hadn’t done his homework. One of Todd’s new pals.

  Sweetie had informed the Evanston cops and Secret Service agents what they could be facing, and made sure there were no holes in the armor. She even took Carolyn out to the firing range to sharpen her skills — and Lars came with her. He hadn’t done any of his own shooting, but Sweetie saw he was leaning that way.

  Now, McGill and Sweetie pored over the binders DeWitt had given them.

  They held copies of the compilation of all the people with whom Damon Todd had more than passing contact in his life — at least those the Bureau had been able to dig up and verify thus far. The thoroughness of the FBI effort had produced a printout with the thickness of a small town phone book.

  If a name was also found in Who’s Who in America, it was highlighted and cross-referenced. The agents hadn’t stopped there, though. Social prominence was one thing. Achievements in education, science, medicine, business and agriculture were also recognized in corresponding reference publications.

  Sometimes hunting down wanted men could give a person eyestrain.

  McGill decided he and Sweetie shouldn’t have all the fun.

  He called Elspeth and Leo in, gave them reading assignments, too.

  The Beverly Hills Hotel — Beverly Hills, California

  Politicians of both major parties and more than a few minor ones had long used the affluent and politically active residents of California as a vast ATM machine. Patti Grant didn’t need anyone else’s money, but she had flown west to see if she might persuade some old friends from her movie days to donate their time and talents to her reelection campaign.

  Arriving at the grand old pink hotel on Sunset Boulevard, she quickly made her way to the presidential suite. It was impossible for her arrival not to be noticed, but with the Secret Service, Beverly Hills cops and the hotel’s staff escorting her not a single person got to ask for an autograph. Everybody she saw, many of them doing double-takes, got a brilliant smile and a friendly wave.

  Everyone thus graced was able to think Patricia Darden Grant had specifically singled out him or her for a greeting. Such was the talent of both the politically and theatrically gifted.

  Waiting for her in the presidential suite were her former talent agent, the legendary Dorie McBride, retired and now nearing eighty years old, but as feisty as ever; Tom Gorman, a television writer and producer and the winner of three Emmy Awards and two Peabody Awards, and Edward Cabot, the witty, intellectual public television host who divided his work schedule between KCET in Los Angeles and WNET in New York.

  All three of Patti’s invited guests stood as she entered the suite. Dorie stepped forward and extended her hands to the president. Patti took them and kissed her former agent on both cheeks.

  “Patricia, you look wonderful. Stick with me and you may go far.”

  “You don’t think I’m too old to land a leading role?” the president asked.

 
; “Of course not, but we’ll have to make sure you and Meryl aren’t working the same year.”

  The president laughed. Avoiding competition with La Streep was a strategy many an actress hoping for an Academy Award followed. Patti said, “I’m just glad she won’t be running against me for the presidency.”

  The president stepped forward to greet Gorman and Cabot. They were given friendly handshakes and smiles that would have left lesser men bedazzled. The principal players sat around a table with a view of the Hollywood Hills. Food and drink were provided by the suite’s butler and his staff.

  When everyone indicated all their needs were met, the staff withdrew and the Secret Service stepped out of sight.

  Cabot asked the president, “Do you ever get used to all the security presence, Madam President?”

  Patti smiled. “They’re wonderful people. Brave beyond understanding, considerate of when Jim and I need personal space and they make sure I can find a parking spot wherever I go.”

  Gorman grinned and said, “I know Dorie would never let us think of you as less than a movie star, Madam President, but I’m a fan of the way you come across on television, always have been.”

  Dorie McBride shrugged, “Maybe we can find Patricia a sitcom after she retires from politics.”

  Patti took one of Dorie’s hands in hers. “I’m afraid Jim has other plans for us.”

  “Don’t worry,” the agent said, “we’ll find a part for him.” With a sly look at Gorman she added, “Or we can let him produce.”

  Patti knew the banter was all good-natured ribbing, but she thought there was a germ of an idea worth pursuing. She said, “Who knows? Maybe Jim would be interested in sharing his experiences as the president’s henchman.”

  “On PBS,” Cabot said, “working with Ken Burns.”

  “Or HBO working with me,” Gorman said.

  “I could work a deal either way,” Dorie said.

  Patti took a sip of orange juice.

  “Before we get ahead of ourselves,” she said, “I’d like to discuss a plan to keep both Mr. McGill and me in the White House for another four years. I know that all of you have wonderful sources of information, but I don’t think it’s leaked yet that I’m not going to do any TV commercials for my campaign.”