The Good Guy with a Gun (Jim McGill series Book 6) Read online

  McGill’s first cup of coffee and Elspeth’s OJ had just been served when McGill’s phone sounded. Sweetie was outside and wanted to talk with McGill. He spoke to a uniformed Secret Service officer and a visitor’s pass for Sweetie was issued. McGill asked if Sweetie would like some breakfast. He put in an order for Raisin Bran and skim milk for her.

  “You and Ms. Sweeney have been close for a long time,” Elspeth said.

  McGill nodded. “You’ve heard about the time she took a bullet for me?”

  “Yes. That meant a lot to everyone in the Secret Service.”

  “To me, my kids and my ex, too.”

  “Ms. Sweeney also comforted Holly G. when she lost Mr. Grant.”

  “Yes, she did. Some people transcend friendship; they become family.”

  “So you have no problem with Ms. Sweeney working for Roger Michaelson?”

  For a moment, McGill wondered how Elspeth knew that. Then he realized the Secret Service was keeping a close eye on Michaelson. That was just as it should be. He’d been implicated as a possible participant in a conspiracy to assassinate the president.

  The fact that there was no evidence beyond Joan Renshaw’s word — that and the man was a former U.S. senator — were the only reasons Michaelson wasn’t locked up right now.

  McGill sighed and shook his head. “I heard you were raised Catholic, Elspeth. Is that right?”

  “My dad’s Catholic; my mother’s Bahá’í. I was raised in Beirut and attended Catholic schools. Christians were tolerated to a degree because of the old French colonial influence. But Bahá’ís? Unh-uh. They’ve been persecuted in Iran for a long time, and the Iranians have big-time influence in Lebanon. Mom kept a really low profile there.”

  “So you have more than one religious influence. Do you believe in redemption?”

  Elspeth grinned. “Selectively.”

  “Yeah, that’s my problem, too. I’ve always seen Michaelson as an enemy because of his hostility to the president. Beyond that, it’s almost as if I need a certain number of bad guys in my life to affirm that I’m one of the good guys. If the bad guys start redeeming themselves, then my position becomes less clear.”

  “Moral relativism, I can understand that. So how do you feel about Ms. Sweeney working for Michaelson?”

  “I have to give her the benefit of the doubt. She’s much closer to godliness than I am.”

  “Closer than me, too. But do you think Michaelson was involved in the plan to kill the president?”

  “As much as I hate to admit it, no,” McGill said.

  Elspeth thought about that a moment, then said, “Here comes Ms. Sweeney now.”

  Both McGill and Elspeth rose to greet her.

  Sweetie looked around and said, “Place doesn’t do much business, does it?”

  “Not before it officially opens,” McGill said. “Have a seat.”

  He and Sweetie sat. Elspeth remained on her feet.

  “I can take another table, if you like,” she said.

  McGill asked, “Margaret?”

  “No need on my account.” Sweetie gestured to a chair and Elspeth sat.

  “How’s your case going?” McGill asked.

  “I’m looking for connections between Joan Renshaw and Philip Brock. I haven’t come up with any obvious ones yet. Putnam’s helping me look for one off the beaten path. Later this morning, I’m going to try to talk with a woman named Lisa Stone.”

  Sweetie explained that she was a schooldays friend of Renshaw and might provide an innocent explanation of the photograph of Michaelson with Renshaw. Her interest piqued, Elspeth leaned forward and said, “I’d be interested in hearing about that.”

  The arrival of two Navy mess specialists with the breakfast orders delayed a reply. McGill took a topping-off of his coffee and a bite of his hot cakes. He told the specialists, “Everything’s great. My compliments to the guys in the kitchen. We’ll let you know if we need anything else.”

  The specialists knew how to take a hint and departed. Sweetie shared Michaelson’s explanation of how he came to be in a picture with Renshaw.

  Sweetie said, “I’ll ask Ms. Stone if she remembers her bet with Joan Renshaw and if she paid off by washing Renshaw’s car. That and ask if she knows who took the picture of Renshaw with Michaelson.”

  Both McGill and Elspeth liked that. Elspeth asked, “Would you mind if I followed up on your call, Ms. Sweeney? Talk to Ms. Stone for myself.”

  Sweetie shrugged. “Fine by me, but give me first crack.”

  “Of course.”

  “You have any other angles to work?” McGill asked.

  “There is one, but I need to check with Galia Mindel about it. You know if she’s in yet, Jim?”

  “No idea, but she usually gets to work early.”

  “I can check,” Elspeth said. She spoke into a microphone at her wrist, frowned, but apparently got a response. She told McGill, “Static in my communications rig. I think you might have damaged it when we were sparring.”

  Sweetie gave McGill a look. He shrugged.

  Elspeth continued, “Anyway, the chief of staff is in her office, Ms. Sweeney. I can have an officer escort you after you finish your breakfast.”

  “Thanks.”

  The three of them set to work on their food. Halfway through his hot cakes, McGill asked Sweetie, “You still feeling good about your client?”

  “Good enough to keep going. Keeping my eyes and mind open. We’ll see what happens.”

  Sweetie didn’t need the Secret Service officer for an escort. McGill took her to Galia’s office, saying he needed to pick up Welborn Yates who worked nearby. Elspeth trailed a step behind, wondering what business Margaret Sweeney might have with Galia Mindel.

  She’d have to see if she could find out, discreetly.

  Knowing everything that went on in the White House was part of her job.

  The chief of staff met Sweeney in the doorway to her office, nodded to McGill and closed the door behind herself and her guest. McGill saw the curiosity in Elspeth’s eyes. It mirrored his own.

  “Don’t ask me,” he told Elspeth. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

  The two of them headed for Welborn’s office. They’d only just arrived when McGill’s phone sounded again. He answered and heard Celsus Crogher’s voice.

  “You should get over to Zara Gilford’s condo fast. There are two guys here from the Department of Defense. They have an order to seize Jordan Gilford’s laptop computer and any hard copy files related to the work he was doing for the DOD. I checked and they’re legit, but …”

  “But what?” McGill asked.

  “I don’t like these guys. Authorized or not, they’re wrong.”

  “I’m on my way,” McGill said.

  He told Welborn and Elspeth, who’d been listening in to his half of the conversation, “Let’s go, I’m going to need my own feds on this case.”

  Florida Avenue NW — Washington, DC

  Putnam Shady knew he was wily enough to go up against the slickest operators in town and do no worse than a draw. Win more often than not. But the decision facing him, one over which he was agonizing, had him stumped.

  Should he send Maxi to school that morning?

  As far as she was concerned, the question didn’t exist. She was going. Having lost her parents and having been snatched from Baltimore and the only group of friends she’d know in her short life, she’d reached out to the kids at her new school, and for the most part had the good fortune of having her overtures for companionship reciprocated.

  She was determined not to be isolated again.

  Putnam was equally insistent that she not die before she reached an age counted in double digits, maybe closing in on triple digits. He wanted to explain his feelings to Maxi, but he couldn’t think of a way to do so that wouldn’t terrify her. How did good parents handle such situations, he asked himself.

  That was a big part of the problem. He had no point of reference for being a father. His own had de
camped for parts unknown when Putnam was young, and for good measure had taken Mom and little Lawton with him. Emory Jenkins, the adult male to whom his upbringing had been entrusted, was a good man, but he’d taken pains to tell Putnam that he wasn’t his father.

  Emory, along with his wife, Sissy, had made sure Putnam was sheltered, fed, clothed and educated, but Emory had always told Putnam that one day his Mama and Daddy would come back for him. That was exactly what Putnam wanted to hear, of course. By the time, Putnam reached his teens, though, credulity faded. For a brief period, he began to think maybe the Jenkinses would bail out on him, too. By the time he was a junior in high school and had started looking at colleges he might want to attend, he decided he no longer gave a damn. He could take care of himself.

  What he’d never learned, though, was how to take care of someone else.

  Margaret certainly could take care of herself and more.

  She seemed to be finding her footing as a mom, too. Not rushing it. Positioning herself close to Maxi so the kid could take comfort from Margaret’s large, looming presence, but letting Maxi close the final few feet between them if she needed a hug or a word of reassurance.

  Before Margaret had left that morning to work her case, she’d told Putnam to have faith in himself. He’d make the right choice. Ha! If faith were calisthenics, he wouldn’t be able to do the first push-up.

  He tried to tell himself that Maxi went to a good school; that was undeniable. It was private, expensive and … it fed into high schools just like Winstead. Not that elementary schools were so safe these days. No target was too young for lunatics.

  With no decision in sight, Putnam sought refuge in distraction.

  Margaret had asked him to see if he could find a point of connection between Joan Renshaw and Philip Brock. Looking at the two people generically, from a jaded lobbyist’s point of view, Renshaw was a checkbook and Brock was a pol who always needed campaign checks. There were clubs where such people met, oh so many in Washington.

  Putnam knew every last one in town, was able to summon phone numbers from memory. He settled into the task, hoping Maxi might take ten years to get dressed and brush her teeth. He started calling in alphabetical order.

  Still early, he got the morning maitre d’s and bartenders who were setting up their wares for the day. Well, some of the bartenders were also serving eye-openers to early drinkers. Washington had more than its share of high-functioning alcoholics. Ones who kept enough breath mints on hand to get them through the day.

  The letters A and B in Putnam’s mental address book returned no results worthy of consideration, but when he called The Constellation Club, he got the senior bartender, Henry Tillman, who was filling in for the morning man.

  Putnam, from his first day as a lobbyist in Washington, had treated every person he met in a service job with respect, good humor and big tips. By now, he’d banked a surplus of good will equal in size to the national debt. Henry Tillman was no exception.

  “What can I do for you Mr. Shady?”

  “I was just wondering, Henry, whether you’ve ever seen Representative Philip Brock in your bar with a woman named Joan Renshaw.” Putnam described Renshaw’s appearance.

  Henry said, “No, sir, I can’t say that I have. Congressman Brock, he must meet his lady friends somewhere else. The last several times I recall seeing him here he was with …”

  Putnam heard the pause and jumped on it, embellishing his reason for the call. “With whom, Henry? I ask because I’m helping James J. McGill with an inquiry.”

  Sort of true, Putnam rationalized. He was really helping Margaret, but if she succeeded, some of the credit would reflect on McGill Investigations, Inc. Margaret had rehabbed Putnam’s character over the years, but at the heart of him there was still a rascal alive and well.

  “Well, sir, Representative Brock was with poor Senator Howard Hurlbert. The two of them had a number of long, quiet conversations right before the senator got himself shot dead. After that happened, I don’t believe the congressman has ever been back to our club.”

  Putnam thought about what that might mean. There was the obvious implication, of course. Brock knew something about Hurlbert’s death that he wasn’t sharing with anyone.

  Henry seemed to have a similar idea. “I thought the police were supposed to talk with people who were the last to see someone alive.”

  “Generally, they do,” Putnam said, “but they have to know who those people are. Have you said anything to the cops?”

  “No, sir. It’s not my place.”

  But Henry had shared the information with him. Putnam didn’t know if Henry thought that was simply innocent conversation with a valued friend or if he’d made the calculation to let Putnam go to the police first and see how things worked out. He didn’t press the bartender on the matter.

  “Thanks for your time, Henry.”

  He’d no sooner hung up than Maxi appeared: skin glowing, eyes sparkling, smile gleaming, dressed for school and ready to go. How could he ever take the chance of losing her?

  “I’m ready,” she said.

  Before Putnam could reply his home phone rang. The caller ID read FBI. What the hell?

  The president had said she’d told those bastards to butt out.

  Putnam answered by saying, “Whatever the hell you want, I don’t have time. I’m taking my girl to school.”

  Maxi gave him her best smile and they walked out the door hand in hand.

  With Putnam’s heart beating so hard and fast he was sure it would explode.

  Third Street, NW — Washington, DC

  The two guys from the DOD were gone by the time McGill, Elspeth and Welborn arrived at Zara Gilford’s high-tech security building. Before going up to Zara’s condo, McGill stopped to talk with Karl Vasek, the building’s security director. He was not in the best of moods.

  He took the measure of Elspeth and Welborn before he decided he could be blunt enough to tell McGill, “These two dicks wanted me to let them up to Ms. Gilford’s unit before I called to let her know they’d be coming. They wanted me to let them ambush her.”

  “And you told them?” McGill asked.

  “I said no with emphasis.”

  “Loudly?” Elspeth asked.

  “The one I shoved let out a good yelp.”

  McGill said, “They didn’t try to overwhelm you?”

  “The idea occurred to them, I could see that, but they thought better of it. They said if I didn’t let them up, they’d call in reinforcements, including lawyers and military officers with federal agent status and have me arrested.”

  “You did the right thing,” McGill said, “allowing them to enter.”

  “I called first and made sure I spoke to SAC Crogher. He said let them in, too. I still wasn’t happy, but I felt better when they came back down. They told me I’d better erase any video I had of them being in the building.”

  Welborn said, “And you replied?”

  “Bite me.” Vasek laughed. “Then I did just what they said.”

  “Because?” McGill asked.

  “I’ll let SAC Crogher or Ms. Gilford tell you that.”

  Zara Gilford was sitting at the apartment’s wet-bar when McGill, Elspeth and Welborn entered. She didn’t look upset. She had a drink in her hand and was smiling. Even Celsus seemed in a good humor.

  “Okay, what’s the joke?” McGill asked.

  “The two nimrods who were here?” Celsus said. “They think they got away clean because Karl deleted his video of them in the lobby.”

  Zara picked up the thread. “What they don’t know is every unit in the building has its own video cameras. Normally, people leave them on when they go out for the day or away on vacation. If they have children, they might use their system to watch their nannies, I suppose. But once Karl called to let us know what was happening, I turned the system on.”

  “And I copied the video to a Secret Service server,” Celsus said. He looked at Elspeth, “After getting permission, of c
ourse.”

  McGill said, “That’s good, but I was hoping I might get to look at Mr. Gilford’s computer and files.”

  “Oh, you couldn’t do that,” Zara said.

  “Why not?”

  “Well, Jordan’s work was classified, of course. Top secret. I never got to see any of it.”

  “You don’t have that clearance, do you?” Celsus asked McGill with a touch of glee.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I do,” Welborn said. He stepped forward and asked Zara. “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am. Would you know if Mr. Gilford was in the habit of backing up his work?”

  “Oh, my, yes. Jordan worked very hard and was very careful not to lose what he’d done. I know he put it somewhere, but I didn’t ask where.”

  Elspeth took a thumb drive out of a pocket. “Did you ever see one of these around, Ms. Gilford?”

  She brightened. “Yes … but not for some time, now that I think of it.”

  “Maybe at your house,” McGill suggested.

  “Yes, that’s it, of course.”

  Celsus leaned in and whispered to McGill, “Those two bastards might be ransacking her home right now.”

  McGill agreed. “Take Welborn. If they’re there and they don’t have a search warrant, kick them out. If they won’t take no for an answer, if they threaten to bring in their top people, hold your ground, call Galia Mindel and tell her I said we need the president’s involvement.”

  Celsus smiled.

  “What?” McGill asked.

  “I’m glad I’m on your side this time.”

  “Yeah,” McGill said, still finding the irony a bit unsettling.

  Celsus told Zara another former Secret Service agent would arrive shortly to look after her. Then he and Welborn left. Zara finished her drink and stepped over to McGill.

  “I don’t usually tipple this early, but I think those two brutes who came here are proof Jordan had upset someone very powerful.”

  “So it seems. Zara, did Jordan have any colleagues or protégés he might have taken into his confidence?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know of any. He was very tight-lipped about his work, and I knew better than to pry.”