Jim McGill 03 The K Street Killer Page 2

  Want, he intended to ask.

  But he never got the chance.

  He was shot dead on the K Street sidewalk.

  By the dawn’s early light of a perfect summer day, homicide detective Marvin Meeker of the Metro Police Department regarded the crime scene and rendered his expert opinion.

  “Looks like Porky Pig.”

  His partner, Big Mike Walker, a.k.a. Beemer, shook his head.

  “Unh-uh, Porky wears a bow tie.”

  “Does not,” Meeker said.

  “Does so,” Beemer insisted.

  The detectives turned to the two uniformed cops, the crime scene technician and the M.E. for arbitration. None of them wanted to get involved.

  Beemer said, “If he don’t wear a tie, he wears a jacket or somethin’.”

  Meeker asked, “You sure?”

  “‘Course I’m sure. Them Disney critters might walk around with their asses hangin’ out but they always got something on.”

  The crime scene tech spoke up. “Disney doesn’t do Porky.”

  Both detectives looked at her.

  She said, “The brothers do him.”

  “What brothers?” Meeker asked.

  “Warner Brothers.”

  Both detectives chuckled. Beemer said, “It was any other brothers, ol’ Porky’d be a plate of ribs.”

  Both detectives, the crime scene tech, the uniforms and even the M.E. laughed.

  That was enough to make the good-looking African-American woman down on one knee beside the body of the victim look up.

  “The minstrel show about over?” she asked the detectives. “You two ready to do some police work?”

  The woman stood up. Six-one in her stocking feet, her shoes added another couple of inches. She looked down on both Meeker and Beemer. She outranked them, too.

  “Sure, Lou,” Meeker said.

  Beemer nodded.

  Homicide Lieutenant Rockelle Bullard said, “Good. Now that we remember we’re all law enforcement professionals, what do you think we have here?”

  Meeker was about to answer when a car pulled to a stop at the curb. Nice ride, too. A Porsche Boxster all shiny and black. A guy in a suit got out and looked at the body. Gawkers weren’t unfamiliar at crime scenes but not many had the nerve to stare at a dead body with a bunch of cops standing right there wondering what his interest might be.

  One of the uniforms was about to get the guy’s story when Rockelle held up a hand. “Tell the gentleman I’ll be right with him.” She turned back to her detectives. “What do we have here?”

  “Dead white man,” said Meeker.

  “Shot in the chest,” added Beemer.

  “Right here on K Street.”

  “Third one the last three weeks.”

  “Every one of ‘em got a little pig pin stuck on his lapel and—”

  All three homicide cops saw the gawker’s head snap back when he heard mention of the pig. Now Meeker and Beemer wanted to go talk to him, too. But Rockelle hadn’t released them yet.

  “Anything else in common?” she asked.

  “All of ‘em wearin’ Gucci ‘n’ Armani,” Meeker said.

  “Just like this one,” Beemer said.

  Looking over at the gawker, all three detectives thought: Just like that one.

  Turning back to the victim, Meeker said, “Means he’s likely some big shot lobbyist, too.”

  Rockelle flipped open the bloodstained billfold she’d taken off the body, paged through it with a gloved finger, stopped when she saw a family photo. The victim, a woman and two young children. She looked over at the guy in the suit.

  “You care to step over here, sir?”

  The gawker approached the cops and all of them saw tears forming in his eyes.

  “You know this gentleman, sir?” Rockelle inclined her head at the body.

  “I do. His name’s Mark Benjamin.”

  Meeker asked, “That pig pin, it means something to you?”

  “Mark wouldn’t wear it.”

  Rockelle Bullard asked, “Why not?”

  “He was Jewish. Used to keep kosher. Then he became a vegan.”

  Beemer said, “Maybe he just liked the cartoons.”

  The guy smiled; it only made him look sadder.

  “He wasn’t big on cartoons.”

  “Did you know Mr. Benjamin well?” Rockelle asked.

  “In a certain way. We were both looking to improve ourselves; we played squash against one another. Mark is … was in better shape than me, but I had a better feel for the game. I usually beat him, and he’d lie on the court after a game, just about like he is now, and ask God where was the justice.”

  Meeker said, “So you recognized the man from your car?”

  “Yes.”

  He and Beemer both looked dubious.

  Rockelle asked, “What’s your name, sir?”

  “Putnam Shady.”

  “Is there anyone who can confirm where you’ve been the past several hours.”

  “Yes. Margaret Sweeney.”

  Now, Rockelle reacted in surprise, recognizing the name. “Would that be—”

  “Yes, that Margaret Sweeney. The one who works with James J. McGill.”

  Meeker asked, just to be sure, “You know the president’s henchman?”

  “We’ve never met,” Putnam said, “but I’ve heard a lot about him.”

  Beemer returned to an earlier subject. “You think that pin looks like Porky Pig?”

  Putnam said, “Only at a glance. If I remember right, Porky wears a bow tie. A jacket and white gloves, too.”

  Georgetown University

  Jim McGill drove his ex-wife’s Honda minivan onto the summer green, August hot campus of the Society of Jesus’ outpost of learning in Washington, D.C. Close behind the minivan came McGill’s armored, turbocharged Chevy, Leo Levy behind the wheel and Secret Service Special Agent Deke Ky riding shotgun.

  Seated beside McGill in the minivan was his elder daughter, Abbie, who was trying hard to contain her anxiety as she took in the sights of the school where she would spend the next four years.

  Seated behind McGill were his ex-wife, Carolyn, who was almost as nervous as Abbie, their son, Kenny, who was uncharacteristically quiet and their younger daughter, Caitie, who, completely in character, was measuring whether Georgetown lived up to her standards.

  Glances in the rearview mirror showed McGill that Caitie, neck craning, approved of the soaring Gothic grandeur of Healy Hall but thought the pedestrian mid-rise right angles of Darnall Hall were no small comedown.

  Darnall was a freshman residence hall. It also was the site of the student health center, campus counseling and psychiatric services and a restaurant called the Epicurean. A security analysis done by McGill, the Secret Service and the three Evanston PD cops — on detached duty — who would provide daily security for Abbie unanimously decided that Darnall was the best place on campus for Abbie.

  If its architectural shortcomings made Caitie looked down her nose at it, tough.

  McGill parked out front. They’d arrived two hours before the time any other freshman would be allowed to move in; getting Abbie situated wouldn’t take long.

  “You ready, honey?” McGill asked his daughter.

  She bobbed her head.

  The family exited the minivan. Each of them would carry a bundle of necessities that would see Abbie through her first semester of college. The three younger McGills shouldered the burdens their father pulled out of the back of the minivan for them and trooped off to the front entrance of Darnall where one of the university’s Residence Life staffers held the door open.

  Carolyn stopped at her ex-husband’s side, and the two of them watched their children step inside the building. Carolyn’s husband, Lars Enquist, had said his goodbye at the hotel. The president didn’t want to turn a family moment into a circus; Patricia Darden Grant just couldn’t go anywhere these days without a retinue of heavily armed men. So she had wished Abbie much success the night before.
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  With a catch in her voice, Carolyn said, “They’re just so damn great, those kids of ours.”

  McGill took Carolyn’s hand and smiled. “Each and every one of them.”

  “I’m glad you’re going to be nearby for Abbie.”

  McGill’s office on P Street was a ten-minute drive; the White House not much farther.

  “Me, too.” He paused, then asked, “What’s up with Kenny? He’s been awfully quiet.”

  Carolyn rolled her eyes. “Liesl Eberhardt.”

  “His girlfriend?”

  “Ex-girlfriend.”

  McGill winced. “She dumped Kenny for another guy?”

  “Worse. Decided that she just didn’t like him, not the way he liked her.”

  Carolyn looked as if she might have a critical observation to make about young Ms. Eberhardt but she was pre-empted by the sound of a car horn.

  McGill turned to look. They were supposed to have the place to themselves, but some eager beaver might have wanted to get a jump on —

  No, it was Sweetie, arriving in a black Porsche.

  Deke Ky had already interposed himself between the car and the president’s henchman, and was reaching under his suit jacket where he kept his Uzi. But when he saw Sweetie get out of the passenger seat he waved to her. Then he went to the driver’s side of the Porsche and shook hands with the guy behind the wheel.

  McGill wondered if —

  “Sorry I’m late,” Sweetie said. “Where are the kids?”

  She gave Carolyn a hug.

  “They went inside just now,” Carolyn said.

  “Well, let’s all grab something and join them.” Sweetie picked up two boxes and headed for Darnall; Carolyn carried her daughter’s stereo system; McGill took hold of two suitcases and closed the minivan’s hatch.

  He looked back at the Porsche. Deke saw he was ready to go inside and said goodbye to the guy in the driver’s seat. He hustled to catch up with McGill.

  “You know that guy?” McGill asked.

  “He’s Margaret’s friend, her landlord.”

  “Putnam Shady?”

  “Yeah, you never met him?”

  “No.”

  McGill turned and saw Sweetie and Carolyn enter Darnall.

  It was only natural for Sweetie to be present; she was Abbie’s godmother.

  But Putnam Shady? What was he doing there?

  Two thoughts occurred to McGill: Had Sweetie finally met a man who had found a way into her heart? Or had Shady approached Sweetie on a professional basis, a client looking for a private investigator.

  He passed through the door to Darnall that Deke held open for him.

  And he realized: Might be both reasons.

  The White House, the Oval Office

  Galia Mindel, White House chief of staff, brought her signed letter of resignation to tender to the president — if that was the way her meeting with the president went. She got to her feet as Patricia Darden Grant entered the room. The president’s pace slowed as she took notice of Galia’s grim expression. Taking her seat, the president glanced at the schedule of her day’s activities that lay on her desk. Then she turned her attention to Galia and gestured to her to be seated.

  “Who screwed up, Galia, you, me or some third party who left us a mess?”

  “I did, Madam President.” Galia was never one to shift blame.

  “Is it a matter of national, political or personal interest?”

  “All of the above.”

  The president nodded. “I see. Shall I summon a firing squad?”

  “Might be hard to get good help if you did that.”

  The president smiled. “Come on, Galia. It can’t be that bad or you would have woken me up last night.”

  The chief of staff pursed her lips before saying, “I took my eye off the ball.”

  “The ball being?” Patti asked.

  “Who your worst political enemy is. The person who most wants you to fail in your first term so you won’t have a second term. The person who is working hardest to keep you from achieving your goals to get the country moving in the right direction.”

  Patti had to agree that would be a serious mistake, if Galia had actually made it.

  Which she seriously doubted.

  “Are you saying our principal political nemesis — yours and mine — is not Roger Michaelson, Democrat, the junior senator from the great state of Oregon?”

  “Michaelson is your most obvious opponent. I’ve learned he intends to run for the Democratic nomination for president. He thinks he can win the primaries and then defeat you in the general election.”

  The president smiled once more but she also shook her head.

  “Roger has never lacked for confidence, even when he should know better.”

  “Exactly, Madam President. You’ve beaten him before; you’d beat him again.”

  “But?”

  “But you are going to face challengers in the Republican primary elections,” Galia said.

  Patti’s first impulse was to say that was ridiculous, but she was too smart, and knew Galia too well, to let her emotions dictate her response. Even in the privacy of the Oval Office. The only person to whom she bared her soul was James J. McGill.

  “Remind me, Galia, of what my standing is in the latest round of polls.”

  “Two-thirds of the American public view your performance in office favorably.”

  “And which members of my party might think they could do better?”

  “The first to declare will be Senator Howard Hurlbert of Mississippi.”

  The president’s eyes narrowed. Howard Hurlbert was a co-sponsor of the Support of Motherhood Act, the bill that Patti had refused to support even when threatened by militant anti-abortionists who would go on to take the life of her first husband, Andy.

  Hurlbert was a handsome man, silver haired, possessing a honeyed Southern baritone. He’d gone on to win reelection in his state after Andy had died. He’d voted against every piece of legislation Patti had pushed. But…

  Patti knew Hurlbert was a front man. Good at following a script. But she doubted he’d had an original idea in his entire life. Someone else was penning this scenario.

  The president took a moment to consider who the author might be and then refocused on Galia. “Derek Geiger?”

  Galia nodded. “Yes, Madam President, the Republican speaker of the House.”

  The man second in the line of succession to the presidency, and in the current Congress, the most powerful figure in the legislative branch of the federal government.

  A shiver rippled through Patti. She looked back at her schedule.

  “Vice President Wyman has an hour at the end of the day,” she said.

  Galia understood the implicit question: What does he want?

  “I politely inquired why the vice president would like to see you; he politely told me to buzz off.”

  Try as she might, Patti couldn’t see Mather Wyman conspiring with Derek Geiger against her. It wasn’t in the man’s nature. Still, she didn’t like the coincidence of his wanting to see her today.

  Galia waited patiently as the president weighed the situation. She decided that unless Patricia Grant came right out and asked for her resignation, she wasn’t going to offer it. Now that Galia knew where the threat to the president lay she would be helpful in the upcoming fight. In fact, she was looking forward to the political bloodletting.

  The president asked, “Is there anything else I should know, Galia?”

  The chief of staff had one more bomb to throw.

  “A matter just came to my attention, Madam President, after your schedule was printed. I received word that Erna Godfrey is on the mend with no obvious physical impairment.”

  Patti nodded, sensing another shoe was about to drop.

  “And?” she asked.

  Galia said, “Erna claims that during the time she was technically dead she saw Jesus.”

  “Jesus?”

  “Yes … and Mr. Grant was with him.
”

  That sat Patti back in her chair. “Andy?”

  “I’m afraid so. Erna says Jesus told her to mend her ways … and now she’d like to see you.”

  The White House, West Wing

  Captain Welborn Yates arrived at his White House office an hour before his workday officially began, as was his custom. Although he was only in his mid-twenties, he was having something of a career crisis. His first case as an investigator for the Air Force Office of Special Investigations had been to make inquiries into an allegation of adultery against Colonel Carina Linberg. That case had attracted the notice of the president, and she’d quickly made Welborn her personal in-house investigator. Well, her official investigator.

  There was no question that James J. McGill was the president’s first line of defense, but he worked sub rosa. Given Mr. McGill’s spousal relationship to the president, Welborn could understand the need for discretion. He had no problem being the front man for the president’s henchman. In two years on the job, he’d learned more from Jim McGill — and Margaret Sweeney — than he had at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center.

  The problem was, he’d recently revised his thinking on how he came to be in his present circumstances. He’d previously thought his being assigned to the Colonel Linberg investigation had been a random event, the luck of the draw, but as he gained experience, saw how things worked in the upper reaches of government and the military, he came to think otherwise.

  He understood now that either General Warren Altman (ret.), the former Air Force chief of staff or, more likely, the general’s former adjutant, Major Clarence Seymour (ret.), must have specifically ordered that the newest, greenest investigator on the OSI duty roster be assigned to the Colonel Linberg case.

  One of them had specifically asked for him.

  If not by name then by virtue of the wetness behind his ears.

  He’d been meant to be the Pentagon’s puppet. Only the president had intervened and made him a White House minion. Not that he could object to that. He worked for the most powerful person in the world, he’d been promoted in rank and most important his new job had led to meeting his fiancée, Kira Fahey.

  Led to their meeting more intentionally than he had guessed at first. Either the president or James J. McGill had played matchmaker for him and Kira, Welborn was now sure. They hadn’t wanted the president’s handpicked investigator to fall prey to the considerable charms of Colonel Linberg. That just showed the lengths to which people in Washington would go to further their interests: They’d pair a young couple off for the rest of their lives.