The Good Guy with a Gun (Jim McGill series Book 6) Page 20

  “Do you know who hired Jordan at the Department of Defense?” McGill asked.

  “Yes, of course, that was Hume Drummond. We all had a lovely dinner together when Jordan signed on.”

  “Do you know Mr. Drummond’s title?”

  She shook her head. “It wasn’t offered, and I didn’t ask.” With a note of sorrow in her voice, she added, “It never bothered me when Jordan was here, how little I knew about what he did. Now that he’s gone, though, I wish he’d let me in on a secret or two.”

  McGill thought it was safer for her that she didn’t know. He waited until Celsus Crogher’s stand-in arrived, before he and Elspeth left.

  They were about to join Welborn and Celsus at Zara’s house when McGill got a call from Ellie Booker. “You wanted to do your interview soon. How about now? It’ll air tonight.”

  McGill told her, “Give me an hour.”

  H.Carl Moultrie Courthouse — Washington, DC

  The judge said, “Bail for the defendant is set at one hundred thousand dollars.”

  Auric Ludwig started to open his mouth in protest. He was an important public figure in any jurisdiction in the country, the way he saw things. He never should have been arrested in the first place. After just one night in jail, he felt as if he’d have to be sandblasted to get clean. Any right-minded judge should have dismissed the case against him outright. At the very least, he should have been released on his own recognizance.

  How could he be a flight risk? There was no other country in the world that would let him do the job he did in the U.S. He had nowhere else to go.

  Before he could get out a peep, though, his lawyer, Ellis Travers, discreetly stepped on Ludwig’s toe to shut him up and said in his courtly Virginia accent, “Thank you, Your Honor. Mr. Ludwig will post bail in cash.”

  The method of payment drew a snort from the judge.

  He banged his gavel and they were done except for the formalities.

  Ludwig got into the back of his Cadillac limousine with Travers forty-five minutes later. The vehicle was made to resemble a presidential limo as far as possible. The exact defensive and retaliatory capabilities of Patricia Grant’s Thing One and Thing Two were top secret. But the personal ride of the CEO of Firepower America would withstand the assault of anything short of a Hellfire missile.

  He wasn’t about to get gunned down by some jerk with a grudge.

  At the moment, Ludwig was the one feeling high resentment.

  “That black-robed bastard should have let me go with a rebuke to the cops.”

  “He could have set bail at a million dollars, Auric.”

  That possibility raised Ludwig’s ire further, but he put his feelings aside to ask, “Did you bring that much money?”

  “Yes.”

  Ludwig slumped back on the seat, relieved that there had been no chance he might have spent another night locked up. It had been a miserable experience. He’d been given a cell to himself. There had been no chance he’d be physically brutalized. But word of who he was and his presence in lockup had been made known. Those two damn detectives must have spread the word. The catcalls and jokes at his expense had gone on until the wee hours. He’d become a source of vast amusement to the cretins all around him.

  “Yo, Ludwig. You there, man? Bastard cops locked me up for armed robbery. They gonna give me an extra ten years on my sentence just for bringin’ my gun to work. That has to be against the Constitution, don’t it?”

  The laughter from that and a multitude of other jailbird jokes still rang in Ludwig’s ears.

  One con wanted to know where he could get silver bullets.

  His girlfriend being such a bloodsucking vampire.

  That nitwit was told by another inmate that you needed a wooden stake for vampires; silver bullets were for werewolves.

  Ludwig was asked to arbitrate the dispute. He declined. Got called a pussy.

  He never want to go back to —

  Travers interrupted his dark reminiscences. “You have to realize, Auric, you’re in big trouble here. Obstruction of justice is a serious offense. You really stepped in it, getting out front of a police investigation with your announcement of a ‘good guy’ shooting Abel Mays.”

  Ludwig’s temper, never far from the surface, boiled over.

  “But there is a good guy, goddamnit. How else would you describe someone who shoots a mass murderer? He’s a hero.”

  “Washington isn’t the wild west. You’re not playing a role in a movie. How you or I characterize whoever shot Abel Mays is irrelevant. It’s how the law sees him that matters.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Detective Meeker told me you were informed that helping the police find out who gave you your information might mitigate the sentence you receive.”

  “Sentence?” Ludwig asked. “If you’re giving up on me already —”

  Travers held up a hand. “They’ve got you. Cold. Right now, my job is to make the best of a bad situation. If your choice is to spend a short time in a minimum security facility with a few actual amenities or a very long time in a place that will make the city lockup feel like the Ritz, I know what I’d do. It’s what I’d advise you to do, too. Be a snitch.”

  “Never. I’ll make this a political trial. The government is out to get me and —”

  “You’ve got the government, the legislative branch at least, in your pocket. You’ll never get the public to believe they’re coming after you.”

  “I’ll get my people to believe. They’ll all believe me.” A thought popped into Ludwig’s head. “Do you know James J. McGill is snooping around Mays’ death. Word is he thinks Mays didn’t kill the last victim.”

  Hearing that, Travers instructed the limo driver to pull to the curb.

  He looked at Ludwig and told him, “Making this a personal duel with Mr. McGill would be a very bad idea. You want the president to remain neutral, if possible. But if you go after her husband, she’s going to come back hard at you. She never has to face another election, and she might see bringing you down as the capstone of her presidency.”

  Ludwig didn’t say a word, but Travers could see he hadn’t persuaded the man.

  He opened the limo door and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

  Looking back at Ludwig, he said, “I will notify the court I’ve resigned as your attorney.”

  “Pussy.” Funny how fast prison habits could be picked up, Ludwig thought.

  “I’ll send you my bill,” Travers said in an even tone. “Pay it promptly. The only way you could be more foolish than taking on James J. McGill would be to raise my ire, too.”

  Chapter 14

  Chief of Staff’s Office — The White House

  Galia Mindel listened to Sweetie’s proposal without interruption. She’d never heard anything like it in all her years in politics. Not that she could find anything legally wrong with it. Even so, Galia couldn’t immediately sort out the politics of it. Would it turn out looking like a clever move that produced a desired outcome or would it leave the administration with egg on its face? The answer to that, of course, would depend on the results the idea produced.

  “I honestly don’t know what to say,” Galia told Sweetie.

  “How about you’ll give it a try?”

  “I’m hesitant.”

  “Because you think it might make Patti look bad?”

  Sweetie’s casual use of the familiar form of the president’s first name reminded Galia that the person sitting in front of her was no mere supplicant. It was meant to; the chief of staff understood that. She also knew that Margaret Sweeney could have gone around her. Taken the idea to McGill and had him ask the president. Instead, Ms. Sweeney came to her.

  Manners mattered to Galia. So did clout. “How my decisions might reflect upon the president is always a consideration.”

  “Sure, that’s natural. Do your feelings about Roger Michaelson make you reluctant? Jim couldn’t take the case because of the way he feels about the man. That’s why I’
m doing it.”

  “You don’t resent him?” Galia asked. She certainly did.

  Sweetie took a moment to respond. “I didn’t care for him when he came to the office. Patti is a friend. I hold her close to my heart. She’s in my prayers every day. Despite all that, I saw Michaelson as a man in trouble. I believe I’ll be judged not for getting the easy things right but how I handle the hard moral challenges.”

  From everything Galia had learned about Margaret Sweeney, she knew the woman wasn’t just another phony putting on a holier-than-thou front. She was acting out of conscience. That was also something Galia didn’t see often.

  It was hard not to be persuaded by such a person.

  Sweetie wanted Galia to arrange the transfer of Joan Renshaw to the same prison currently holding Erna Godfrey, the woman who’d killed Andy Grant, the president’s first husband. Erna, as a reward for aiding the effort to take her husband, the late Reverend Burke Godfrey, into custody, had been allowed to start a prison ministry.

  That had proved to be a good choice. Erna’s efforts had led to a reduction of inmate violence and an increase of inmate education. The woman was doing good work. A convicted killer had found repentance and was working toward redemption.

  “You’re hoping that through Erna Godfrey’s benign influence Joan Renshaw will recant her accusation against Roger Michaelson,” Galia said.

  “That and reveal who was really involved in the plot to kill Patti. Confession is good for the soul. And Erna has already demonstrated she can get people to talk.”

  Galia nodded. Erna Godfrey had been written up in Time magazine for getting inmates to admit to crimes they’d previously denied as a part of getting right with God. There was at least a chance she could do the same with Joan Renshaw.

  “What I worry about is this,” Galia said. “Doing this might make the president look like she’s condoning the use of a jailhouse snitch. It might also hurt the good work Erna Godfrey has been doing if other inmates see her as acting as a tool of the president.”

  Sweetie considered that. “Two things. I think Erna has earned the reputation for being sincere in her ministry. If her only reward for getting Renshaw to tell the truth is the satisfaction of saving another inmate’s soul, how could anyone spin that the wrong way? As far as Patti is directly concerned, how could anyone accuse her of misusing her power when she’d be helping a longtime political adversary?”

  Galia sat back and stared at Sweetie.

  “You have quite the political mind, Ms. Sweeney.”

  “Comes from having been a Chicago cop,” Sweetie said with a smile.

  “All right. I’ll take your idea to the FBI for an opinion. Pitch it to them just the way you did to me. We’ll see what happens.”

  “That’ll do,” Sweetie said.

  She had faith things would work out.

  The Greenwood School — Washington, DC

  FBI Deputy Director Byron DeWitt drove his private ride, a new BMW 535, to the private school on 16th Street NW. He’d taken his tie off and even ruffled his longer than regulation surfer blonde hair. None of that mattered.

  When Putnam Shady exited the school, having dropped off Maxi, he made DeWitt immediately.

  “Fed,” he said to DeWitt, the word a slur in his mouth.

  The deputy director shrugged. “Guilty.”

  “What’s the problem? You didn’t get the memo from the president?”

  Putnam stepped up to DeWitt, his manner combative in a way he never would have been before Margaret had inspired him to become physically fit. He knew striking a federal officer would be a heavy-duty felony, but he didn’t give a damn. The SOB had the nerve to follow him to Maxi’s school? That kind of shit was going to stop immediately.

  DeWitt saw the situation for what it was. Potentially regrettable. He moved to defuse it.

  “I got the president’s memo this morning. It came to me directly from Director Haskins. I routed it down the chain of command. Everybody who needs to see it has seen it by now.”

  “And yet here you are,” Putnam said.

  His tide of emotion began to recede. He looked for whatever game this fed might be playing. He had to want something.

  “I tried to call your wife to ask if she might act as a go-between. Mr. McGill knows me; we’ve worked together. Ms. Sweeney wasn’t available. She’d gone to the White House, I was told. By the way, there is no surveillance on you. Just me, and all I want to do is talk to you for a minute or two.”

  Putnam said, “If nobody’s watching me, how’d you know where to find me?”

  “You told me you were taking your girl to school.”

  He had, Putnam thought, but that was all he’d told the guy.

  “I didn’t say which school.”

  “Darren Drucker gave me the name, but only after I told him why I wanted to talk with you.”

  That rocked Putnam back on his heels. He turned his back on DeWitt, walked several paces down the street and made a phone call. It wasn’t a long one. Putnam retraced his footsteps, a thoughtful look on his face.

  “If this is your car,” he said nodding at the BMW, “let’s go for a ride.”

  As soon as they were out of sight of the school and Putnam didn’t have to worry about Maxi looking out a window and see him talking to a stranger, he said, “What do you want?”

  “I’m trying to catch Tyler Busby. A thought occurred to me this morning. The memo from the director about you prompted it. You had early access to Inspiration Hall and so did Busby.” DeWitt held up a hand to forestall any objection. “I’m not saying you had any connection with what he tried to pull. I’m just looking for any insight you might have about the man. Some clue as to how I might find him.”

  Putnam leaned to his right, tried to get a good angle on DeWitt’s profile.

  “You didn’t give your name,” he said.

  “Byron DeWitt, deputy director.”

  Putnam had heard the name and a story or two.

  “You’re the guy with the picture of Chairman Mao in his office?”

  “That’s me.”

  “How do you get away with that?”

  “By making myself useful. I’m the go-to guy on China. I speak the Beijing dialect of Mandarin and a little Cantonese. Have some understanding of the culture. Make a decent mu gu gai pan. I’m pretty much one of a kind at the Bureau. They tell me to get rid of my Warhol serigraph, I go with it.”

  For the first time, Putnam felt a spark of kinship.

  “You have them over a barrel?”

  “Up to a point. If I tried to redecorate my office in Politburo Moderne, they’d probably call me on it.”

  Putnam laughed. So, okay, the guy was human and had a plausible story. Better still, Putnam had a deep desire to see Tyler Busby spend his remaining years rotting in prison … and that made him think of something, the way DeWitt said he’d been inspired.

  Before he got to that, he asked DeWitt what the FBI had done so far to find Busby.

  The deputy director was surprisingly forthcoming: contact with all allied police agencies and organizations around the world; distribution of Busby’s photo to all U.S. diplomatic missions and military bases with a call-us-if-spotted directive; a request-to-apprehend notice if seen by any U.S. intelligence agency, select private snoops and satellite surveillance.

  DeWitt stopped for a red light, looked at Putnam and answered an unasked question, “No, we don’t have satellites watching you nor are we using any other methods.”

  “You’re sure?”

  DeWitt thought about that. “Fair question. I’ll make sure.”

  “Good.”

  “So what can you tell me?”

  Putnam gave the question a moment’s thought. “I think the best thing I can tell you is Busby will have an easier time hiding himself than his ego.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Have you found any of the art he’s stolen?”

  “No.”

  “Have you found any of his yacht
s?”

  “All three. They’ve been sold twice already. The current owners seem legitimate and uninvolved with Busby in the past.”

  “What about the intermediate owner?” Putnam asked.

  “A yacht broker in Singapore, a legitimate business.”

  Putnam said, “Check the broker out. See who his connections are.”

  DeWitt nodded. “Okay. Getting back to Busby’s ego …”

  Putnam said, “Busby’s sold his yachts, the art he stole is available to sell, he probably has overseas bank accounts you don’t know about, so he has big money to spend. Given his sense of grandiosity, he’s going to buy or lease a big place as his hideaway. You’ll never find him in a furnished studio apartment in some innocuous building.”

  “All right, I can see that.”

  “He’s on the run, so he can’t wait to have something built to order. What I’d do is look for are recent purchases or lease agreements on very top-end mansions. He’d use a cutout, of course, so you’d have look behind whoever the front man is.”

  “You’re talking about palaces?”

  “Yeah, exactly. Anything that doesn’t already have a royal family living in it.”

  “Okay. Any idea of where?”

  “Your yacht broker is in Singapore, and you speak Chinese, start in that general area and …” Putnam took a beat to consider other possibilities. “Take a look at a globe. See what’s on the far side of the world from Singapore. If there are any palaces there, check that out, too.”

  DeWitt nodded. He liked the way Putnam thought. “Any other suggestions?”

  An idea came to Putnam, as if he’d just been waiting for the fed’s prompt.

  “Part of Busby’s scam at Inspiration Hall was to have all his forged paintings destroyed and then collect the insurance money on them as if they were masterpieces. Skinning an honest insurance company would be one way to go, but colluding with a crooked company, one where a top executive or two would get a hefty kickback of the payout, that would be more of a sure thing. Crooks wouldn’t look hard to find Busby because they’d be putting themselves at risk.”