Jim McGill 02 The Hangman's Companion Read online

  Sitting alone in the offices of McGill Investigations, Inc., Sweetie thought it would be comforting to have Jim to talk to.

  And just then the phone rang. But it was Welborn.

  “Margaret,” he said, “are you there?”

  Sweetie said, “Sorry. I was expecting someone else.”

  “You want me to clear the line?”

  “No, we’ve got call waiting. I’ll let you know if I have to interrupt.”

  “I got the information you wanted,” Welborn said.

  Sweetie brightened. “The young woman from Horatio Bao’s office.”

  “Calanthe Bao, age twenty-six, single, only documented child of Horatio Bao, Georgetown alumna, executive assistant to her father, part-time yoga instructor, part-time dance teacher, regular traveler back to the mother country, and to Hong Kong, Paris and London.”

  Sweetie was genuinely impressed by the number of databases Welborn must have accessed to gain all that information; the federal government didn’t know all, but it came close.

  Sweetie’s first question was: “Calanthe?”

  Jim had gotten her hooked on the meanings of names.

  “French via the Greeks,” Welborn said. “Western given names are not uncommon for Viets, what with their history as a French colony. The name means beautiful flower. Looking at the woman’s DMV photo, it wasn’t misapplied.”

  Welborn was getting into the case; Sweetie could hear it. That tilted her thinking in an unholy direction. “Did you get her address?”

  “Lives with Dad; it’s a big house.” He gave Sweetie an address in Arlington, Virginia.

  “Is there a mother?”

  “Violette Bao died of ovarian cancer twelve years ago.”

  Leaving a widower and a young daughter to forge on alone, the two of them close enough that they still lived together. Probably close enough that Calanthe knew all of Horatio’s secrets. Doubtless, she’d rather die than reveal them. But if a newcomer were introduced into their little world, who knew what he might see, even in passing.

  Sweetie said, “Tell me if I’m prying—”

  “Which means you’re going to.”

  “Okay. So tell me if my prying isn’t too far out of bounds. But how are you feeling about your upcoming wedding to Ms. Fahey?”

  Welborn took a beat. “I didn’t fully understand how much I could love someone before I met Kira. I’m greatly looking forward to having her as my wife and to being her husband. As to the ceremony and all its attendant details, it’s funny you should ask, because I have a question about that for you.”

  Surprised by having the tables turned on her, Sweetie asked, “What kind of question?”

  “Kira and I hadn’t settled on a clergy member to perform the ceremony, not until you gave Kira her little assignment recently.”

  Sweetie made the jump quickly. “She wants Father Nguyen to marry you?”

  “She’s so taken with the man,” Welborn said, “if he weren’t a priest, I think she might throw me over for him.”

  “Is either of you a Catholic?” Sweetie asked.

  “No. Kira is Episcopalian. I’ve heard them described as Catholics with money, but I wasn’t aware they exchanged liturgical blessings like interlibrary loans.”

  “They don’t. What’s your religious affiliation?”

  “My branch of the Yates family started out as Baptists. When Mother came home from England unwed but pregnant with me, we migrated to Methodism. Currently, I just pray to make it through another day.”

  “Divine pragmatism,” Sweetie said. “Under normal circumstances, a Catholic priest wouldn’t marry you unless you both converted. That would mean months of study first. Then being baptized.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” Welborn said with a sigh.

  Sweetie understood perfectly: the things we do for love

  She told the young officer, “With Father Nguyen, though, you might catch a break. He’s something of a freethinker, and he might soon be looking for a less hierarchical church.”

  “Blessed be,” Welborn said, sounding relieved.

  “Glad I could lift your spirits. Earns me one more question. If I were to ask you to do something potentially risky, would you have any reluctance because you’re getting married soon?”

  “You mean, am I superstitious? No. You know my story, right?”

  A car in which Welborn had been riding with three friends, all of them soon to be Air Force fighter pilots, had been hit broadside by a drunk driver. Of the four in his car, Welborn had been the sole survivor. The drunk not only lived, he got away clean, identity unknown. Although Welborn’s life had been spared, an injury to his inner ear took away his chance to fly fighters. He had moved on to become a federal officer with the Air Force OSI.

  “Jim and I talk,” Sweetie said. “I know your story.”

  “My accident left me with a sense of fatalism, Margaret. You don’t die a moment before your time is up, and you don’t live a second longer. Personal plans have no bearing on the matter.”

  That wasn’t the way Sweetie saw things, but she said, “Okay.”

  “What you have in mind for me, it has something to do with Calanthe Bao, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, it does,” Sweetie said. “Maybe Ricky Lanh Huu, too.”

  The Hideaway, Paris

  38

  McGill and Gabbi didn’t have to worry about sleeping arrangements because they had decided to sleep in shifts: one would snooze in the bedroom while the other watched the door with the shotgun. But neither of them felt like sleeping anytime soon. It turned out they both had a craving for a late night snack.

  “The pub’s kitchen is closed,” McGill said. “So which one of us is going to whip up something?”

  “You cook?” Gabbi asked.

  She’d emerged from the bathroom dressed in a white track suit she’d found downstairs, her hair glistening, her face scrubbed pink. She looked like a coed to McGill and he told her so. When she objected, he said okay, a grad student. That was a compliment she could accept.

  “Before I married the president,” he said, “I was a part-time single dad. I cooked for my kids.”

  “Anything fancy?”

  “Chocolate lava cake.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Eggs, sugar, butter, flour and chocolate,” McGill said. “Cook for ten minutes at 350 degrees. What’s the big deal?”

  Gabbi grinned. “You’re really something.”

  “Yeah, but you know what I feel like now—if they’re not illegal in France, if there’s any chance at all we can find the ingredients — Rice Krispies Treats.”

  Gabbi beamed, beckoned McGill to follow her.

  “One of the many reasons my brother, Gianni, is so good to me?” she said. “From the time he was little right up to the next time I see him, I always make Rice Krispies Treats for him. He claims he gets all his best ideas while eating them.”

  They entered the flat’s kitchen. Gabbi opened a cabinet and took out an unopened box of the cereal and a fresh bag of marshmallows. From another cabinet, she produced a sauce pan and a cookie sheet. From the fridge came a block of butter. From a drawer the necessary utensils.

  “Allez-y, chef,” Gabbi said. Go for it, chef.

  “You think Harbin would like any?” McGill asked, setting to work.

  “With the right wine, sure.”

  “Okay if I have mine with milk?” McGill asked.

  Gabbi nodded. “You and me, both.”

  McGill’s phone sounded. Take Me Out to the Ball Game. Sweetie.

  He told Gabbi, “I can cook and talk, but…”

  She nodded and took the shotgun. “I’ll be just outside the apartment door. Won’t hear a thing unless you yell for help.”

  McGill winked and she left. He clicked the talk button.

  “Hello, Sweetie.”

  “Didn’t wake you, did I?”

  “No. I was just about to make some Rice Krispies Treats. In fact, I’m doing it as we
speak.”

  “If I was the kind of person to say so,” Sweetie said, “I’d say darn that sounds good, only I wouldn’t say darn.”

  “Are you at home or the office?” McGill had the feeling there was something more important going on than a case of sugar envy. He turned on the oven to preheat.

  “The office.”

  “I’ll call the White House kitchen and have some sent over.”

  “You can do that?”

  “I’m just beginning to understand my super powers.”

  Sweetie laughed. “Jim, more often than not, you make me glad I know you. Hey, listen, before I forget, I’m doing something for Caitie because her agent couldn’t reach you.” She told him about the movie script coming her way. “That okay with you, requiring it to make the grade with me first?”

  “What could be more Hollywood?” McGill asked. “A script always has to climb a mountain before it gets greenlighted.” Or so he’d heard from Patti. “I’ll make a note to call my little starlet tomorrow. Her sister and brother, too. Now, Margaret, please tell me the real reason you called.”

  She brought him up to date on McGill Investigations’ domestic case.

  “I have this nagging doubt, uncharacteristic of me, I know, that I might be putting Deke back into action too soon.”

  McGill responded by telling Sweetie where things stood on his side of the ocean.

  “This guy’s supposed to wrestle bears?” Sweetie asked. “And he smells like one, too?”

  “Yeah. I got to telling Magistrate Pruet about Grizzly Adams. Which put me in mind of another American frontiersman, Davy Crockett. You remember the stories about him?”

  “Wore a ‘coonskin cap,” Sweetie said. “Kilt him a b’ar when he was only three.”

  “Yeah, but if you ever read about him you know how he killed bears.”

  “Sorry, never got beyond reruns of that old Disney TV show. Fess Parker.”

  So McGill filled her in on Crockett’s history and what he had in mind for The Undertaker when they caught up with him. If they didn’t shotgun him that night.

  “Wow,” Sweetie said, after hearing the idea. “French cinema.” Then she added, “Would be a lot simpler if you could just shoot him in the knee, but I can see where you wouldn’t want to cause a big fuss in someone else’s country.”

  “Yeah. So I’ve got these two guys Odo and Harbin, very tough, know more than a few things about fighting. I’m counting on their help, but my question is, do I invite Ms. Casale to the dance?”

  Sweetie said, “I’d be in on it, if I were there, wouldn’t I?”

  “Of course.”

  “So you’re not a sexist. But is your concern about her qualifications or something else?”

  “She told me she’s thinking about leaving the foreign service soon. Seeing if she can make a go of it as a painter. I’d really hate it if she got hurt, or worse, right before she took herself out of the game.”

  “Huh,” Sweetie said, and told him of her concern about using Welborn to back up Deke and what he had said. “Ask her if she’s a fatalist. If she is, you’re set to go. If she’s not, just pretend she’s one of the guys and decide if she’s good enough.”

  “Thank you, Margaret.”

  McGill dumped the marshmallows in the pan and stirred..

  “Yeah, I’ve solved your problem, but what about mine?”

  “You remember how we decided you were ready to return to duty after you took that bullet for me?” McGill asked.

  He could imagine the grin on Sweetie’s face.

  “Yeah. You made me arm-wrestle you. I almost won and you said close enough.”

  “My arm was sore for a week,” McGill said. “I couldn’t do without you at that point.”

  “So I should challenge Deke to arm-wrestle me?”

  “Why not? It worked for us.”

  Sweetie took a moment to consider. “You’re right. Thanks. Say, Jim, can you have those Rice Krispies Treats sent to my place? They always taste better when you share them.”

  “No problem,” McGill told her.

  He called the White House and placed the order as he stirred the Rice Krispies into the mix of melted marshmallow and butter. When the cereal was well covered, he coated the serving pan with a glaze of butter. He took the sugary mass out of the sauce pan, pressed it into a neat rectangle of uniform height. The chef on duty at the White House told McGill he’d have his Treats on their way to Ms. Sweeney tout de suite.

  McGill, Gabbi and Harbin chowed down as soon as their treats were cool.

  The president’s henchman stood the first watch.

  Chapter 8

  Saturday, June 6th — Paris

  1

  McGill had finished showering and shaving and was brushing his teeth when Gabbi knocked on the bathroom door.

  “You decent?” she called out, a tone of urgency in her voice.

  The president’s henchman was completing his toiletries in his boxer shorts. He checked to make sure his fly wasn’t gaping but decided, in the absence of hearing a door ripped from its hinges, that it would be more discreet to slip into the navy blue sweat pants and white T-shirt Gabbi had provided for him.

  “Ten seconds,” he replied.

  On the count of ten, he opened the bathroom door. He was barefoot, but felt sure no one could make anything inappropriate of that.

  Gabbi handed him her mobile phone. Whispering, she said, “A gypsy woman, forwarded from the embassy.”

  McGill nodded and said, “Hello.”

  An older woman with an accent McGill guessed to be middle-European said, “My name is Madam Mystère. A young man came to me. He told me of an American who asked him to find a woman. A woman with blonde hair who was beneath a certain bridge on a certain night. Do you know of this?”

  “I do,” McGill said.

  “You are the American?”

  “I am.”

  “I will not mention a name, but you are a man of great importance.”

  So the gypsies had somehow found out who he was.

  Celsus was right; the world was closing in.

  “Of some importance.” That was as much as McGill would concede.

  “You spoke of a reward to the young man.”

  “Two hundred euros.”

  “This is a fair price, you think, for such a prominent man?”

  “You give discounts to poor men?” McGill asked.

  There was a moment of silence and then a gleeful cackle.

  “I have never given a discount in my life,” the woman said.

  “So what would you think is a fair price?”

  “A thou—”

  “Five hundred tops,” McGill said. “With at least half going to the kid.”

  “He is my grandson; he will take less.”

  “Half,” McGill said. “That’s the deal.”

  “Payable in advance.”

  “Upon delivery. I give the money to the kid. When he brings the woman.”

  “He is too young to control her.”

  “Madam Mystère,” McGill said, “forgive me if I am wrong, but in my experience with these things most hostages are so drugged they could be shipped UPS without waking them.”

  There was another moment of silence.

  McGill filled it. “It would be a very bad idea to drop Ms. Martel into the Seine. You and your grandson would have to leave the country. So would anyone who helped you. The French magistrate working this case is a very stubborn man. He would give the name of Madam Mystère to Interpol, and if you don’t leave France, he has this mean Corsican who—”

  “Enough,” the woman snapped. “I could put a curse on you right now.”

  The threat made McGill think of Chief of Staff Galia Mindel.

  “You wouldn’t be the first,” he said.

  Undeterred, the woman muttered something sibilant in a language McGill didn’t come close to recognizing.

  The president’s henchman responded in Latin. “Ego loco meus fides, quod, vita in
manuum Deus omnipotens.” I place my faith, trust, and life in the hands of almighty God.

  Sweetie would be proud of him. Rebutting the diabolical with the divine.

  For her part, Madam Mystère seemed to recognize that her thrust had been parried, even if she had understood McGill’s words no better than he’d understood hers. The fight went out of her.

  “Five hundred, then, half for the boy,” she agreed glumly.

  McGill threw her a bone.

  “One hundred more, if you can deliver the woman within the next hour.”

  “Done!” Madam Mystère agreed, her humor much improved.

  McGill gave her the delivery address.

  Winfield House, London

  2

  Sir Robert Reed called on Galia Mindel and they took tea in a sitting room. Sir Robert wore a dark blue Savile Row suit and brought with him a wafer thin attaché case. Galia wore a skirt and jacket from Bergdorf’s. Her garb, also dark blue and summer weight wool, was the feminine duplicate of Sir Robert’s. The two of them might have been doing a stage act. Sir Robert pretended not to notice and Galia did her best to keep any color of embarrassment off her cheeks. They said little before their tea was served, and both made sure the sugar they put in their cups was thoroughly stirred before looking up.

  Sir Robert asked, “May I inquire as to the president’s health this morning?”

  “She’s on the mend,” Galia said. “Still sore but less so than yesterday. The White House physician believes rest and conservative treatment will suffice.” Galia sipped her tea before asking, “And how is Prime Minister Kimbrough?”

  “A bit worse off. He’s suffered a hairline fracture of the mandible as well as the fractured cheekbone and the damage to his nose. His jaw has been wired, one nostril has been packed, and he has two black eyes.”

  “My sympathies,” Galia said, sounding not the least bit sympathetic.

  “I’m told he’s quite a sight,” Sir Robert added.

  “Probably best not to let any press photographers get a bead on him.”