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

  Joan had tried to recant her confession. Said it was just a mean joke. Nobody was buying that story. The public defender who’d represented her in court on that effort told her privately he’d been stuck with the assignment; his boss had given him no choice. Didn’t matter. The judge had denied her motion to recant without comment. O.J.’s lawyers couldn’t have sprung her.

  So she rotted away behind bars, hadn’t even gotten to trial yet.

  She needed a new public defender because the old one had quit his job. That and all her assets had been seized as funds meant to further a terrorist conspiracy. She had no money to hire her own advocate. Nobody on a public payroll wanted to take the job either. Who the hell would risk his reputation defending a woman accused of working with foreign terrorists to kill the president of the United States? Sure, she had wanted to see Patti Grant dead, but when she’d heard the terrorists had intended to use a truck-bomb to do the job, that had made even her cringe.

  The real surprise, something she never would have anticipated, was the reaction she’d gotten from the other prisoners. Many, if not all, had called her a fucking traitor. As if before committing their own crimes they’d all been Daughters of the American Revolution.

  Actually, there had been two women who’d said they had voted for Patti Goddamn Grant — and had threatened to kill Joan. She had to be put in protective custody until those bitches could be transferred to another facility. Now, she was the one who’d been sent to a new lockup.

  And she had some old broad staring at her in the middle of the night.

  Joan told her, “No, nobody told me anything about you.”

  “Well, here’s the first thing you ought to know,” Erna said. “I’m here for life. I murdered a man. Blew him to bits, and that’s no exaggeration.”

  Joan saw nothing but truth in the woman’s eyes.

  She scuttled back on her upper bunk until she hit the wall.

  Wishing she had a sharpened toothbrush or some other weapon.

  Erna said, “It’s all right. I put all that behind me.”

  Joan didn’t feel one bit relieved.

  Erna sat on the lower bunk, her back against the wall, too. Her feet dangled over the edge of the narrow mattress. She said, “I’ve done my best to repent and help other poor women. I’ve started a ministry. They even let me do podcasts so I can reach out to inmates in other facilities. Just women so far, but I’m hoping they’ll let me minister to men, too, before long.”

  Erna saw Joan lean over her bunk and take a quick peek.

  “Really?” she asked, retreating out of sight.

  “Yes. I have the background. I graduated Bible school.”

  That brought a return appearance and Joan asked, “How’d that happen? One or the other. They don’t teach homicide in Bible school, do they?”

  Erna laughed, and for a brief moment Joan relaxed.

  “No, they don’t. They make you memorize and think about Scripture. Like, ‘Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.’ That’s Romans 12:19. Meaning don’t get your own hands bloody. God will even out all things.”

  Pulling her head out of sight, Joan asked, “So what happened? You got impatient?”

  A note of regret filled Erna’s voice. “You hit the nail right on the head. I decided I couldn’t wait any longer. Not only did I go against Scripture, I violated Caesar’s law, too. Got caught and here I am.”

  Without putting in an appearance, Joan asked, “How do you feel about that?”

  “It’s what I deserve; I’ve come to accept that. The hardest part was losing my husband.”

  “So you loved him?”

  “Loved him and feared every day that I failed him, too. He was part of my crime, part of my sin. From what I’ve heard, he died without getting right with the Lord. That’s my deepest sorrow, that’s he’s doing time that’s far worse than my sentence. With no release even by death.”

  A moment of silence passed.

  Only the sounds of hampered respiration from other cells intruded.

  “You mind if I come down and talk some more?” Joan asked.

  “Don’t mind a bit. Don’t be afraid either. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Joan slid off her bunk. Erna patted the space next to her.

  “Have a seat,” she said. “We’ll talk as long as you want.”

  Joan sat on the bunk, close to Erna. She studied the older woman’s face.

  “You know,” she told Erna, “you really are the answer to at least one of my prayers.”

  “You believe in God?”

  “Used to be my faith came and went. Situational, you know. Like the old saw about no atheists in a foxhole. When you need God, you want him to be there for you.”

  “That’s only natural,” Erna agreed.

  “Right now, though, I’m not scared but I still believe.”

  “You’ve taken a step in the right direction.”

  “For most of my life,” Joan said, “I had a great plan, and I was really close to making it work. Then, pardon my language, everything got royally fucked. Went to hell in a handbasket, if you prefer that description.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t what you really needed,” Erna said.

  “Oh, no. I’m sure it was, and it was so close. You know who ruined it for me?”

  “Who?”

  “Patricia Darden Grant, the president of the United States.”

  Joan watched closely for a reaction, but got none.

  “You know the president, too, don’t you?” Joan asked.

  Erna remained silent.

  “You do,” Joan said. “Looking down at you from my bunk, I realized who you are. Your picture was in all the newspapers and magazines. You’re Erna goddamn Godfrey.”

  “I am,” she admitted.

  Joan leaned in close to Erna. “Andrew Hudson Grant was the love of my life. Patti Darden stole him from me, but I had a plan to get him back. My life with him could have been fabulous. But you and Reverend Godfrey sure fucked that up, didn’t you? I mean, look where I am now.”

  Erna had no response.

  “So you’re afraid your husband is in hell, huh?” Joan asked. “Well, I hope he is. I hope he’s got a blowtorch up his ass, him and all the other self-righteous hypocrites. I was ecstatic when I heard he died. That left me only one thing to pray for. You know what that is?”

  Erna knew exactly, but didn’t say so.

  She silently prayed for her deliverance.

  For her soul, not her physical form.

  Joan leaned in still closer and whispered in Erna’s ear, “I prayed that someday I’d be able to get my hands on you.”

  Joan locked her hands around Erna’s throat. Squeezed with all her strength.

  Erna fought not at all, but produced a strangled cry as the air was forced out of her.

  The microphones planted in the cell to catch Joan’s confession recorded Erna’s last gasp.

  Correctional officers came on the run, but they were too late.

  By the time they arrived, Erna’s windpipe was crushed and her head rested on Joan’s lap.

  Joan said, “I sure hope this was Patti Grant’s idea, putting me in here.”

  Chapter 28

  McLean Gardens — Washington, DC — Thursday, March 13, 2014

  DeWitt was toweling his hair dry at 6:30 that morning, feeling hungry but otherwise better than he had for months. Nothing like thirty hours of sleep to put the spring back into a guy’s step, he thought. For much of that time, he might as well have been comatose. If there had been a fire or a gas leak in the building, he was sure he would have slept through any din the alarms in his apartment might have made.

  That disturbing thought prompted another one.

  When was the last time he’d changed the batteries in the smoke and carbon monoxide detectors? If he’d been badly neglecting his rest — and he had — he probably wasn’t current on his housekeeping chores either. Damn, he had to talk to Director Haskins. Any emergency that came down the
pipeline could no longer be automatically delegated to him.

  He knew how much Haskins trusted him, and he’d done well with all the tasks he’d been assigned, but he couldn’t allow himself to be worked to death. Strong as a mule and just as dumb wasn’t the epitaph he wanted on his tombstone. For that matter, he didn’t want any funeral arrangements for quite some time.

  Once he got most of the water out of his hair, he brushed it back and let it air dry. He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, pleased to see his eyes were no longer bloodshot. He gave himself a jolt of mouthwash, swished and spat. Smiled and was happy it looked like he’d been brushing his teeth regularly — but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a dental checkup.

  Maybe that was when he’d last changed the batteries in the smoke detectors.

  He’d have to make a dental appointment soon. Get the rest of himself examined, too. Make sure no part of his fatigue was due to anything worse than overwork. He tugged the waistband of his running shorts out. His abdomen was still flat, but the equipment down below looked like it had atrophied from lack of use.

  The remedy for that was obvious, but who would want to lend a hand?

  Or other point of stimulation.

  One name came to mind quickly. Jean Morrissey. The vice president of the United States, just about any time he had occasion to see her, had been directing remarks his way that he read as mildly flirtatious. Then again, maybe his imagination was getting the better of him.

  Wouldn’t do to make a move on the VP only to discover he’d misinterpreted.

  Still, considered purely as a question of his interest in her as a woman, he’d be happy to get back in the game with Ms. Vice President.

  Before he could take that notion any further, his doorbell rang.

  Not the buzzer from downstairs. The bell at the door to his apartment. DeWitt stepped into his bedroom and picked up his Beretta from the nightstand. The bell rang again, more insistently. Standing well off to one side of the entry door, DeWitt said, “Who’s there?”

  “Who has a key?” came the reply. “Who has a key to this door, too?”

  Benjamin, he thought. Showed how badly he was slipping. He’d never gotten his keys back after she’d stopped spending the night with him. He let his gun hand fall to his side and opened the door for her.

  She had a bag from Au Bon Pain in hand. He could smell coffee and pastries. Saliva welled up in his mouth.

  “I know I’m early,” Benjamin said. “I know I was supposed to call not drop in. But I thought you might be hungry.”

  She kissed his cheek, stepped past him and gave him a pat on the butt.

  “Nice to see you’re staying in shape. We’ll eat in the kitchen, okay? I’ll tell you the big news.”

  The combination of the aroma of food, the kiss and the hand on his backside reassured DeWitt that his equipment was fine. For the moment, though, that response had to be stifled. As a symbolic gesture, he clicked the Beretta’s safety on and followed Benjamin into the kitchen.

  She had the cups of coffee set out on the table and had taken a cinnamon scone for herself. That left his coffee, a cinnamon roll, a cherry danish and a bear claw for him. He wanted them all, and she’d better be quick eating that scone, too.

  Still, he didn’t want to let Benjamin know how susceptible to temptation he was at the moment. Before he so much as sipped his coffee, though, he asked, “What’s the big news?”

  She reached across the table and squeezed his hand.

  “You were right. Tyler Busby is connected to his insurance company.”

  DeWitt leaned forward, his attention diverted from Benjamin’s warm hand.

  “We got him?”

  “No, not yet. You can put your gun down, you know.”

  DeWitt hadn’t been aware he was still holding it. He put it on the table and pushed it off to one side.

  “Here’s what happened. Per your suggestion, we looked into the company that issued the insurance policy on Busby’s forged paintings, Asian Global Liability, and its CEO, Donald Yang. The company has its headquarters in Hong Kong and Mr. Yang resides there.”

  “But Wang is wired into Beijing, isn’t he?” DeWitt said.

  “Hard wired, right up to the top.”

  “Jesus. Did their government know what was planned at Inspiration Hall, the plot to kill the president?”

  “The director wants to know that, too. So will the White House when we tell them. But if you’ll recall, you’re the Bureau’s top China guy. Everyone’s waiting for your opinion.”

  DeWitt decided his faculties would be aided by some sugar and caffeine.

  He took a large bite of his cinnamon roll and a slurp of coffee.

  After swallowing, he said, “The Chinese probably did know what had been planned, but it’s almost certain they had no direct involvement in either the planning or the attempted execution of the plot. They’d just want to position themselves as advantageously as possible. Maybe make a grab for the Diaoyu Islands from Japan while our country was reeling and Jean Morrissey was still getting her bearings.”

  DeWitt’s casual use of the Vice President’s name wasn’t lost on Benjamin.

  For his part, DeWitt thought it might be a bad mistake to develop a lech for a woman who might someday sit in the Oval Office. On the other hand, James J. McGill seemed to be happy.

  Sticking to business, Benjamin asked, “Do the Chinese dislike the president enough to just sit by while she’s assassinated? How would it look if it ever came out they had advance knowledge of the plot and sat on it?”

  “Awful, terrible, end-of-diplomatic-and-trade-relations bad,” DeWitt said. “But they must have thought there’d be no chance of that. As for their dislike of the president, I’ve heard whispers she intends to make a full repayment of our debt to China soon and not allow them to buy any more government bonds. That’d cut China’s leverage with us big time.”

  Benjamin’s eyes got big. Not only as to the substance of the president’s plan, which was enormous, but also to the fact that DeWitt knew about it.

  Benjamin said, “Maybe that explains it.”

  “Explains what?”

  “We didn’t find Busby. But Mr. Yang took the initiative to call the director and told him where to find Busby: on Yang’s yacht, the Shining Dawn. Damn thing’s the largest privately owned motor vessel in the world, like five hundred feet long. Yang says the yacht was leased to an American interest, but he only just found out that it was a shell company. Busby put up the money for the lease and is on board. The light dawned, pardon the pun, when Busby highjacked the yacht and cast Yang’s onboard representative adrift.”

  It was DeWitt’s turn to look stunned. “That sounds like Beijing is trying to avoid looking complicitous, all right. When and where did all this happen?”

  “Yesterday, off the Philippine island of Mindanao.”

  “So Yang’s person, the one Busby put off the yacht, he survived and got the word out?”

  “She did, yeah.”

  DeWitt consumed more coffee and finished the cinnamon roll.

  “Why didn’t Busby just kill the woman?”

  “Maybe he’d been sleeping with her.”

  “What, Busby loved her just enough to ditch her but not do her in?”

  “Well, we can ask him when we catch him. The NRO has satellites looking for the Shining Dawn within a radius of eight hundred miles of Mindanao. That’s as far as it can go in a day, making it a lot easier to find than searching the whole world. Once the yacht is located, aircraft and ships from the navy’s Pacific Fleet will reel Busby in.”

  DeWitt thought about that as he started on the cherry danish.

  “Don’t count on getting Busby until the navy has him locked up.”

  “Stop being a party-pooper,” Benjamin told him. “The director said you and I have to get over to the White House to brief the president. Putting the best spin on the situation is a good idea.” She looked at her watch. “That’s one of the rea
sons I came over early. To plan our presentation … and we have a little extra time if you’d care to renew acquaintances.”

  The temptation to do just that was there for DeWitt.

  Until he remembered how things ended the last time.

  So he said, “Abra, there’s something else on my mind. Would you object if I recommend you for a promotion?”

  Like asking a cat if it would object to taking a nap.

  “What kind of promotion?”

  When he told Benjamin, she was torn.

  She wanted to use sex to cement the deal.

  But she wanted to hear the tiniest details of DeWitt’s idea even more.

  Once that was done, they had to hurry to get to the White House.

  The Oval Office — The White House

  The news that greeted the president and her chief of staff that morning was uplifting on one hand and the cause for despair on the other. The pope, the National Conference of Christians and Jews and the Council on American-Islamic Relations would all come out that day with firm statements calling on Congress to pass laws banning the sales of weapons of war to the general public, and saying it would be immoral of them not to do so.

  The pope also said any American parish that wanted to put up a sign tallying gun deaths had his permission to do so and his blessing in their effort to save lives. Funding the erection of the signs by taking up collections of funds from the faithful was to be seen as a worthy effort.

  As good as that news was, the word from Danbury, Connecticut that Joan Renshaw had killed Erna Godfrey late last night left Patricia Grant and Galia Mindel momentarily dazed. They hadn’t been spared any of the details. Renshaw had strangled Erna, and made a brutally quick job of it. There had been no chance for intervention and no hope of resuscitation.

  No bruises or lacerations had been found on Renshaw.

  Signifying that Erna had made no effort to defend herself.

  She’d simply submitted to her fate.

  For her part, Renshaw had offered only two statements to the warden and correctional officers who’d raced to the cell.

  “I sure hope this was Patti Grant’s idea, putting me in here.” And …