Jim McGill 03 The K Street Killer Page 5

  To be fair, the white guy had been stealing cars longer than Achilles had been alive.

  For most of his grand-theft-auto career, he’d done no physical violence.

  But after a job in Las Vegas — goddamn Vegas — everything changed.

  Making his getaway, he’d crashed his boosted ride into a car filled with young guys.

  Three of ‘em, all Air Force pilots he’d found out later, had died.

  A fourth guy, another pilot, had survived.

  That was the guy who scared the thief.

  He was sure that bastard would come for him someday.

  So now he didn’t leave anyone alive behind him.

  The White House, the West Wing

  Kira, true to her word, delivered Rockelle Bullard to Welborn’s office. The Metro homicide lieutenant looked around and shook her head in wonder. Welborn rose to greet her.

  “Good to see you again, Lieutenant Bullard,” he said, extending his hand. “Kira’s introduced herself? Told you our good news?”

  She smiled and said, “Yes, she has.”

  Kira told Welborn, “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

  Rockelle turned to Kira and said, “A pleasure meeting you, Ms. Fahey. I hope you and the captain here have a fine life together.”

  “Thank you.” Kira gave Welborn a wave and departed.

  Welborn gestured Rockelle to a guest chair and took his seat behind his desk.

  “You’re a real lucky man,” Rockelle told him.

  “I know. Just show up for work one day and wind up meeting the president of the United States and the woman you’re going to marry. Get a promotion for doing a so-so job on your first case.”

  “Yeah, how does that work?” Rockelle wanted to know.

  “I told the president my mother voted for her. She seemed to have a soft spot for me after that.”

  “It’s all politics then?”

  “What else could it be in this town?”

  “Too damn true,” Rockelle said.

  “So, how may I help Metro homicide?” Welborn asked.

  Rockelle told him all about the three dead lobbyists wearing pins that may or may not resemble Porky Pig. Then she told him about the fourth lobbyist, this one still breathing, whom she met that morning. Asked Welborn did he know the man.

  Welborn nodded. “Sure, I know Putnam.”

  The homicide lieutenant made a sour face. “You do? Damn, I was hoping he was just blowing smoke, trying to keep us from breathing too heavy on him.”

  “You’d do that, Rockelle, make people sweat?”

  She smiled. “Like an August night in Alabama.”

  That being the case, Welborn thought it worth mentioning to say, “He actually is Margaret Sweeney’s boyfriend. Or close to it.”

  “Puts him right next to the president’s henchman then, doesn’t it? And we all know who that man’s close to.” Rockelle looked out Welborn’s open door. “She ever stop by here?”

  “It’s been known to happen.”

  “That’d be something, me meeting the president.”

  “She’s a lot like you.”

  Rockelle rolled her eyes.

  “What I mean is, you both make a powerful impression.”

  The homicide lieutenant laughed. “Now I know how you get ahead; you’re just a natural sweet-talker.”

  “There are those who might disagree.” He thought Calanthe Bao, now residing in federal custody, certainly would.

  “We won’t talk about them. Let me just explain things a little more and maybe if I get to solve this case, I’ll make captain, too.”

  Rockelle told Welborn it was her considered opinion that Mr. Putnam Shady was holding out on her. He knew more than he’d let on. Most times, that’d call for him being sweated for a good long time. Except everybody knew if a person of interest had money and/or connections the questioning couldn’t be quite as forthright or lengthy.

  “You think you might help me?” Rockelle asked. “If you know Mr. Shady well enough for him to cooperate with you, that is.”

  “I actually know Margaret Sweeney better,” Welborn said. “I could ask her to ask him.”

  “She’d be willing to help?”

  Welborn gave it a moment’s thought. “Yes, I think she would.”

  “Then I’d owe the both of you favors.”

  “Sure,” Welborn said, “but then you’ll have two friends in high places.”

  The Oval Office

  The president welcomed the vice president into her office. Being a considerate hostess, she inquired if he’d like a cup of coffee or a soft drink.

  “Madam President,” Vice President Mather Wyman said, “if it’s all the same to you, I’d like a scotch on the rocks. Maybe a bowl of peanuts, too.”

  All right, Patricia Darden Grant thought, something was up, but whatever it was she would roll with it. She asked Edwina to have a bottle of Laphroaig, a bucket of ice, two glasses and a large bowl of shelled peanuts sent to her office.”

  “Any cigars, Madam President?” the secretary asked dryly.

  “We’ll let you know, Edwina.”

  The two top elected officials in the land contented themselves discussing the upcoming wedding of the vice president’s niece, Kira Fahey, to Captain Welborn Yates. Both of them were enthusiastic about the chances for the young couple having a wonderful life together.

  Within minutes, Edwina led a young Navy Culinary Specialist pushing a linen draped liquor cart into the Oval Office. The specialist built drinks to order and placed the bowl of peanuts within easy reach of both the president and vice president. He was about to withdraw when Edwina cleared her throat. He’d forgotten to set out the napkins. The omission was quickly corrected, the specialist blushing.

  “Very nicely done,” the president told the young man.

  “Never had better service,” the vice president agreed.

  “I’ll see you’re not disturbed, Madam President,” Edwina said, shepherding the specialist out with a motherly pat on the back.

  Mather Wyman shook his head as the door closed. He was in his sixties, and he said to the president, “Young people keep looking younger to me every day, Madam President, and they still keep turning out to serve our country, here and in places far more dangerous.”

  “We must be doing something right, Mather.” She raised her glass. “To the United States and all who love it.”

  The vice president touched his glass to hers and they sipped their drinks.

  Hoping to put the vice president at ease, Patti Grant picked up a few nuts and popped them into her mouth. She chewed for a moment and asked, “So how serious is it, Mather, whatever you have to tell me?”

  The vice president put his drink down and clasped his hands, looked Patti in the eye.

  “Not terribly, Madam President. It’s just that I’ve decided to retire at the end of our term. I won’t be running for office with you again.”

  Park Reservation Number One

  The government didn’t believe in simplicity, but it revered pecking orders. For those reasons, the National Park Service designated the exterior walls and the grounds of the White House as Park Reservation Number One. McGill thought he really shouldn’t kvetch, not even to himself, about the bureaucratic mentality. The grounds were immaculately kept and offered all sorts of outdoor amenities.

  At the moment, he was shooting hoops on the basketball court. Nick had poked his head out of the examining room and told him he’d like to run a few tests on Kenny and there was no reason why McGill should have to linger in a stuffy waiting room. As a father, however, Jim McGill felt it was his obligation to stay close to his son; he’d been tempted to go into the examining room and see what Nick was doing. Only the fear that he might embarrass Kenny kept him from barging in.

  Perceptive fellow that Nick was, he recognized McGill’s recalcitrance, and opened the door wider. McGill saw Kenny sitting on the examining table with his shirt off and a smile on his face. He gave his
dad a smile and a wave. Nick arched his eyebrows.

  McGill shrugged and got up to go, holding up his cell phone: Call me.

  He went to the residence and got his personal basketball. Out on the court he started knocking down shots. He told himself it was a good sign that his touch with the ball was so accurate. That bit of wishful thinking carried him only so far. What he really wanted was another game of one-on-one with Senator Roger Michaelson.

  He wanted somebody to bash if it turned out Kenny wasn’t all right.

  The basketball court was shielded from public view by stands of closely planted trees, but the uniformed Secret Service officers who patrolled the grounds took immediate note of McGill’s presence, and following instructions they’d received earlier, made two phone calls to report their sighting.

  McGill saw them and assumed they were only following orders from Celsus Crogher — or Galia Mindel — to report his whereabouts. Both of them liked to keep tabs on him.

  But a few minutes later McGill saw Welborn Yates approach. He was disappointed the young Air Force investigator wasn’t dressed for playing ball. The longer Nick kept McGill waiting, the more anxious he got. A game, even against an opponent he didn’t intend to maul, might have dispersed some of his nervous energy.

  He considered calling out to Welborn to go get dressed for a game. He usually was loath to throw his weight around with any of the White House staffers, but he honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so worried. If this was the kind of stress Carolyn had to deal with all the years he was a cop, he owed her an apology.

  To hell with it, McGill thought. He was about to step out of character and tell Welborn to suit up when he saw a trim, dark-haired woman appear and follow Welborn, heading McGill’s way. She stopped for a moment to exchange a few words with a uniformed Secret Service officer who was passing by, so she wasn’t a gate crasher. No, the way she carried herself, the gray tailored suit she wore, she was Secret Service too, a special agent.

  Welborn was close enough now to raise his voice in greeting.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. McGill. Sorry to interrupt, but—”

  McGill held up a hand, nodded in the direction of the special agent walking their way.

  “Do you know that woman, Welborn?”

  He turned to look and said, “No, sir, I don’t.”

  Welborn’s posture became defensive, touching McGill with his concern.

  The woman saw she was about to confront two men on edge.

  “Whoa, guys.” She stopped and raised her hands. “I’m on your side.”

  “Who are you?” McGill asked.

  “Secret Service Special Agent Elspeth Kendry.” Using two fingers she fished out her ID. She told McGill, “SAC Crogher told me to see you at my first opportunity.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m your new threat assessment coordinator.”

  McGill remembered his promise to Patti to permit Crogher to have one of his minions brief McGill on just how many people wished him ill on any given day. He turned to Welborn.

  “And why are you here?”

  “To bring you a warning,” Welborn said.

  That got Elspeth Kendry’s attention.

  But before matters could be discussed further, McGill’s cell phone played the first two bars of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”

  Washington, DC, Northwest

  Sweetie and Putnam each ordered a chicken salad sandwich at Camille’s Cafe on F Street. They had arrived during a lull and chose a table in the shade. Putnam’s trust in Sweetie was such that he took the seat with his back to the street. There was also a practical aspect to his choice. If someone appeared on the sidewalk who needed shooting, he didn’t want Margaret to have to waste time turning around.

  As they were currently seated, he was confident she could shoot past him and do no unintended damage.

  Sweetie took a sip of ice tea, a step down from the stuff they served at the White House but entirely respectable for a commercial place. She scanned the nearby environs and then turned her attention to Putnam.

  “So how serious is this threat to you?” she asked.

  “Serious enough to put you in my will.”

  Very little surprised Sweetie, but that did.

  “What?”

  “Really. My first thought was just to leave you your basement apartment, but then I thought that might make it hard for the estate to sell the rest of the building. And what if they did find a buyer and you didn’t like your new upstairs neighbor? So if I go, you get the whole place.”

  Sweetie didn’t see any sign that Putnam was BS-ing her.

  But he could be a sneaky tease.

  “That’s very nice of you,” she said, “but a whole townhouse would be far too grand for me. I’d have to sell it, give the money to charity and find new, suitably modest quarters.”

  Now, Putnam was taken aback; he didn’t see any sign Sweetie was joking either.

  “You’d do that? Sell a bequest?”

  “I’d make sure the money went to a worthy cause.”

  Putnam said, “That’s all very well, but it’s not in keeping with the spirit of my intent.”

  Sweetie shrugged. “What can I say? I’m not someone who lives extravagantly.”

  “What if I asked you to move upstairs with me right now, while I’m still alive?”

  That gave Sweetie pause. “Are you asking that?”

  Putnam firmed his jaw. “I would, if I knew you’d say yes.”

  “I think, maybe, you’ve figured out by now I’m not the kind of girl to live in sin.”

  “More’s the pity but, yes, I know that.”

  Sweetie took a deep breath. “So, what we’re talking here, all of a sudden, is —”

  “Sure sounds like it,” Putnam said. “Funny how something like that can sneak up on you. I didn’t even think to get you a ring or anything.”

  “If you ever do, make it something simple. Understated.”

  Having made her implicit acceptance to an unvoiced proposal, Sweetie turned to look for the approach of any assassin who might spoil their unspoken plans. She jumped when Putnam took her hand. Pulled it back, as it was her gun hand.

  “Margaret, we’re very close to doing something here, but when we do it for real, I promise I’ll do it right. Not over chicken salad sandwiches.”

  Sweetie smiled at him. “I like chicken salad, but okay.” Turning her attention back to the threat horizon, she added, “Now, tell me what’s going on.”

  Putnam looked around, too. Not for a gunman but for any signs of a snoop.

  Finding none, he told Sweetie, “This situation is this: Two groups of lobbyists and politicians, one of which includes me, are doing battle to decide who’s going to run the federal government.”

  Sweetie turned her attention back to Putnam.

  Again, she saw no indication he was pulling her leg.

  “Yeah, I know,” he said, “the things I get myself into, but it was bound to come to this sooner or later. Only thing is, I never thought it would turn into an actual shooting war.”

  The White House, the Oval Office

  Patti freshened her drink and the one in front of the vice president.

  She hadn’t given the least consideration to the idea that Mather Wyman wouldn’t be her running mate again. But she would bet Galia had, if for no other reason than a good many men in their sixties never lived to see their seventies.

  “Are you well, Mather?” Patti asked.

  He grinned. “As sound as the dollar used to be.”

  “Will be again, if I get my way,” the president said.

  The vice president’s expression turned rueful. “And there, Madam President, is the rub. I fear for our ability to govern. Not just yours and mine, but the country’s collectively. We’re beset by such divisive partisanship that gridlock is the norm in Washington. The rest of the world is racing into the future and we’re still debating the theory of evolution. Robber barons and their useful fools de
cide too many elections. Our party used to be criticized for being country club elitists, but I think we were far more egalitarian then than we are now. I’m just sorry that I did not come to you with my decision sooner.”

  Mather Wyman’s bluntness left Patti almost speechless.

  But she managed to say, “Why didn’t you come to me sooner, Mather?”

  “Two reasons. I believe that you’re an exceptional woman and possibly will be a great president. I’d hoped that your election would be the start of a new, more reasoned era in government. Regrettably, it seems to me that hope has died.”

  Patti sighed inwardly. She thought she’d given Mather Wyman a portfolio of duties important enough to keep him busy and make him feel valued. He was her administration’s lead voice on education, energy and immigration. Of course, if he’d felt all his best ideas in those areas had been stymied by Congress …

  “Perhaps if we’d talked more, you would feel more hopeful,” Patti said.

  They had two scheduled lunch meetings per month. Mather had told her he wasn’t someone who needed a lot of handholding, but now the president felt as if she hadn’t been sufficiently attentive. The problem was, so many people needed her time.

  “What was your other reason, Mather? You said you had two.”

  “I had to decide what I would do with myself.”

  “Get as far away from Washington as you can?”

  Mather Wyman laughed. He held the bowl of peanuts up to the president. She took a handful. He put the bowl down and filled his hand and then his mouth with goobers. He kept smiling as he chewed and his mischievous look gave Patti reason to think something good was coming.

  After he swallowed and took a sip of scotch, the vice president said, “There was a Republican president my dad took me to see when I was a boy. He was a war hero, but he warned against the military-industrial complex; he believed in the right of workers to bargain collectively; he appointed the chief justice of the Supreme Court that decided school segregation was illegal, and once that decision was handed down he sent federal troops in to enforce it.”