Jim McGill 02 The Hangman's Companion Read online

  “And now you’re shaking up the whole world,” McGill said, a grin returning to his face.

  The president’s laugh still held a measure of rue.

  “Yes, and beating the hell out of anyone who gives me trouble. Just like my henchman.”

  McGill’s laugh was more joyful. The two of them held onto each other, rocking in each other’s arms, ending the moment with a kiss.

  “I think the queen is right,” McGill said. “Commute Erna’s sentence to life without parole. Let her have a good long time to reflect on what she’s done. Maybe she’ll come to serve some useful purpose, other than bringing us together.”

  Patti nodded. She stood and pulled McGill to his feet. Led him off to bed.

  3

  The call from Sweetie came after Patti had fallen asleep. McGill whispered to Sweetie to hold on a minute and took the phone into the sitting room, closing the bedroom door behind him.

  “Everything all right?” he asked, taking a seat.

  “As much as something like this can be,” Sweetie said.

  “Let’s start with the basics. Are the bad guys behind bars?”

  “Yeah, the principal ones. The local coppers are still rounding up foot soldiers.”

  “But this guy Bao, the lawyer, and his daughter…”

  “Yeah, I disarmed Ms. Bao, kicked her on the knee and broke her pretty jaw. Deke clubbed Daddy after he pulled a gun on SAC Crogher.”

  McGill was amazed. “The guy drew down on Celsus and he’s still alive?”

  Sweetie gave him the official version of what had happened.

  McGill chuckled again, still amused. “Celsus dressed up as a bishop. Wish I could have seen that.”

  “I was glad he agreed to play along. Anyway, we’re hoping that the Virginia prosecutors will charge the Baos with kidnapping the Novaks and conspiring to murder them and Father Francis Nguyen and Bishop George O’Menehy. We’ve got them cold on weapons charges.”

  McGill said, “Good to hear.”

  “Ricky Lanh Huu is talking. Gave away Bao’s plan to blackmail the church in exchange for some drug charges being dropped. The prison authorities are putting the ex-priests in protective custody, there are two of them, and the cons working for Bao are being segregated, too. Nobody’s talking yet, but it looks good that somebody will, if only the pedophiles.”

  McGill said, “So it’s going to be another black eye for the church.”

  Sweetie sighed. “Yeah. Father Nguyen and Bishop O’Menehy are going to co-celebrate Agneta Novak’s funeral mass. After that, the bishop will retire and Francis Nguyen will leave the Church.”

  “Deke’s coming back to work?” McGill asked.

  “I expect so.”

  “Patti and I are taking a week to ourselves.”

  “She can do that?”

  “She’s a Republican president,” McGill reminded her. “They’re famous for taking vacations.”

  Sweetie snorted. “You twisted her arm, didn’t you?”

  “Just a little. We’re going to see Paris together, but don’t tell anyone.”

  The admonition made Sweetie think of the seal of the confessional.

  “Your secret’s safe with me,” she said.

  “One more thing,” McGill said. “Patti’s going to announce she’s decided to commute Erna Godfrey’s sentence.”

  “Life without parole?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You all right with that?”

  McGill said, “I am.”

  “Me, too. Give the Lord a chance to work a little redemption.”

  “Stay well, Margaret.”

  “Bring me something from Paris,” Sweetie said.

  Epilogue

  June 8-14, Paris

  1

  Magistrate Yves Pruet arrived at the Hôpital Saint-Antoine before visiting hours. He came as soon as the gendarmes standing guard outside the room Odo and Harbin shared had called to tell him the two men were awake. As it turned out, he was the second visitor they received that morning.

  Hearing this news, Pruet asked, “Who preceded me?”

  “The American ambassador,” Odo said with a grin.

  His expression revealed gaps in his smile caused by the loss of three teeth. Both men had suffered concussions and there was a question whether Harbin might have suffered a degree of hearing loss. He would be tested after his ears stopped ringing.

  “We have been invited to dinner at the White House,” Harbin said, holding up his invitation. “Our presence is requested by Madam la Présidente.”

  Pruet could see how proud of themselves Odo and Harbin were.

  “I hope you will know which forks and spoons to use,” he said with a straight face.

  Odo looked at Harbin. “I think M’sieur le Magistrat has yet to receive his invitation.”

  “Quel dommage,” Harbin replied. What a pity.

  Odo said, “At the risk of depressing you further, Yves, President Grant has offered a two-week vacation for each of us and a companion to see any part of America we choose.”

  So, Pruet thought, McGill was behind this. He had told his wife what had happened beneath the Pont d’Iéna and his wife was expressing her gratitude in the same fashion Jean-Louis had used to co-opt Colonel Millard and his squad of paramilitaries.

  Pruet nodded. “No doubt the two of you will seek centers of cultural edification.”

  “I am taking Marie to Hawaii,” Odo said.

  “And you, m’sieur?” Pruet asked Harbin.

  “New Orleans,” he said.

  Being single, Harbin had decided to travel alone.

  See what companionship a traveling Frenchman might find in the Big Easy.

  2

  Arriving at his office that morning, wondering how best to pursue the investigation of yet another interior minister, Magistrate Pruet saw a large package wrapped in brown paper lying on his table. His first thought was: Bomb.

  Such was the state of mind in contemporary France. In Paris, public trash bins had been replaced by transparent plastic bags to eliminate the concealment of explosives. Unattended luggage at airports was secured and disposed of on the spot by controlled detonations. All such parcels were presumed guilty until proven otherwise.

  As for the one in Pruet’s office, who but the minions of Interior Minister Jules Guerin, the intended target of Pruet’s investigation, had the authority to breach the security of the building and enter the magistrate’s personal environs?

  Guerin must have decided the way to short-circuit Pruet’s snooping was to eliminate the magistrate. Sacre bleu. Guerin might even have it in mind to mount a full scale coup d’état. That would mean everyone involved in the Kinnard-Duchamp Affair would be in jeopardy, Frenchmen and Americans alike.

  Then the magistrate’s fevered imagination ran headlong into a wall of logic. Jean-Louis Severin was no fool, and his security was plus que parfait. There was very little chance any French president would ever be assassinated. The government security forces knew their jobs too well, having learned from the thirty failed plots to assassinate Charles de Gaulle.

  That cordon of protection, of course, didn’t extend to Pruet himself. But it was the magistrate’s job to do the president’s political dirty work. Even with Odo laid up, Pruet had assumed his old friend, m’sieur le président, would certainly have extended some measure of protection to him.

  Wouldn’t he?

  Finding his thoughts turning once again to a merciful God, the magistrate crept forward to examine the package. Yes, the shipping label was addressed to him by name. Then he saw the return address: Muro del Alcoy, Spain. The town’s name brought a smile to Pruet’s lips.

  Looking at the package with fuller understanding now, he saw that it was just the right size. If an assassin could be so clever as to bait him with something like this, at least he would die happy. The magistrate ripped off the wrapping paper, pulled open the shipping container, and saw the guitar case. He lifted it gently from its bed of excelsior.

&
nbsp; A truly sadistic killer might have brought him safely to this point, knowing there was no chance he would ever leave the guitar case unopened. Fatalistically, Pruet unlatched the case and…

  There it was, its beauty timeless, its gleaming perfection making him feel as young as when he had first set eyes upon its predecessor: an Alhambra classical guitar, the very image of the one he had loved for years. The instrument whose shattered remnants now hung on the office wall behind him.

  He had never named that martyred masterpiece. As a young man he’d thought such an idea to be bourgeois sentimentalism. Well, he was a good deal older now and admittedly bourgeois in his tastes. He would take his time and find the perfect name for his new guitar.

  An envelope lay across the strings. The magistrate opened it and read the card.

  Un cadeau de votre ami Américain. Le partisan de la présidente.

  A gift from your American friend. The president’s henchman.

  Pruet picked up the instrument and held it close, as if embracing a lover.

  In the coming days he would have to interrogate everyone from a senior member of the government to a grotesquely burned behemoth. Instinct told him, having a written agreement in hand or not, he would also face a vicious divorce battle now that Nicolette was no longer in fear of imminent death. He would be attacked in the media. Protestors were likely to jeer his name in the streets. It was possible someone might even try to use an actual bomb against him. That or some other lethal device.

  Had his American friend foreseen all that?

  Provided him with his one true source of comfort.

  Pruet put the guitar down, went to his file cabinet, poured a glass of cognac, and raised his glass. Whether McGill had known of the trials he would face or not, it was time for a toast.

  “Vive l’Amérique! Vive le partisan de la présidente!” said M’sieur le Magistrat, drinking.

  Yves Pruet returned to his table, tuned his new guitar by ear, and began to play.

  3

  That afternoon, Le Monde carried a story with a Washington, DC dateline. President Patricia Darden Grant had issued an executive order commuting Erna Godfrey’s sentence of death to life in prison without the possibility of parole.

  Unknown to the public, however, she issued the order only after heeding McGill’s advice to have a suicide watch instituted on Erna. Just in case the infernal woman didn’t want to go on living on Patti’s terms.

  4

  That same afternoon, McGill called his daughter’s talent agent at William Norris. He didn’t have a direct number for Ms. Annie Klein; he had to go through her assistant, Patrice, just like everyone else. Unlike most callers, however, after identifying himself and stating his business, he wasn’t told Ms. Klein was in a meeting, on another call or otherwise unavailable.

  The agent came on, sounding almost giddy, within five seconds.

  “Mr. McGill, sir, it’s a pleasure to finally speak with you.”

  To McGill’s ear, Caitie’s agent sounded barely older than his daughter.

  “The pleasure is mutual, Ms. Klein. Have you had a chance to speak with Caitie recently?”

  “Yes, sir. She told me about your concern, and hers, regarding the role I originally suggested for her, and you’re both absolutely right. She should do something more substantial.”

  “How about getting a little training first?” McGill asked. “An acting lesson or two.”

  There was a moment of silence from New York.

  “Not a good idea?” McGill inquired.

  “No, no. It’s a terrific idea, Mr. McGill. I was just trying to think who might be right for Caitlin as a drama coach.”

  “I was thinking of my wife.”

  “The president?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Would she … have the time?”

  “If I ask her nicely, she might find the time.”

  The agent digested that, resulting in another silent moment.

  “So you’re saying, sir, we should take our time with this?”

  “You don’t have a great script in hand for Caitie, do you?”

  “No.”

  “And surely your interest is a long-term thing. You’re not simply looking to exploit Caitie’s appearance in Lafayette Square last year.”

  “No, sir. Not at all.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, Ms. Klein, are you relatively new at your job?”

  To her credit, the young woman didn’t hesitate in answering.

  “Yes, I’ve only recently been promoted from … administrative duties.”

  “The legendary mail room?” McGill asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But you’re an intelligent, well-educated young woman.”

  “Summa cum laude from Smith.” The note of pride was clear in Annie Klein’s voice.

  “My congratulations to you and your parents.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Is Caitie your first client?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. McGill. Is she?”

  McGill thought about it. The young agent had already made a favorable impression.

  He told her, “Caitie is blessed, Ms. Klein. She has many fine female role models in her life: her mother, her older sister, her stepmother, her godmother. But I think the addition of a young professional woman as a mentor could be valuable. Of course, you’d have to hold Caitie in the same high regard the rest of us do. In addition, any acting she might eventually do has to be a companion piece to becoming as academically accomplished as you are. Are you up for all that?”

  “Mr. McGill, with all due respect to your daughter Abigail, I’ll look out for Caitie like another sister. I’ll give her the benefit of my best advice whether that means comforting her or giving her a firm shove in the right direction.”

  McGill liked the young woman’s attitude.

  “All right, Ms. Klein. I’ll call you in a week. We’ll set up an appointment for Caitie and me to meet with you. Please have a long-range plan for Caitie in hand. One that will bring her to your current age. One that will make me as proud of her as your parents must be of you.”

  “May I ask you something personal, sir?”

  “You may.”

  “Is your attitude toward me, personally, going to be paternalistic?”

  “More like fatherly, I’d say. Will that be a problem?”

  “Actually, no. That’s what I was hoping you’d say. My dad is a great guy but he does research in a lab. He’s not exactly worldly. In this business, I wouldn’t mind having another older man in my corner. Would you be up for that?”

  McGill reckoned that turnabout was fair play.

  “Sure,” he said.

  5

  A light knock sounded at the door the moment McGill ended the call. Almost made him think someone was eavesdropping. Galia? No, Patti had sent her home to keep an eye on things.

  “Who’s there?” he asked.

  “Je recherche le partisan de la présidente,” a sultry female voice answered.

  Not only did McGill recognize the voice, not only did he understand the message, “I’m looking for the president’s henchman,” he even knew the proper French response.

  “Me voici.” Here I am. Gabbi would be proud of him. “Entrez.”

  The door opened and for just a second he thought it was Gabbi standing there.

  But she was laid up in the American Hospital in Paris, letting her fractured pelvis heal.

  The stunning blonde wearing sunglasses was his wife.

  The president told McGill, “Your mouth’s hanging open, sailor.”

  She slid the shades halfway down her nose and gave him a smile.

  “Fooled ya, huh?” Patti asked.

  McGill said, “Only for a minute. Never told you, but I have a tattoo of you as a blonde.”

  Patti threw her stylish Parisian clutch purse at him. McGill fielded it neatly.

  “Not a chance,” she said, walking toward him. “I have eyes-only clearance on that material
.”

  McGill got to his feet and kissed his wife. “Still the same great kisser,” he said. He looked at her closely. “A wig, right?”

  “A very good one, quite expensive.”

  “Courtesy of the taxpayers?”

  The wisecrack earned him a sock on the shoulder.

  “From my personal account. It was suggested to me that for security purposes during our sojourn to Paris I alter my appearance. So I thought a man who frequently works with fair-haired women—Sweetie and now Ms. Casale—might like the same look from me.”

  “You wear it well,” McGill said. “Red hair would be nice, too.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. For now, though, I thought if you could play Belmondo, I should assume the image of an icon of French cinema, too.”

  McGill regarded his wife again, and guessed, “Bardot?”

  She shook her head. “Jeanne Moreau.”

  McGill said, “I know the name, but I’m not familiar with her work. Did she ever do a movie with Rory Calhoun?”

  “No.”

  McGill tried again. “How about with Belmondo?”

  Patti smiled. “Moderato Cantabile. Moreau is a rich, bored wife. Belmondo is a blue-collar guy who catches her eye.”

  “Très français. Do we have a script?”

  “We’ll improvise. Now, I want you to see someone else who’ll be in character as he watches over us.” She picked up McGill’s phone and summoned SAC Crogher.

  Celsus appeared a minute later and McGill beamed when he saw him.

  The SAC was wearing wire rim glasses and a beret.

  His sneer of disgust at the entire world was perfect.

  “Magnifique,” McGill said.

  6

  McGill and Patti took in all the Paris tourist sites. The costumed Crogher directed a ring of Secret Service agents also dressed in a casually French style. The agents stayed close but not oppressively so. Orbiting around the Americans was an undercover legion of gendarmes provided courtesy of M’sieur le Président Jean-Louis Severin.