Jim McGill 03 The K Street Killer Read online

  “Eisenhower,” Patti said. “So you’re going to enlist in the army?”

  Mather Wyman laughed again. “No, Madam President, I’m going home to Ohio to run for a seat in the House of Representatives as an independent. But I’m going to wear a button on my lapel that says, ‘I’m like Ike.’ I’ll explain the similarities between my ideas and his. I’m not sure how that will sell these days, but the fellow holding the seat at the moment is a dolt. So I just might win, and if I do, I’m going to come back here and give all sorts of people heartburn.”

  The president nodded, thinking that was a fine idea.

  “Are you going to borrow from Lincoln as well?” she asked.

  The vice president shook his head. “That’s too much of a reach for me. On the other hand, the first woman to reach the White House, someone who is a historical figure in her own right, she might wear Lincoln’s mantle more comfortably.”

  Patti laughed at that and finished her drink.

  And wrote the first check to the Wyman for Congress campaign fund.

  Then she sent for Galia.

  White House Physician’s Suite

  Welborn Yates and Elspeth Kendry stood in the outer office getting acquainted through the vehicle of polite debate while McGill, Kenny and Nick gathered in the examining room.

  “Come on, Captain Yates,” Elspeth said. “You can tell me about the nature of the warning you received. I’m supposed to know these things. It’s my job.”

  A moment after receiving the phone call on the basketball court, Jim McGill had sprinted for the White House, alarming several of the uniformed Secret Service officers patrolling the grounds. Nothing made those guys freak out like the thought that a threat had somehow slipped past them.

  Elspeth held up a hand to calm them down before the situation became an exercise in Keystone Kops burlesque. The uniforms slowed their pace, but they continued to follow at a trot. Elspeth and Welborn, meanwhile, dogged McGill’s heels. They were both sure they could overtake the president’s henchman, but even in the event of a mad dash across the South Lawn protocol was to be observed.

  You didn’t upstage the senior person.

  They both saw McGill gather his son into his arms as a sober-faced Artemus Nicolaides closed the door to the examining room. Neither Welborn nor Elspeth cared to speculate as to the news that was being delivered to the senior McGill.

  So they turned to a discussion of their respective responsibilities.

  Welborn said, “If it were a matter of physical safety, I’d tell you, but it’s not.”

  “How do you know?” Elspeth asked. “Does your training include such analysis?”

  Welborn’s mother had long ago instructed him that a woman might know things he didn’t, and he’d often found that to be true. He took a seat, glanced at the door to the examining room and then at Elspeth Kendry.

  He was still trying to decide if talking to her would be a betrayal of a personal confidence when Deke Ky burst into the room.

  “Holmes,” Deke said in a loud voice, “is he —”

  Welborn held an index finger to his lips: Shush.

  Deke knew how to pick up on a cue, but he continued in a quiet voice, “I heard he was running like his life depended on it.”

  “Maybe not his,” Elspeth said softly. She nodded her head at the door to the examining room.

  “Kenny,” Welborn said.

  Deke winced. He took the seat next to Welborn.

  The Air Force officer told the Secret Service special agent, “This lady would like me to tell her something I learned relevant to Mr. McGill.”

  Deke got back on his feet and asked, “Who are you?”

  “A colleague,” Elspeth said.

  She couldn’t believe the number of tightly wound guys around this place. Maybe it was something in the bottled water at the White House. She explained to Deke who she was, what her duties included, and how Captain Yates was holding back on something maybe she should know.

  Deke looked at Welborn. “Tell her. She’ll know better than you if it’s something that could be a threat. If it’s not, don’t worry. She didn’t get to where she is by being a gossip.”

  Elspeth smiled. “Why thank you, Special Agent. That’s the nicest compliment I’ve had all day.”

  Welborn said, “He’s a silver-tongued devil, our Deke is.”

  The Secret Service agents turned to him. Their looks said the same thing: Give.

  Welborn gave: “WorldWide News has decided James J. McGill has enjoyed his privacy long enough. With or without his cooperation, they intend to have a TV crew follow him through his workday for an unspecified length of time to show the American people how he can be both the president’s husband and a private investigator. They hope, my source says, to watch as he works a juicy case. Juicy is their word not mine. In short, they intend to put his life under a microscope.”

  Before either Deke or Elspeth could sort through the security ramifications of all that, the door to the examining room opened. Kenny McGill and Doctor Nicolaides appeared to have put on what they considered to be brave faces. So had the president’s henchman … only he couldn’t hide the fear in his eyes.

  White House Examining Room

  As soon as McGill had rushed into the room, the first thing Kenny McGill had said to his father was, “Dad, I’m going to be all right. Nick’s going to see to it; he said so.”

  Not wanting to make a bad situation worse, McGill had only asked, “What else did he tell you?”

  Kenny had taken one of the two chairs in the room; Nick had taken the other.

  A sign of solidarity, McGill realized, his heart sinking.

  Kenny said, “Well, first he asked me how I’m doing. Was the way I went about my day any different lately from what it usually was.”

  “Went about your day?” McGill asked.

  That was Nick speaking; those weren’t Kenny’s words.

  “Yeah. You know, the things I do every day. Were they any different?”

  McGill went down on one knee in front of his son. “Were they?”

  Kenny nodded.

  “How?”

  “I told you about getting more tired than usual, and maybe you noticed I don’t eat quite the same way I usually do.”

  “You mean like a buzz saw.”

  “Yeah. I like to eat like that, but nothing tastes good to me now.”

  “What else, Kenny?”

  His son looked down, avoiding McGill’s eyes.

  “There are some things I didn’t tell Mom.” He looked up, a plea for understanding on his face. “I didn’t want to worry her; I didn’t want to scare myself.”

  Kenny was doing a bang-up job of scaring him, McGill thought.

  In a soft voice, he asked, “What other things, Kenny?”

  “My nose bleeds almost any time I sneeze … and I get bruises when I don’t even remember bumping into anything.” Tears started to run from Kenny’s eyes. “Dad, I’d be scared if I didn’t have Nick.”

  McGill shifted his gaze in the direction of the White House physician.

  “We’re going to do some blood tests,” he said. Then, not waiting for lab results, Nick silently mouthed the one-word reason for the tests: Leukemia.

  McGill didn’t have any trouble doing the lip-reading, and the word couldn’t have hit him any harder if it had been shouted. But he did his level best not to show his fear.

  Kenny asked his father, “I couldn’t have a better doctor than the guy who takes care of Patti, could I?”

  “No way,” McGill said. “He’s the best.”

  Kenny nodded, taking comfort in that reassurance. He firmed his jaw, making McGill proud. Scaring him all the more. Kenny got to his feet and so did McGill.

  “Nick says we’ve got some work to do,” Kenny told his father, “but if it’s okay, I want to see Mom now.”

  “Absolutely,” McGill said.

  He knew if they were going to get Kenny through this everyone would have to help.


  White House, Chief of Staff’s Office

  Galia Mindel picked up her notepad and her favorite pen to take with her into the Oval Office. She was burning with curiosity as to what Mather Wyman had on his mind. She didn’t doubt for a minute that would be the subject of her discussion with the president.

  Maybe she couldn’t strong-arm Wyman into telling her why he wanted to see the president but she could take comfort in knowing she’d get the word before anyone else. In fact, there was only one man in the building who could keep secrets from her and —

  He entered her office at that very moment.

  Without a knock or a by your leave.

  James J. McGill all but collapsed into one of her guest chairs. She would have bristled at his lack of manners under most circumstance, but the man looked nothing like his usual confident, energetic, wise-cracking self. He looked almost lost, as if he’d chosen her office at random because he had to get off his feet before he fell.

  Galia glanced up, saw Captain Yates standing in the hallway. He looked stricken, too, but what really scared Galia was when Yates pressed his palms together in a prayerful manner and then closed her door.

  Good God, Galia thought, what was going on? If divine intercession was needed, what could the problem be? She put down her pad and pen and picked up the phone to do something she’d never done before.

  “Madam President,” Galia said, “I’ll be with you shortly. Something unexpected has come up … yes, of course. I’ll let you know if I need more time.”

  The woman was extraordinary, Galia thought, a chief executive secure enough to know there were moments when even she was not at the top of everyone’s to-do list. Galia sat on a corner of her desk and tried to engage McGill’s eyes.

  “What can I do for you, sir?”

  Rare was the day that she called McGill sir, but it seemed appropriate at the moment. He looked up at her and seemed to remember why he was there.

  McGill asked, “Does the president have anyone coming to stay at Blair House soon?”

  Blair House was just across Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House. It was where VIP guests of the president were welcome to stay when they came to town.

  Galia shook her head. “It’s open for the next several weeks.”

  McGill wondered if that would be long enough.

  He said, “And it’s the president’s prerogative to decide who may stay there?”

  “Yes, it is. Would you care to tell me what—”

  McGill told her about Kenny, how his son was relying on Nick to see him through his treatment, how his ex-wife and his daughters, their step-father, too, maybe, would need a place to stay.

  Galia Mindel and James J. McGill had had their differences, many of them, but Galia was the mother of two grown sons and if one of them … she had to repress a shudder. She stood and put a hand on McGill’s shoulder.

  “I’ll see to it that Blair House is yours as long as you need it. We’ll get the best people in the country to take care of Kenny.”

  McGill got to his feet. “Thank you, Galia. I’m sure the president is as busy as ever. I’ll let her know what … what the situation is when I see her. It’s probably best not to distract her before then.” And then McGill was gone.

  He was right about not distracting the president, Galia thought. But what reason could she give Patricia Darden Grant for keeping her waiting?

  WorldWide News, Washington Bureau

  Hugh Collier was having trouble paying attention to the Yank producer they’d assigned to him. Hell, he was having trouble keeping his eyes open. He’d gotten in from Sydney little more than an hour ago, and before boarding the plane he’d played two hours of football and had drunk beer for three hours after that. Doing all that should have helped him sleep, what with the luxury afforded by one of his uncle’s Boeing 777-VIPs, except the flight seemed turbulent for every one of its bloody 9,758 statute miles.

  He’d never been afraid to fly, not even halfway around the world, but that bloody flight was enough to make a bloke stay within a longneck of the ground. More jolts than he’d ever got playing footy. He doubted he’d slept more than —

  He felt a gentle hand on his arm: the producer. “Mr. Collier, would you like to get some sleep and try this again in the morning?”

  It was the Yank producer, telling him he’d nodded off once more. She was a thin bird, a bit severe in her appearance, but he could tell already she was smart, and she had a pleasant voice. Soft and sweet, almost intimate. Soothing to the ear.

  If he’d cared for women, he might have given her a tumble. But he was a man’s man, and that was one of the reasons he’d been dragged so far away from home. Dear old uncle, Sir Edbert Bickford, master of the global media empire known as WorldWide News, wanted to know if James J. McGill was queer and his marriage to the president a masquerade.

  His lordship had put it to Hugh: “Imagine what a brilliant ruse it would be, President Grant marrying this fellow, giving him all the protection of both marriage and the presidency when for all we know he’s nothing more than her personal assassin, waiting to be dispatched against her worst enemy. Kill one, terrorize all and get away with it.”

  Hugh thought Uncle Edbert should retire to one of his collection of tropical islands and write thrillers under a suitably butch pen-name and publish them through one of his many conservative imprints. With his imagination, he’d be a smash success.

  Uncle, of course, had seen through Hugh’s impassive demeanor and knew he was thinking subversive thoughts.

  “What about that Roger Michaelson fellow?” he asked. “He’s a United States senator and this McGill brute almost beat him to death … and got away with it.”

  “It was a rough game of basketball, Uncle, that’s all,” Hugh responded.

  A damn rough game, Hugh thought. If McGill could run a bit, he might make a decent footy player.

  Uncle was not to be dissuaded. The truth was, with another American presidential election in the offing, Edbert Bickford was going to do his best to determine who the next occupant of the Oval Office would be. He had absolutely no use for Patti Grant, but before he went after her hammer and tong, he wanted reassurance James J. McGill wouldn’t take his head off for being impertinent.

  A reasonable precaution, Hugh agreed. McGill certainly didn’t mind a bit of brawling. The story about him and his three friends taking on that great ugly brute under a bridge in Paris was certainly enough to occupy a chap’s imagination.

  Uncle, of course, also wanted to know if McGill was gay because he always wanted to know that about his potential enemies. Confirmation of a sexual orientation other than one’s own made adversaries easier to despise, gave one license to pursue any means to vanquish them. And who better to ferret out one nance than another?

  Hugh might have taken offense at such bigotry, except Uncle paid him so bloody much money. Had educated him to a fare-thee-well: Oxford, Columbia and UCLA. Degrees in literature, business administration and law. Made him the highest paid, most well rounded chap on his football side, and sponsored the team to boot.

  Most important, the crusty old bugger had taken him under his wing after his own father had turned him out for being gay. There was precious little Hugh wouldn’t do for Uncle Edbert. If this berk McGill were to take a crack at Uncle, he’d put a quick end to that.

  A quick end to McGill, if need be.

  If he could get past the Secret Service, of course.

  He realized he’d closed his eyes again, and forced them open.

  He smiled at the producer.

  “What’s your name, dear?”

  “Ellie Booker.”

  “Lovely. Would you have a car brought ‘round to take me to my digs, Ellie? You’re spot on about my needing rest. But I’ll be right as rain in the morning.”

  Blair House

  Carolyn took the news the hardest. McGill was sure she had to bite her tongue to keep from screaming. The results of the lab tests were in: Kenny’s white cell count left n
o doubt that Nick had the diagnosis right. Kenny was upstairs sleeping now, with Nick watching over him, and would be admitted to George Washington University Hospital in the morning. Johns Hopkins, up in Baltimore, was generally thought to have a somewhat better reputation, but Galia and Nick were already lining up an all-star team of cancer specialists to consult with their colleagues in Washington, who would have the hands-on responsibilities.

  McGill explained all that to Carolyn, Abbie, Caitie and Lars. Kenny really would have the best doctors in the country lending their knowledge and skills to help make him well. Reason, however, did little to dispel fear. Carolyn sobbed into Lars’ shoulder, keeping her anxiety quiet enough not to disturb Kenny’s sleep. Abbie took her cue from Mom and rushed to McGill, crying against his chest as he held her.

  Only Caitie refused to yield to fear as a first resort. She stood apart from her father, looking at him, fists clenched at her sides, clearly wanting to strike out at someone or something. She turned her gaze on everyone present.

  Almost vibrating with rage, she said, “We won’t let Kenny die, we won’t.”

  McGill could tell she was about to repeat her oath at a shout. He shook his head. That was when Caitie ran to him and cried, but hers were tears of frustration. She was ready to do anything to help her brother, but she had no idea of how to help him.

  Pray, McGill thought. No atheists in the cancer ward.

  He told the others, “We need to call Sweetie. She should be here.”

  Caitie stepped away from her father. Now she had something she could do.

  She pulled out her cell phone. She had Sweetie on speed-dial.

  The White House, the Residence

  Blessing, the White House’s head butler, brought McGill a glass of ice tea. They were in the room the president called McGill’s Hideaway. Sensitive to the moods and needs of the First Couple, Blessing had no trouble seeing something was seriously amiss with McGill. He looked … not defeated but sorely wounded.