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

  She gestured Meeker and his partner Beemer away from the SUV.

  They stepped across Madison Drive, placing themselves firmly on city property.

  Rockelle told her detectives, “I spoke with Special Agent Benjamin. We exchanged business cards.”

  The detectives had seen that but they didn’t comment.

  The captain continued, “Turns out the victim on the Mall was one Jordan Gilford, a relatively new but senior employee in the Inspector General’s Office at the Department of Defense. The homicide of a federal employee of his standing would be the FBI’s case no matter where his body was found.”

  “Don’t see why they wouldn’t want to take Mays from us, too, that being the case,” Meeker said.

  “If Mays hadn’t killed all those people at the Winstead School, they probably would. The way things stand now, both sides have distinct responsibilities, and we all have to be good about sharing any information that overlaps from one side to the other.”

  “You tell the FBI that?” Beemer asked.

  A thin smile formed on Rockelle’s face. “Special Agent Benjamin and I came to an understanding: If you want to get, you have to give.”

  The two detectives nodded. They trusted the captain, but not the feds. They’d wait to see how the share-and-share-alike idea would work out.

  Rockelle saw Meeker and Beemer’s doubt, but didn’t call them on it. She was still trying to think of ways to leverage cooperation, if she felt the FBI was holding back on her. Not having any bright ideas at the moment, she moved on to other matters.

  She asked her detectives, “In light of Officer Takei finding that nine millimeter slug, what questions should we be asking ourselves?”

  Meeker and Beemer didn’t object to the captain’s use of the Socratic method.

  They were used to it. Liked it, in fact. It helped them to grasp things they already knew subconsciously but hadn’t yet called to mind.

  “The guy who shot Mays used a semi-auto,” Meeker said. “So where are the shell casings?”

  Beemer followed, “If the guy who shot Mays was a vigilante, someone who knew what he did at the Winstead School, would he have picked up the casings or just beat feet as fast as he could?”

  Meeker continued, “If the shooter was a pro who knew enough to clean up after himself, why would he bother to shoot Mays at all? He’s got a kid at Winstead?”

  Both Rockelle and Beemer knew Meeker’s last question was a joke.

  Still, once mentioned, the idea would have to be looked into.

  Rockelle posed the next question. “Could Mr. Mays have done something we don’t know about that got someone to put a hit on him?”

  The three of them thought about that.

  Meeker spoke first. “Mays didn’t go crazy all at once.”

  Beemer nodded. “Guys like him, they build up to their blowups.”

  Rockelle summed up. “So it’s possible Mays might’ve gotten on the bad side of somebody who could’ve killed him or had him killed. Maybe someone who knows a professional killer. If that was the case, it’s a real shame the pro didn’t get to Mays before he cut loose.”

  Beemer’s phone chirped, indicating the receipt of a text. He saw it came from his wife. The message said: Watch this! A video file was attached.

  He showed the text to Rockelle.

  The captain said, “Tell me she doesn’t send you things just for laughs.”

  Beemer shook his head.

  “Go ahead then, play it.”

  Meeker and Rockelle huddled on either side of Beemer and watched.

  They saw Ellie Booker interview Charlotte Mays. Learned how Mrs. Mays had called the Metro Police Department to warn that her husband might start killing people. Ellie held up a list of the people Mays had targeted.

  “Jesus God Almighty,” Rockelle said. “Who screwed this thing up?”

  The video of Ellie Booker said she was waiting for the police to pick up Mays’ note.

  “Go get it,” she told Meeker and Beemer.

  The detectives nodded, but before they left Meeker said, “Something like this happens, you gotta wonder what else could go wrong.”

  As if in response, Rockelle’s ring tone sounded.

  She took out her phone and looked at the caller ID.

  Saw James J. McGill was calling.

  Chapter 6

  The Oval Office — The White House

  McGill and Sweetie stepped into the Oval Office. Sweetie hugged the president first and then McGill embraced his wife. A moment later, the intercom buzzed and Edwina said, “Madam President, Chief of Staff Mindel would like to know if her presence might be helpful.”

  All three people in the Oval Office had to smile.

  Galia’s intelligence network had alerted her not only to McGill’s arrival at the White House but also to the fact that Sweetie was with him. Had McGill come to see the president by himself, Galia would have had to stand back and trust that the discussion would be a personal one, and if anything was said that she needed to know, the president would tell her. With Sweetie in the picture, the question of spousal privilege went out the window.

  Not that the president couldn’t take anyone she chose into her confidence.

  But if she did, Galia hoped she’d be advised of that person’s status.

  The president looked at McGill and Sweetie and got two nods.

  She stepped over to her desk and told Edwina, “Please tell Galia to come in.”

  The chief of staff entered and shook hands with both McGill and Sweetie. McGill took a seat on one of the room’s two facing sofas. Sweetie and Galia sat opposite him. The president stayed on her feet. She said, “Things are going to change. The common wisdom is that nothing can be done about these intolerable shootings because Congress won’t allow it. We’re going to change all that.”

  A look of doubt appeared on Galia’s face.

  The president didn’t miss it. “You don’t think we can, Galia?”

  The chief of staff took and released a deep breath before answering. “I’m at a loss here, Madam President. Are we going to go around Congress? If so, are we going to use private citizens like Mr. McGill and Ms. Sweeney in the effort?”

  “Private citizens are going to drive the effort, Galia. Ultimately, Congress will have to decide whether to catch up or look completely irrelevant.”

  Galia persisted. “If any plan you conceive should threaten Congress’s sense of prerogative or frighten members about the hold they have on their seats, they could pass legislation seeking to curtail your efforts. Then what?”

  “Then I’ll veto that legislation, and you will lead the charge to see that my veto is not overridden,” the president said.

  Galia saw McGill and Sweetie bob their heads.

  Easy for them to agree. She’d be the one who —

  In a moment of epiphany, Galia saw exactly what her role would be. Other than being a good mother and grandmother to her family, she couldn’t imagine doing anything more noble. Her role might be to act as the person who saved the lives of other people’s children.

  James J. McGill had been the man who’d saved her life, and he’d shrugged that off.

  But Galia had seen the profound gratitude her sons felt for McGill.

  If she could do something to prevent the deaths of innocents, she might play the stoic, too.

  But she was certain she’d always feel better about herself from that point forward.

  “I’d be honored to accept any role you have for me, Madam President.”

  With that much settled, the president sat next to McGill and took his hand.

  It was clear to him Patti had a thought in mind for him, too.

  He figured he’d have to step up at least as readily as Galia had.

  “Do you remember telling me, Jim, about a paper you wrote while working on your master’s degree at DePaul?”

  McGill said, “We’ve talked about a few of my scholarly efforts, but I think the paper you have in mind is ‘A Cop
’s-Eye View of the Second Amendment.’”

  “That’s the one. I thought you made some excellent points.”

  Sweetie asked, “Was that the paper where you said cops — but no one else — should have guns?”

  “We both felt that way, as I remember,” McGill told her.

  “Probably wouldn’t get much of an argument from any street cop,” she agreed.

  “How do you feel now, Jim?” the president asked.

  “Probably some allowances should be made for private investigators,” McGill said.

  Sighing, he told the three women in the room about the death of Jordan Gilford and how he was kicking himself for not seeking out Gilford before he was killed.

  “My thought was,” McGill said, “that if Deke and I had shown up — armed — Jordan Gilford would be alive right now.”

  The president squeezed his hand, trying to soothe the guilt McGill was feeling.

  Still, she asked, “Where do you draw the line, Jim? Who should have a firearm and who shouldn’t?”

  “I think that’s the Supreme Court’s job, but if I remember that paper I wrote so long ago, I said the requirements for owning a gun should be that a person is mentally balanced, morally mature and demonstrably law-abiding. The proof for that last part would, at a minimum, be the absence of an arrest record for causing physical harm to an innocent person.”

  “Do you still stand by those standards?” the president asked.

  “I do, but having seen more of life, I’d add an arrest record for psychological intimidation, say stalking or cyber-bullying, to the list of disqualifications for gun ownership. That kind of predatory behavior is a stepping stone to shedding blood.”

  Sweetie and Galia nodded.

  “Those things are terrorism writ small,” the chief of staff said. “I think they’re also indicative of mental defects.”

  “Moral ones, too,” Sweetie added.

  “What was the summary point of that paper, Jim?” the president asked.

  McGill remembered it word for word. “If a situation stinks and you want to change it, you can’t let people hold their noses.”

  Then he told Patti, Galia and Sweetie how he’d acted on his own advice.

  When he went to see Father Inigo de Loyola that morning.

  He wasn’t sure whether he’d get pushback from either Patti or Galia.

  From the smile on her face, he knew Sweetie was with him.

  Patti showed her approval by bussing him on the cheek. “I think that’s brilliant, and I’d be delighted to have the pope weigh in with us. Please tell Father de Loyola to let me know if he needs any help on that front.”

  McGill nodded. He turned to look at Galia. See what she thought.

  “I think it’s a good start,” the chief of staff said, “but the approach should be more ecumenical. I’ll talk to the people I know at the National Conference of Christians and Jews. The Council on American-Islamic Relations, too. Spread the word across the whole spectrum of faiths and denominations in the country.”

  “Now, I’d like to tell you what I have in mind for you, Jim,” the president said. “I know you’ve been very careful about not publicly involving yourself in either policy and politics. You’ve made things easier for me — and Galia — by being so discreet.”

  “Made it easier for myself, too,” McGill said.

  “Yes, you have, but what I’d like you to do now is go on television and discuss all the points you made in ‘Cop’s-Eye View” with the American people watching. Will you do that?”

  “Sure,” McGill said without hesitation, but everyone in the room could see a thought had entered his mind.

  “What is it, Jim?” the president asked.

  “May I choose the interviewer?”

  “You’re thinking of a specific person?” the president asked.

  McGill told her who and why he thought it was a good idea.

  Galia kept a straight face when she heard McGill’s idea, but she came to have a new appreciation for the man’s growing political shrewdness. She wished she’d thought of the idea. Then she had a spin-off on it, and shared it with the others.

  The president and Sweetie beamed in approval.

  McGill nodded and came back with an additional move of his own.

  Everybody liked that, too.

  “All right,” the president said, “we’re off to a good start. We’ll make all these things public as soon as we can.”

  Sweetie raised her hand like a schoolgirl.

  “Yes, Margaret?”

  “I have a couple messages on other topics to pass along on, if that’s all right.”

  “Of course,” the president said.

  “The first is, Senator Roger Michaelson came to see us at McGill Investigations this morning. He’s looking for help clearing his name as regards the would-be attempt on your life at Inspiration Hall. Jim said he wouldn’t help him; I said I would.”

  McGill kept his face impassive. Galia frowned.

  Sweetie looked directly at the president. “Senator Michaelson also asked me to send along a personal message: Despite all your political and personal differences, he said, he would never do anything to cause you physical harm. He said he could imagine how deeply you must have suffered when you lost Mr. Grant and he wouldn’t be a party to anything like that.”

  The president was silent for a moment before asking, “Do you believe him, Margaret?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. What’s your other message?”

  “Putnam asked me to tell you that a new political party is being formed and will be announced soon. Darren Drucker is funding it, and Putnam is organizing it.”

  The president and Galia exchanged a look. The chief of staff clearly wanted to ask questions about the new party, but the president forestalled Galia with a raised hand.

  Patricia Grant said, “Given Mr. Drucker’s political leaning and Putnam’s work with him on the ShareAmerica lobby, I take it the new party will be progressive in its outlook.”

  Sweetie nodded. “‘Democrats with backbones.’ That’s how Putnam put it.”

  “This is in response to True South?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the new party’s name is?”

  “Cool Blue.”

  McGill said, “Wasn’t there a cigarette with that name?”

  “Putnam mentioned that, too, but this cool is spelled with a ‘c’ not a ‘k.’ Putnam checked and there’s no copyright infringement issue.”

  The president gave Galia a nod and she asked, “When does this new party intend to slate its first candidates?”

  “This year, 2014. That’s all I know.” Turning back to the president, Sweetie added, “Putnam said he’ll give you a complete heads-up at any time that’s convenient.”

  “Galia, please find a time early next week.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Is there anything else?” the president asked.

  There was nothing from Galia or Sweetie.

  McGill looked at Patti and said, “Let’s set aside some time tonight to talk.”

  After leaving the Oval Office, McGill put in a call to Captain Rockelle Bullard.

  South China Sea — 4.89˚N, 114.94˚E

  The motor yacht Shining Dawn approached its home port of Bandar Seri Begawan, the capital of the Islamic Sultanate of Brunei. The vessel was 180 meters — 590 feet — long, the largest privately owned yacht in the world. It could cross oceans and reach a top speed of thirty knots. For all its blue-water prowess, though, Shining Dawn could also cruise at leisure in translucent shallows. On top of its versatile seaworthiness, the yacht was also one of the most luxurious vessels afloat.

  Tyler Busby had traded all three of his lesser but still magnificent yachts for a five-year lease on the Shining Dawn. The agreement also provided that Busby’s new nautical haven be fully crewed, fueled and provisioned for the term of the lease. Best of all, the deal was verbal, sealed with a handshake.

  There was no
record of the transaction anywhere, except in the minds of its principals.

  The one item not included in the bargain was the matter of companionship. Sailing around the world, no matter how great the creature comforts, would be a lonely business for Busby without someone to share his conversations, meals and bed. Fortunately, the cruise director — the dragon lady, really — of the Shining Dawn, Ah-lam, was able to solve the problem.

  “If you’d like one lady or many,” she told Busby, “all you have to do is ask. I will see that they are provided.”

  The offer to procure was cost-plus. That didn’t bother Busby. He had fortunes stashed away in Singapore and Hong Kong. Asia was the new hiding place for piles of illicit cash.

  “Are there any limitations? Ethnically, I mean,” Busby said.

  “No limitations. Skin color, eye color, hair color: You may choose what you like.”

  “Does that include you?”

  Busby was good at reading people. He knew that Ah-lam had the heart of an assassin. Her main purpose aboard was to keep an eye on him for the yacht’s owner. Not let him do anything that might bring embarrassment to or cause inconvenience for that esteemed gentleman. Ah-lam, Busby was sure, would throw him overboard in the middle of the night and the middle of the ocean, if so ordered. And do so without blinking.

  Even so, she was a delight to the eye, her every chromosome arranged just so.

  He doubted there were a dozen like her in all of China’s vast population.

  Ah-lam told him, “Just once. And you have to save me for last.”

  So far, after cruising for more than two months, he been able to heed that advice. Ah-lam had provided him with half-a-dozen courtesans: an Australian, a Kiwi, two Japanese, a Korean and a Chinese. All of them were intelligent, able conversationalists and cover girl beautiful. They all brought focus, energy, technique and even whimsical ingenuity to their couplings with him.

  The problem was, no matter how hard they all tried, they couldn’t quite hide the fact they were terrified every moment they were aboard. Having given themselves over to a man wealthy enough to own — or lease — such a yacht and a woman so clearly merciless as Ah-lam, they knew their lives continued as a matter of whim. Busby never harbored an ill thought for any of them, had gone to great lengths to be gentle, courtly even. Except when the throes of passion demanded more.