by Joseph Flynn
When she’d first told him she was going to run for president, he’d said, “Who better?”
That was before he’d known better. Now, having been through the drill for three years, he ran hot and cold about Patti’s job. He’d been honest in telling the newsies he couldn’t imagine anyone doing a better job. At the risk of feeling unpatriotic, though, he thought Mather Wyman might do a good enough job.
If only the country wasn’t so damn divided, he might even secretly wish for an upset victory by Wyman so he and Patti could retire to private lives. Not that he wanted to stop working, not for a few more years anyway. When he wanted to amuse himself, he imagined continuing to work cases as a private investigator and having Patti work for him.
That’d be a hoot, having a former president, movie star and model as his secretary.
“Mr. McGill? Sir?”
Edwina’s voice cut through his reverie. He looked at her.
“Yes?” McGill said.
“The president will see you now.”
“No waiting?”
“I suppose the president might find something to do if you’d like to keep me company.”
McGill smiled. “Would you like to go to work for me, Edwina, after you’re done here at the White House?”
“I don’t think I could stand the excitement, sir.”
“You’d probably have the time to write your memoirs on the job.”
Edwina thought about that. “Possibly, I’ll reconsider.”
McGill grinned and went into the Oval Office to see his wife. She came out from behind her desk and gave him a hug and a kiss and another hug. McGill didn’t remember saving the Republic that day, which led him to wonder …
“Did I do something right?”
Patti looked at him and said, “You do so many things right, I don’t have the time to tell you.”
“Tonight then. We’ll take the phone off the hook.”
The president laughed at the idea. “Wouldn’t that be great?”
She sat on one of the office sofas and patted the cushion to her right. McGill took his cue and sat next to his wife. He knew Patti’s affection was real, but he also was sure she had something important to tell him.
“I need to find a private investigator, but it can’t be you,” the president said.
“And it can’t be one of the many people with badges who work for you?”
The president shook her head. McGill began to understand.
“It’s something political. I’m too close to you. That means Sweetie is out, too.”
The president nodded.
“Is this something that could get a guy in trouble?” McGill asked. “Hauled before Congress or worse?”
Patti said, “It would be best if you could find someone highly competent who is quite close to retirement, but there would be no need to do anything illegal.”
“The money would be good enough to offset any risk?”
The president nodded again.
“If I’m going to sell this job to someone, I’ll have to know what it is.”
Patti scooted closer to McGill and spoke softly. “Galia has a spy in Howard Hurlbert’s office. The spy’s husband is Bobby Beckley, Hurlbert’s chief of staff. Beckley likes to beat his wife; he used to beat his ex-wife as well.”
McGill’s jaw tightened. He hated bullies. Wife beaters ran a dead heat with child beaters at the top of his list.
“You want proof Beckley’s a monster?” McGill asked. “Most of these bastards work behind closed doors, especially the white-collar creeps.”
“Can it be done?” Patti asked.
“The question is, can it be done in time? Any one beating might be fatal. A hard slap from a strong man can break a woman’s neck. I know someone who can do the job, but getting a little help from inside might be the thing that saves a life.”
“What kind of help?” Patti asked.
“Could be as simple as leaving the curtains open and making sure there’s enough light in a room for clear pictures to be taken. If that’s not possible and the woman feels she’s going to catch a beating when she gets home, she has to provoke the guy to go off in public. In any case, she has to be in on the plan, willing to do as much as she can to help, if you want the best chance for her to survive.”
“I do. I’ll talk with Galia. I’ll let you know. If we go forward, you’ll have to find a way to handle things confidentially.”
McGill nodded. “No comebacks.”
The way to do that, McGill knew, was to hire someone with whom his communications would be shielded by law. A lawyer. Putnam Shady came to mind. The late speaker of the House of Representatives, Derek Geiger, had tried to hire Putnam to be his firewall for a scheme to consolidate the lobbying community in Washington under his thumb.
That hadn’t worked out because Putnam had talked to the speaker about the job only as a ruse to thwart his plan. If Putnam were to help McGill, he’d be doing a good deed, and if he ever thought to violate his professional code of ethics and McGill’s confidence, he’d know it would cost him Sweetie’s love and companionship.
McGill was positive Putnam wouldn’t risk that. So the plan would be to have Putnam hire Brad Lewis, a former colleague of McGill’s on the CPD, currently working on a private license in Chicago and, in his sixties, somewhere near retirement. Brad might have a suspicion of who was hiring him, but he wouldn’t know and wouldn’t ask.
Putnam would know, but he couldn’t be made to tell.
McGill thought it was a good thing he had an honest nature because he might have made a successful criminal.
Patti put a hand on his arm, bringing him back to the moment.
“There’s something else I’ve been thinking about. I wanted to ask you first, before I acted.”
“Okay,” McGill said, wondering what might be coming.
“I’m thinking of reopening the house in Winnetka.”
The lakefront estate she’d shared with Andy Grant, where Andy had been killed by Erna Godfrey. McGill knew the damage that had been done to the house had been repaired long ago. Even so, neither of them had set foot in the place since the night Andy had died.
McGill would have been less surprised if Patti had told him she’d decided to sell the place.
Patti read his feelings accurately. “I know, when the idea first came to me it was a surprise.”
“You think it would be … helpful?” he asked.
“Yes. What happened to me in the hospital, coming closer to dying than either of us ever would have expected, made me start reviewing things, if only subconsciously at first. Staying away from where Andy died was a way of denying that he was gone. How can I do that now, after Erna Godfrey told me she saw Andy with Jesus?”
Patti’s eyes started to fill. McGill put an arm around her shoulders.
“I think,” she said, “we could honor his memory better by filling the house with life rather than letting it sit empty and, who knows, we might need a new place to live before too long.”
“Whatever you want,” McGill told Patti.
She kissed him again.
“Are you going to let Erna have her prison ministry?” he asked.
“I think I am,” Patti said.
Capital Yacht Club — Washington, D.C.
Hugh Collier saw that Uncle Edbert’s yacht, Poseidon, didn’t fit into the club’s largest docking space — two hundred and twenty feet — by more than a whisker. He wondered if Uncle had specified the length to the Amels Shipyard in Vissingen, Holland. It was like the old boy to have his life tailored just so.
Hugh turned to Ellie Booker and asked, “Well, what do you think?”
“The boat?” she asked. “Looks like a wedding cake that got caught in the wind.”
Hugh laughed, thinking of how Uncle would react to such a description of one of his favorite toys. Despite having finally struck a deal with Ellie, she was still in a bit of a pout. He’d learned through WWN’s publishing contacts that Ellie’s book deal ha
d been put on hold. The canny souls in New York publishing were waiting to see if there was going to be a legal action, civil or criminal, captioned U.S. v. Sir Edbert Bickford.
If so, the publishing world’s preferred outcome would be one in which Ellie got to stick the knife into the media mogul in a courtroom. That would result in a blockbuster book deal and a Hollywood bidding war for the movie rights. The dustcover for the book would be an illustration of Ellie on the witness stand pointing a damning finger at the accused.
Problem for Ellie was, she didn’t know dick about Sir Edbert’s bribes to politicians and cops around the world. What she knew was how he and Hugh had screwed her at Salvation’s Path, leaving her alone in the middle of a pack of religious madmen. That had been a best-selling concept, too. Until goddamn Burke Godfrey had to go and die, and his jailbird wife decided to get all holy and forgiving about the whole thing.
Erna’s refusal to look for payback had been good for Ellie in one way. She was no longer sweating the possibility a prosecutor might be looking into her story that she’d conked Godfrey in self-defense. But the lack of Godfreys as antagonists sure as hell made her story yesterday’s news. Sit tight, she was told. If there was some way she could take down Sir Edbert at trial, she’d be back in business.
Fucking vulture publishers.
Then Hugh had dropped by her condo unannounced with a contract for another book deal: what it was like to be a woman in television news, loyal to an embattled media titan — Sir Edbert — in his darkest hour. Hugh had heard, of course, that the bottom had fallen out on the market for Ellie’s name on a hardcover tome. He no longer offered multiples of any other offers she might come by someday.
Still, the contract he had with him would pay a million-dollar advance.
Other than the dollar amount, there was a curious absence of detail to the contract. It lacked any completion date for a manuscript to be submitted. Not only that, it didn’t mention the number of words for the floor or ceiling of the first draft. The only requirement was that the tone of the book must be in no way disrespectful of or unflattering to its subject, Sir Edbert Bickford.
And it was signed by the great man himself
Ellie said to Hugh, “Tone, huh? So it’d be acceptable to say he’s the nicest sonofabitch you’d ever want to meet?”
“Probably wouldn’t make it past the lawyers,” Hugh said.
“They’re the ones going to edit this thing?”
“A million dollars ought to buy some authorial forbearance.”
He was right, the money was nothing to take lightly. At least not for her just then. Out of a job with no book deal. Christ!
Then she had an idea, one she certainly wasn’t going to share with Hugh.
He saw her smile, though. That encouraged him enough to ask her to accompany him to the Poseidon. He thought she might like to see how the truly rich traveled.
“Bullshit. You just want that old bastard to focus his anger on me.”
Hugh tried his best to look innocent. It wasn’t good enough.
“What’s the bad news you’ve got for him?” Ellie asked.
Hugh took an envelope out of a coat pocket.
“The Department of Justice has advised Uncle that they’ve opened an investigation into his business practices both in this country and internationally.”
“That’s why he’s on his boat? He’s going to skip on the feds? He must be nuts.”
That was when Ellie thought it might be a good idea to accompany Hugh. Sir Edbert couldn’t personally cause her any harm. He tried, she’d kick his ass. She didn’t think he’d sic some seagoing thug on her. Might be wrong about that, but it was an acceptable risk. What was a much better bet was the old shit would lose his temper and say something incriminating in front of her.
That would be something she could testify about in court.
Which would fit neatly with the idea inspired by the contract Hugh had offered her. Sir Edbert’s publishing company was offering her a million dollars while demanding nothing specific in return for its money. Some people might consider that a bribe.
Better yet, she knew where she could take the bribe angle to amp up the publicity.
To Ethan Judd, the new face of Sir Edbert’s news organization.
How would that be for sweet? She tossed the contract Hugh had brought her on a pile of unopened mail. Let him think she was unimpressed.
But she told him, “Sure, let’s go see your uncle’s boat.”
Now, that she was about to go aboard, she was beginning to get nervous. Her goddamn old man had been in the Navy and the pictures she’d seen of the ship he’d served on didn’t look as big as this one. And wouldn’t you know it, the rich old bastard himself had just appeared at the railing of the yacht.
He wasn’t smiling either.
Fuck it, Ellie thought. She’d told Hugh she wouldn’t forgive him and his uncle.
What she would do was con the both of them.
Stick it to them from the witness stand just the way those publishing assholes wanted.
She smiled at Sir Edbert. Called up to him, “Hey, it’s me again.”
Aboard Irish Grace — Barcadere Marina, Grand Cayman Island
Welborn Yates had a fighter pilot’s eyesight, good for spotting even the smallest details in the larger environment. In this case, he noticed scratch marks on the lock of the cabin door to Carina Linberg’s boat. He hadn’t caused them. Fitting a key neatly into a lock had never been a problem for him. The scratches hadn’t been there before, so …
He called the number of the Ritz-Carlton and asked for Ms. Linberg’s suite.
She answered in a gruff tone, “Hello.”
“I’ve called at a bad time?” Welborn asked.
He thought maybe he’d interrupted an intimate moment.
“I was really going strong, working out an idea for my story.”
“Why don’t you make a note and call me back?”
“Why don’t I keep writing and you call me back in a few hours?”
Writers, Welborn thought.
“I could do that, but I think someone might have broken into your boat.” Thinking things through, he said, “Someone might even be below deck right now.”
“Damn!”
“By all means, jot down some notes, but then you might want to come by.”
“You’ll be there?”
Welborn thought about that. Carina’s gun was inside the cabin. If there was an intruder below deck, and he’d found the gun, he might not want to leave any witnesses to his misdeeds.
“I’ll be nearby,” he told Carina.
He stepped off the boat onto the jetty and headed toward the marina office.
He sat on a bench next to the office and called Willa Pennyman.
“Any word on that fellow I’m looking for?”
“You sure he’s not a ghost? Nobody’s seen him anywhere, and lots of people are looking.”
“Keep at it,” Welborn said.
But looking out at Irish Grace, he thought he knew where Linley Boland might be.
As wonderful as Welborn’s vision was, he couldn’t see through the cabin cruiser that was docked between him and the thirty-two foot Whaler on which Jackie Richmond lounged wearing his hat and sunglasses. Cap’n Thurlow, searching high and low in every marina on the island for his boat, happened upon a much better vantage point.
Running along the jetty, pointing a finger at Jackie as he sat in the captain’s chair, the cap’n said, “You poxy son of a blind whore, you stole my boat.”
He stopped just short of boarding, though, when instinct told him a boat thief could be a dangerous person. He looked around, hoping to see a cop, but whenever you needed one … There wasn’t even another boater in sight.
Jackie saw they were alone, too. He said, “I didn’t steal anything. Just moved it to a nicer location. After you sold me out to the cops. Anybody should be calling people names, it’s me.”
Hearing that his treachery had b
een discovered, Cap’n Thurlow started to back off. Jackie didn’t want him to run. He wanted him to come aboard. The cap’n drove the boat way better than he did. What the prick needed was a reason to think he was the top dog.
Jackie tossed the cap’n the long-bladed knife he used to cut up fish.
Thurlow caught it neatly, surprised at first but then wearing a big smile.
“You must be crazy,” he said stepping aboard the Whaler, “but I’m gonna cut you some anyway and then turn you into the cops. There’s a hundred thousand dollar reward for you.”
That prick from Baltimore, Jackie thought. He had to be some kind of cop.
But who the hell offered that kind of reward for a car thief?
Nobody, he thought. Then it all came clear to him. A young guy who was a cop tracking him all the way down to Grand Cayman? There was only one thing he’d ever done that would make somebody chase him so far and offer so much money for his hide.
Killing those three Air Force guys in that goddamn accident in Vegas.
Fuck, it was an accident.
What’d they expect, someone like him was going to stick around?
Say, “Oops, sorry.”
Catching the sun glint off the knife blade, snapped Jackie back into the moment at hand. Cap’n Thurlow was coming his way, intent on making good on his promise to cut him some.
The guy was no end of a scumbag.
Jackie took out the .38 he’d stolen from Irish Grace and hidden under his thigh. Seeing the gun backed the cap’n off real fast.
Jackie told him, “Stop. Get your ass up here and drive. Maybe I’ll let you live.”
The cap’n hesitated and then started forward.
Still had that big knife in his hands. Was looking at how little Jackie’s gun was. Had to be thinking maybe he’d have a chance here after all. He got in the first cut and —
Jackie said, “This is just an itty-bitty .38. Might not kill you. But I’ll be shooting for your balls. Sure to ruin your love life if nothing else.”