by Joseph Flynn
So now the Buick Enclave was carrying them west.
They were headed for the desert, either Arizona or California.
They wanted wide open spaces with room to run and endless places to hide.
Having the border with Mexico nearby was another good thing.
They’d also need a small airport where they could practice skydiving.
Todd had never had a fear of flying but neither had he imagined jumping out of a plane.
“Is that really necessary?” he asked.
“We don’t know yet,” Crosby said, “but sometimes the only way to get to someone is by dropping in.”
“Unannounced,” Anderson added.
Capitol Street Café — Jackson, Mississippi
Brad Lewis had been a Chicago cop for twenty-five years before retiring. He’d lasted only six months sitting in his basement recreation room with his feet up watching SportsCenter all day before he knew he’d either have to get another job or have a lobotomy. He’d been working since he was eight years old, started out sweeping the floor in his dad’s butcher shop. He wasn’t cut out for having time on his hands.
He was tired of all the political aggravation that came with being a Chicago copper, but he loved serving a heaping plate of grief to any kind of shit-heel you could name, strong-arm robbers to white collar hackers. He didn’t care. Putting the cuffs on them, hearing a guilty verdict returned, it was like having sex. Some times it was good, most times it was great.
When a judge came down with a maximum sentence on one of the mopes he’d arrested it was all he could do not to jump up and cheer in the courtroom.
So he went back to work doing what most closely approximated his old job.
He became a private investigator. Most times, his cases kept him right in Chicago, the place he knew the best. Occasionally, he’d get up to Milwaukee on a job or down to Saint Louis. He hardly ever traveled outside the Midwest.
This was the first time he’d been to Mississippi. He hadn’t been crazy about the idea of going south. His grandparents had moved north from Alabama almost a hundred years ago, but Brad remembered hearing their stories about the things that could happen to black people in Dixie. They sure weren’t tales of the good old days.
When he heard the details of the case, however, he decided to take it.
A lady was getting beaten by her husband. A friend of the woman wanted to see the brutality stopped before the lady got killed. Lewis remembered that very same thing happening to his favorite aunt, and that was after his father and two other men had given the bastard his own whipping. The cops caught the killer and he got locked up for a long time, but that didn’t keep Mama from grieving the loss of her baby sister.
What it had done was get Lewis on track to become a police officer.
And now a private investigator.
A lawyer named Alvin Topman had hired him to take the case, but Brad Lewis wondered who’d hired Topman to be his front man. Seemed to Brad like it had to be someone who knew his personal history. Most likely someone he’d worked with as a cop.
He knew better than to ask. It was probably smarter that he didn’t know.
He bought three new suits to take with him on the job. He was dressed to the nines every day he stepped out of his hotel room. He had his haircut touched up every other day. He presented himself as a man of means. His experience as a cop had taught him that even the bigots with badges, in Chicago or elsewhere, were less likely to throw their weight around when dealing with someone who looked like he had a fat wallet and friends with connections.
Lewis added a congenial manner to his prosperous appearance. He was always polite and usually smiling. Most of the people he met, black and white, seemed happy to see him coming. With the way he tipped, the staff at the Capitol Street Café certainly did.
He always got a good table. Sometimes it was right next to the one favored by Mrs. Robert Beckley. Other times he was a few tables away. Lewis would acknowledge Nella Beckley with a gentlemanly nod and a minimalist smile. Then he’d go back to reading, either a copy of the Wall Street Journal or a paperback edition of a Shakespeare play.
Upscale reading material was a good cover, too.
It wasn’t long before he and Nella had become acquaintances.
They’d say good morning and comment on the day’s weather.
The first time Lewis had seen Nella Beckley she’d worn sunglasses. The bruise on the left side of her face, though, was only partially concealed by the dark glasses, her hair and makeup. The former Chicago cop made sure he didn’t stare or even look twice, but he knew what he’d seen. The mark left by a fist.
He took it as a good sign that the woman wasn’t going to let her abuse keep her a prisoner in her own home. She’d cover up to be polite to others, but she still went about her business. It was a good way to see how people reacted, Lewis knew, find out who might stand by her if things got life threatening.
Lewis had been told Nella’s husband spent a lot of time working out of town. As the days passed and her bruises faded, she started to relax. The private investigator thought there would be an arc to her emotional well being. The farther away she moved from the last beating, the happier she would be; the closer she got to her husband’s next visit home, and her next beating, the more anxious she’d become.
The morning she came into the café without wearing her sunglasses, Lewis saw that Nella had bright green eyes. Perfect for her auburn hair and pale skin. A man took his hand to her, he wasn’t only hurting another person, he was marring God’s own artistry.
That was the day she asked him, “Are you visiting Jackson without your wife?”
Lewis answered truthfully. “I lost her five years ago.”
Another reason he couldn’t stand to have idle time.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Me, too.” He tapped his chest. “She’s still in here.”
Lewis let Nella think the memory choked him up. Which it did. He asked her to excuse him and got up from his table. He left a cell phone behind, Nella saw. She kept her eye on it to make sure nobody made off with it.
Ten minutes later, she decided her new friend wasn’t coming back that day. Her question must have upset him too much. She felt terrible about that. She didn’t even know his name or where he was staying.
The only polite thing to do would be to apologize the next time she saw him. She’d hold his phone for him until then. That’d be the right thing to do, too. She stepped over to his table. It surprised her to see that the phone was a cheap little knockoff, something you might pick up for a few dollars at a drugstore. It didn’t fit at all with the way the gentleman dressed.
Oh, well, she’d still tuck it in her purse and —
She saw the business card that the phone had covered.
Thinking she might learn her new friend’s name, she picked it up. Her throat tightened when she saw what was on the card. No name, no address, no place of employment.
Just a printed message. Meant for her.
The next time you need help, hit #1 on the phone.
Don’t wait until it’s too late.
Her heart racing now, she looked up to see if Bobby was anywhere nearby.
He wasn’t. Wouldn’t be home for another week. The party for Senator Hurlbert’s birthday.
Nella’s first impulse was to throw away the card and the phone.
She’d decided to do just that when she noticed there was a message on the back of the card.
If necessary, provoke a public fight. Subtly.
That thought jolted her as hard as any blow she’d suffered. She’d been taught to keep all her troubles private … as Bobby well knew. He counted on it. She had no doubt she could make him lose control in public. He’d never see it coming. She knew all his triggers, had learned them at considerable cost. She could set up a trip wire neither he nor anyone else would ever see.
The question was, did she dare do it?
She turned the card over: Don’t wait until it’s too lat
e.
Nella paid her bill. She walked down the street, tore the card to bits and tossed the pieces into a trash bin. She kept the phone and remembered the speed dial instruction. Considered where the best place to have Bobby beat her in public might be.
The idea that she might have to endure only one more beating put a bounce in her step.
At that moment, Brad Lewis was reviewing the files he’d been given on Bobby Beckley, Howard Hurlbert, senatorial staffers, friends, hangers-on and their respective spouses. Lewis made note of one name, someone he thought might be a great help to him.
The Oval Office
Galia informed the president, “I’ve been told that Governor Jean Morrissey did everything but turn a cartwheel when you called and asked her to become your new vice president.”
Stephen Norwood, the head of Patti’s presidential campaign, added, “The deciding factor in not doing the cartwheel wasn’t a lack of enthusiasm, it was a matter of the governor wearing a skirt when she got the news.”
Patti grinned, “Good to know the woman has a sense of self-restraint.”
“Nothing’s official yet,” Galia said, still trying to hedge the president’s bet. “You’re sure, Madam President, that Governor Morrissey is your best choice.”
Patti was, but she was also politician enough to ask Norwood, “What do you think, Stephen?”
Sparing a glance at Galia, he said, “I like her on her own merits. I like her even better paired with you.”
“How might I help improve the governor’s sterling qualities?” the president asked.
“You have three years of Oval Office experience, Madam President. You can help the governor benefit from the lessons you learned. Except with the former prime minister of the U.K., you’ve been a model of patience, a trait the governor might emulate.”
“That was an accident, Stephen, the unfortunate incident with the prime minister.”
“Of course, Madam President.”
Turning an ankle on an uneven walkway at Chequers, the prime minister’s summer home, the president had lost her balance, spun and inadvertently planted a flying elbow on the prime minister’s face, breaking his jaw and displacing a number of teeth.
That was the official story.
With the passage of time and endless review of the video, a growing number of people were coming to believe the prime minister had groped the president’s bottom and had gotten exactly what he deserved.
Keeping a secret in the face of advancing technology grew ever harder.
The president pushed on, “Aside from what I might do for Governor Morrissey, Stephen, what might she do for me?”
“By virtue of her gender, and yours, she shakes up the status quo in a way that picking a man wouldn’t do. Governor Morrissey becoming vice president is an invitation —”
“Or a taunt,” Galia said.
“Possibly a taunt,” Norwood agreed, “to traditionalists to criticize or even lampoon a ticket with two women on it.”
“Meanwhile, it’s giving Congressional Democrats fainting spells,” Galia said.
Norwood said with a smile, “Only the men, and there’s no one better able to defend both herself and the party against any and all critics than Jean Morrissey. You’ve bought yourself a fireball, Madam President.”
The president said, “I’m not sure that’s what I was aiming for.”
“Wait until you see how she defends you against any critics, Madam President.”
Galia said, “Stephen sounds as if he might turn a cartwheel.”
“I can, you know,” Norwood said, “in the appropriate place.”
“More admirable restraint,” the president said. “How does the schedule for the general election campaign look, Stephen?”
The president had already won the primaries in California, Illinois and New York. She’d even eked out a win in New Hampshire. She’d also won the Iowa caucuses. Roger Michaelson had taken South Carolina. Might win at home in Oregon down the road, but even that was looking iffy. He had no money to go on and stayed in the race only in the hope that Patricia Grant might be struck by lightning.
Mather Wyman was having similar success in the Republican primaries.
The only candidates running against him were hard right conservatives who had been too stubborn to move over to Howard Hurlbert’s new party. Their chances of success were similar to Roger Michaelson’s.
Stephen Norwood reported that, in accordance with the president’s wishes, the general election machine was up, running and well oiled.
Their meeting was just about to end when Edwina Byington buzzed the president. “Please forgive the interruption, Madam President, but Mr. McGill is here and he says it’s on a very important matter.”
Patti Grant’s heart lodged in her throat and she thought: Kenny?
Finding her voice, she said, “Please send Jim in, Edwina.”
McGill entered the Oval Office. His face was grim. Galia and Stephen Norwood started to rise to give the president and her husband their privacy, but McGill waved them back into their chairs.
He told Patti, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I just heard from Aggie Wu. She’s fielding calls from every reporter in the country.”
“What happened, Jim?” the president asked.
“John Patrick Granby died,” McGill said, “from the injuries I caused him.”
“Oh, my God,” Galia said.
McGill nodded but kept his eyes on Patti.
“I’ve killed a man and the world wants to know how I feel about it. I thought you should know first.”
Via Las Palmas — Palm Springs, California
Crosby and Anderson opted to go with the California desert over the Arizona sandbox. If they needed to evacuate by air, Palm Springs had its own airport for executive jets and LA/Ontario International Airport was just sixty-nine miles west on I-10. It was a considerably longer drive to San Francisco and back, but Crosby made the trip and rented a modest Bay Area studio apartment as both an emergency hideout and as an address to open a bank account.
Todd had a score of friends from around the country make deposits ranging between eight and nine thousand dollars to the account. Crosby explained to the bank that investors in a new high-tech startup would be responsible for the inflow of cash. With Silicon Valley nearby the people at the bank didn’t think there was anything peculiar about the story.
It was hardly less plausible than the idea of people starting companies in their garages and going on to make billions while their dreams became global icons.
Meanwhile, Anderson took on the chore of finding a suitable house in Palm Springs. That task was made challenging by the facts that it was high season in the desert, Anderson had no intention of using a Realtor and the desired landlord had to be someone who was used to living and working in the cash-only economy. Someone who could be trusted to honor his agreement.
It took Anderson two days to succeed. He landed them a four bedroom house with a large pool, Jacuzzi, weight room and home theater. Dense landscaping kept the outside world from seeing anything that occurred on the property.
Anderson being who he was got the owner to swear on his life that the house was not currently under surveillance by any law enforcement agency and its phones weren’t being tapped. The term of the lease was for a three-month rental with the option to extend for another three months.
Upon Crosby’s return, he, Anderson and Todd took occupancy of the house, chose their bedrooms and went out to the pool area wearing large brim straw hats. The hats were helpful both to keep the desert sun off their faces and to shield them from being recognized by any satellites passing overhead. It was unlikely the National Reconnaissance Office had been recruited to help in the search for them, but you never knew.
Crosby liked to be careful — when he wasn’t charging an enemy head on.
Anderson said, “I’d have figured if we don’t sunbathe in turbans and long beards we should be okay.”
Crosby told him, “Wear the
hat. Leave your AK-47 inside, too.”
Todd paid his compatriots and their chatter no attention. He found a lounge chair in the shade and turned on his iPad. Having learned about Google Alerts, he’d become inseparable from the device. He had alerts set up for McGill, the president, the two of them in combination, Chana Lochlan and Daryl Cheveyo.
There was always news about the president, far too much for anyone to read all of it. But when there was no news about the others, Todd felt cheated, deprived. He especially looked forward to seeing new photos of Chana. Her looks had matured since the last time he’d seen her in person, but to his eye that had only made her more beautiful.
His desire to see her, hold her, have her again was a compulsion that grew more intense by the day. It grated on him no end that Chana had married once more. The thought of another man usurping his place was not to be borne lightly. He’d made that point to Chana’s first husband, Michael Raleigh, arranging a fatal hang-gliding accident for him — and that was after Raleigh and Chana had divorced.
Todd had wanted to avoid any chance of a reconciliation. Now, she had married again and her second husband would also have to —
Wait while Todd read the new alert that popped up in his email.
This one was about McGill.
He had … killed someone?
The headline said: Fatal Injury to N.H. Secretary of State Caused by President’s Husband.
Todd was stunned, to an extent that was evident to his companions.
Anderson called to him, “Hey, Doc, what’s wrong? You find your own obituary?”
He and Crosby walked over to Todd, who yielded the iPad to them.
The two former covert operatives read the headline.
“Whaddya know?” Anderson said. “As far as we’ve been able to find out McGill had never aced anybody. He finally broke his cherry.”
Crosby said, “Question is, how does he feel about it?”
Todd thought about that, remembering the night he’d confronted McGill in his office. The president’s husband had pointed a gun at him. Instead of shooting Todd, though, McGill had asked him not to force the issue — because he had gone to confession that day and didn’t want to sully his newly purified soul.