by Joseph Flynn
The only one who complained was the guy who took his lumps.
He shut up, too, when his attorney said his sentences for assaulting his girlfriend and a fed would be a lot longer if he kept yapping.
So that was Riddick’s official episode of competitive-aggressive behavior.
Until he walked into McGill’s office.
Thinking Riddick might try to use his abnormally high testosterone levels as an argument to defend his actions against McGill, DeWitt delved further into his research. He found that testosterone levels rose naturally when a male found himself in mating situations, and declined in child rearing situations.
Riddick was single and had no children. That left mating behavior.
The guy had gotten into a serious bar fight over a woman’s well being.
Maybe he liked to look for companionship in night spots. DeWitt looked to see where that might lead. He didn’t limit himself to searching police blotters or criminal justice journals. Riddick was an FBI agent who worked on art thefts and had made some big recoveries. Maybe he considered himself a dashing character. Someone who could date above his pay grade.
DeWitt scanned TMZ, Celebrity Gossip, Hollywood Gossip and half-a-dozen more websites. Didn’t find any shots of Riddick with actresses or supermodels. But, yessir, there he was with a real looker at a benefit for a children’s orchestra.
The woman with him was named Duvessa Kinsale.
The accompanying story said she owned a Manhattan art gallery. That was a natural fit, Riddick being with the art crime team. But McGill had told him Riddick had come to warn his client, the French magistrate … what was his name? DeWitt couldn’t think of it, not after working all night. What he did remember was the Frenchman had said he was looking for a stolen Renoir and found a forgery of it in a gallery run by a woman named Duvessa Kinsale.
No problem remembering that name.
So now DeWitt had an art dealer with a forgery on her wall.
A hotheaded agent who was photographed with his arm around that art dealer.
A visiting official of the French government who got a warning from that agent.
And James J. McGill who got threatened with arrest at gunpoint by that agent.
Gee, maybe there was a connection. DeWitt would have liked to call McGill and talk about things, but he played it safe. Did the bureaucratically correct thing. Picked up the phone and called Director Haskins’ office.
As he waited for Haskins, DeWitt looked up at the portrait of the president on the wall. It was a terrific likeness. He doubted Patricia Darden Grant had ever been the subject of an unflattering picture. Still, he felt disgusted with himself. What a chickenshit he’d become.
He decided it was time to put his Warhol serigraph of Chairman Mao back on the wall.
Opposite the photo of the president. Anybody gave him any grief about it, he’d quit. Go back to California and teach. Get some serious surfing time in again, too.
The director came on the line.
DeWitt said, “I think I’ve come up with something, sir.”
The President’s Private Dining Room — The White House
Chief of Staff Galia Mindel sat at the dining room table in the Residence. She had a cup of coffee, a glass of orange juice and a bran muffin in front of her. James J. McGill, phone in hand, stood across the room speaking quietly to someone. He’d apologized for interrupting their breakfast meeting.
Galia had appeared in the Residence that morning at seven a.m. with the president’s official schedule in hand for McGill. She’d intended to drop off the document and warn McGill not to let it fall into the wrong hands. She was certain he wouldn’t; he’d never be so careless. Still, she felt compelled to give voice to the caution.
McGill had accepted her admonition with good grace and then had surprised her by saying, “Let me buy you breakfast, Galia.”
For a moment, she thought he meant taking her outside the building to eat and intended to beg off. She wanted to get to work. The president was already in the Oval Office. But McGill said he had the private dining room in mind. That was different.
The implication was the chief of staff was considered family.
Even by McGill. A far cry from their early days.
She agreed but said she couldn’t spare too much time. McGill kept a straight face and said not to worry. He got great service because he tipped well. The food came promptly and with a smile. Galia had even let McGill talk her into getting two bran muffins. The second one for lunch or to take home with her for a late snack, he’d said.
She’d already eaten the first one and now was eyeing the second.
Galia, formerly a well-cushioned figure, had lost weight and inches due to the relentless stress and the sleepless nights of the president’s reelection campaign. She’d liked the way she looked when she hit the svelte stage of her weight loss. Zipping past that to being gaunt hadn’t pleased her. Now, she faced the greatest eating challenge of her life. How to add just the right number of calories to her diet without getting carried away.
She’d been considering eating a fraction of the second muffin when McGill had to leave the table to take the first of two phone calls.
She was trying to arrive at the denominator of the fraction she wanted, when McGill said, “I think a half should do it, Galia. You’re looking terrific these days, by the way.”
The chief of staff looked at McGill as he rejoined her at the table.
“I never thought I’d say this,” Galia told him, “but I’m too thin.”
She’d never been underweight before, not even as a little girl.
“Oh,” McGill said, “I thought maybe you were going for the fashion model look.”
The very idea made Galia grin. McGill liked that.
“No?” he said. “Well, maybe a body double for the president then.”
McGill thought Patti had lost too much weight during the campaign.
That idea made the chief of staff laugh out loud.
Then she thought she’d better watch out. She’d been immune to McGill’s charm up until now. She didn’t want to let that armor fall away. She needed any edge she could get on the man to maintain a rough parity with him when it came to influencing the president.
Composing herself, she asked, “What can I do for you, Mr. McGill?”
McGill stirred a spoonful of sugar into his cold coffee and said, “I was told that The Andrew Hudson Grant Foundation made a substantial contribution to a new art museum here in Washington.”
That tidbit caught the chief of staff by surprise, but she processed the information quickly.
“That new mystery building in Southeast?” she asked.
McGill nodded as he leafed through the events on the president’ schedule.
Galia said. “I hadn’t heard about that.”
McGill looked up. “Don’t you generally keep an eye on anything that might affect public opinion of the president?”
“Of course, but the reputation of the Grant Foundation is immaculate. There’s never been a hint of wrongdoing in its administration. Haven’t you ever talked with the president about this?”
McGill shook his head. “It might come as a surprise to some people, but I didn’t marry Patti Grant for her money.”
“Of course not,” Galia said, repressing another smile, “but it doesn’t hurt that she’s, shall we say, quite well off.”
McGill said, “We keep our financial affairs separate, not that it’s anybody’s business. I’m lucky enough to have two pensions and my business income.”
Galia had never pried into that area of the First Couple’s life. Doing so and getting caught would have cost her her job. But it was good to know McGill was financially independent. He’d shown from the start he couldn’t be bought as a means to influence the president. The fact that he had his own cash flow meant he couldn’t be portrayed as a predatory husband either.
“Do you know how the Grant Foundation works?” McGill asked
Ga
lia said, “It’s a family foundation with an IRS 501(c)(3) tax exemption. The president is the chairwoman of the board of directors. She’s paid one dollar per year for her services. During her presidency, she’s turned her duties over to an acting chairwoman, Alison Monahan.”
McGill didn’t know the name. He said, “Not someone from her Hollywood days?”
Galia shook her head. “The president’s first roommate at Yale.”
“Good. What else can you tell me?”
“Only general information. Private foundations generally make grants to recognized charities such as religious organizations committed to public service. Other beneficiaries might be educational, scientific or cultural institutions. Disaster and poverty relief efforts might also be recipients. On an individual basis, scholarships may be provided to deserving people. Overall, the IRS requires that the foundation pay out at least five percent annually of the previous year’s net assets for charitable purposes.”
McGill summed up, “So the sole purpose of a legitimate foundation is to help others.”
Galia hesitated.
“What?” McGill asked.
“In most cases, I’d say yes,” Galia said.
“But in some cases?”
“Well, there’s always the matter of legacy. A foundation that carries a family name is a way for people to be seen doing good works. There can be public relations benefits that carry over to other activities, for-profit enterprises. Also, the gloss of a foundation’s name might mitigate the misdeeds of the founder’s descendants.”
“Huh,” McGill said. He’d never thought of that. Spoiled rich kids catching a break because of Mom and Dad’s charity. He decided that didn’t apply in this case. “I didn’t know Andy Grant very long, but I got the impression he genuinely wanted to make other people’s lives better … and he and the president had no children to consider.”
Galia said, “I agree. I knew Mr. Grant for ten years. His philanthropy was heartfelt.”
“So any contribution the foundation made to the new museum would be strictly on its merits?”
“I would say so,” Galia told him. “You know, I’d like to get a sneak peek at that place.”
“So would I,” McGill said.
Pennsylvania Avenue — Washington, DC
McGill and Leo Levy made the drive to his office unaccompanied by an armed guard, either privately or federally employed. Of course, both of them were carrying.
“Where’s Deke?” McGill asked.
“Said he had a chore to finish up. Asked me if I was good giving you a ride my ownself.”
“You said, ‘Of course.’”
“I said. ‘Damn straight.’”
The Chevy sedan Leo drove was armored and had bullet-resistant windows and tires. Despite the added weight, it traveled faster than bad news. Its top end speed was a secret Leo had refused to share with McGill, telling him, “That number might scare you.”
“Yeah?” McGill had asked. “Is it measured in warp drive, like Star Trek?”
Leo laughed and said, “Just about.”
Even so, the vehicle did have its vulnerabilities.
A fifty caliber round from a sniper rifle could pierce its protective layers.
McGill had raised that possibility with Leo. Hadn’t ruffled him one bit.
Leo had told him, “You know what snipers shoot? People. Usually standing still, walking or moving at a light trot in a straight line. You put one of them boys a thousand yards off, he’d have a hard time hitting a man who was sprinting in an evasive fashion. As fast as this car can go, the way I can make it stand up and pirouette, good luck.”
McGill had thought to ask what if they were stuck in traffic. Before he did, he remembered they’d never been stuck in traffic. The car had continuous online traffic reporting. Backups and bottlenecks were foreseen and avoided. As far as simple inconveniences like red lights went, they got zapped by a control on Leo’s steering wheel. Green was the only color they ever saw.
Stop signs were an analog technology not subject to digital override, but Leo had a presidential get-out-of-jail-free pass anytime he felt it best to run one.
All that left for McGill to worry about was the subject he brought up.
“What would you do if a drone attacked us?” he asked Leo.
“Cry for mama?”
“How about something a little more likely to get us through the day?”
Leo went uncharacteristically silent. McGill made the logical inference.
“What? That’s like the top speed question?” he asked.
Leo answered with his own query. “You do know this is a new car, right? Took delivery just a couple weeks ago.”
McGill had noticed a new car smell but hadn’t commented on it.
“Yeah, okay, it’s new. So?”
“You know who talks with General Motors about the specs for your cars? I’ll give you three guesses.”
McGill didn’t have to think about it. “You, the Secret Service and the president.”
“Uh-huh. So think about that for a while.”
McGill did. Patti would call upon every resource at her command to protect him. She’d told him plainly she didn’t want to become a widow again. She’d involve the military, the spy agencies and … well, anybody else who might know about drones and how to evade them.”
Still, McGill had another question. “I know the missiles a drone fires are fast as hell, but the aircraft themselves, especially the little ones, aren’t too speedy, are they?”
“Unh-uh,” Leo said.
“You think if you had the right long gun you might shoot one down? Like skeet.”
McGill saw Leo’s smile in the rear view mirror.
“Now, that’s a right interesting question,” Leo said.
They way Leo said that, McGill wouldn’t be surprised if his car sported a rifle rack before long.
FBI Offices — Richmond, Virginia
Arlo Carsten, former project manager at NASA, didn’t like his career prospects as he sat alone handcuffed to a table in the interview room. He thought he’d been so damn clever with his craigslist job wanted ad. Shit, he’d been lucky he hadn’t gotten caught within ten minutes of posting the damn thing. The government’s spook shops had to be reading that website around the clock. If they weren’t, they damn well ought to be.
He couldn’t be the only jackass to use it the way he had.
If he was, maybe he could trade that morsel of information for some kind of consideration. Like they’d shoot him up with some real good dope before they gave him his lethal injection. He’d float along on a cloud before he wasn’t ever doing anything again.
Christ, if the damn government had just kept funding the manned space program, none of this would have happened to him. All he’d wanted to do since he was a little boy was send people into outer space. Then he got to do it and made nice money, too. He’d been only one or two steps away from his final goal. Making space travel as routine as flying across the country. Then he would finally have felt it was safe enough for him to go up.
Arlo explores the stars, he thought. The idea still gave him a thrill.
Then, with the gravitational pull of a black hole, he was yanked back to reality as the door to the room opened and the two shitkickers entered. Only they weren’t dressed like poor white trash anymore. The one who’d been the cowboy wore a suit, something more expensive than Arlo had ever put on. The younger one wore an Air Force uniform. He’d seen plenty of those.
They had a woman with them, not the looker from the bar, but tasty just the same in an exotic way. His appreciation of her looks came to an abrupt end when he thought, “Oh, Christ, she might be a travel agent for the Guantanamo Hilton.” That’d be all he’d need, getting locked up with the jihadis.
An involuntary shudder passed through Arlo.
Welborn sat opposite the prisoner and told him, “You hear what we have to say, you might want to moan a little bit, too.”
Celsus sat next to Wel
born and added, “Elvie Fisk gave you up. Man, that’s about as low as you can go, a grown man having sex with a fifteen-year-old kid.”
Arlo’s mouth fell open. He looked at Welborn and Celsus. Their expressions said they’d lock his ass up for good and never bother about a trial. The woman who’d accompanied them stood in a corner. She looked like she’d just as soon shoot him.
“Now, wait just one damn minute,” Arlo said. “She told me she was eighteen and showed me a driver’s license to prove it.”
With a sneer, the woman, SAC Elspeth Kendry, said, “Real geniuses, these washed-up rocket monkeys. They’ve never heard of fake IDs before.”
Now, Arlo winced. He had asked to see the kid’s ID, but once he did, he’d never questioned its authenticity. He just assumed he’d cleared a legal and moral hurdle. Why argue with success? Wasn’t really a big deal getting laid, anyway, when you had it in mind to kill people.
Still. Fifteen. That was young enough to creep him out.
He shook his head and said, “I’m sorry. I honestly didn’t know.”
“You got any causes for future regret, Arlo?” Celsus asked.
Welborn followed that with, “How do you plan to help Colonel Harlan Fisk’s Michigan Militia?”
Arlo looked at all three of his tormentors. The woman scared him the most. He recalled reading how American Indians, when they wanted to make a prisoner really suffer, would turn the poor sonsabitches over to their women.
“What’s it going to get me, I talk to you guys?” Arlo asked.
“A life sentence instead of a death sentence, maybe,” Celsus said.
“A cell of your own instead of just a bunk,” Welborn told him.
“Maybe an extra scoop of ice cream once a month,” Celsus said with a smirk.
“So not a hell of a lot,” Arlo said.
“You want to hear the down side, dirt bag?” Elspeth asked with a snarl. “I grew up in the Middle East. I’ll show you some of the things I learned there.”
Arlo felt his bladder control start to slip. He had to clamp down hard.
The woman might make him clean up his own mess. Maybe with his tongue.