by Joseph Flynn
Or, more likely, force McGill to cripple any dummy who thought he’d be an easy mark.
Sweetie looked at McGill, across the table in a staff break room, and told him, “See what happens when I take a little time off.”
Putnam made an effort to repress a smirk, and almost succeeded.
Eight-year-old Maxine, who told McGill he could call her Maxi, asked, “Did you do something really bad?”
“I did something I shouldn’t have done,” McGill said.
“Are you sorry?”
“Maxi, I’m sorry I wasn’t smart enough to think of a better way to do things.”
“A way that wouldn’t get you in trouble?”
“Exactly.”
“Are you really married to the president?”
McGill grinned. “Yes, hard as that may be to believe.”
“Margaret said we could visit you and the president at the White House.”
“We’ll do that real soon. I’m going to have some time on my hands.”
Maxine extended her hand to McGill and they shook on it.
Sweetie said, “I think Maxi’s seen enough of this place. I’ll take her out to the car, if that’s all right with her.”
The girl nodded, gave Putnam a kiss on the cheek and left with Sweetie.
“So how’s it feel to be a dad?” McGill asked.
Putnam shook his head and said, “It wasn’t that long ago I thought I’d be a lifelong bachelor, a ladies’ man and a general reprobate until the day I died. Which I figured wouldn’t be all that long in coming. Then I met Margaret. Now we’re married and shortly after that … it’s not that I think I won’t try to be a good father to Maxi. I just think she deserves better than me. That there’s got to be a catch. I’ll take my eye off her for just a heartbeat and when I look back she’ll be gone.”
McGill smiled warmly. “Welcome to the wonderful world of parental paranoia. Just do your best. Practice knowing the times when you shouldn’t take your eyes off her. Margaret will help with that.”
Putnam said, “Yeah, I’m sure. Well, listen, I talked with Deputy Director DeWitt. He was wondering if Hiram Busby, slick SOB that he is, might have tried to work an insurance angle on the phony paintings he stuck us with at Inspiration Hall.”
“Didn’t he donate the paintings?” McGill asked. “Wouldn’t the museum insure the art work and collect the payout if everything went up in smoke?”
“That’s the way it would work with the Drucker and Ransom collections. Their paintings were donated, and covered by the museum. But Busby’s paintings were exhibited on an indefinite loan. I told DeWitt who the insurance carrier is on his paintings. So, yeah, if Inspiration Hall had been destroyed, and I understand that truck bomb might have been up to doing the job, he would have collected on the forgeries, most likely. While he enjoyed the originals at home.”
McGill shook his head. “So the FBI’s going to try to find Busby by following the money?”
“Yeah. See what else he might have insured with the same company. DeWitt thinks Busby could provide information about who set up the whole plot: kill the president, destroy the museum, get the whole country scared spitless again.”
McGill nodded. “Putting Hiram Busby where I am now would be a good idea.”
“Yeah. Well, I thought you’d like to know what’s going on.”
“Thanks, Putnam.”
“You’re not going to eat the food in here, are you? They’ll spit in your soup for sure.”
McGill told him, “The Secret Service will bring me White House carryout.”
Grand Street — Manhattan
The NYPD, using an unmarked helicopter, did a middle-distance flyby of the loft building in SoHo. Both the pilot and the observation officer reported seeing two people inside the unit to which their attention had been directed. Both persons in the loft seemed to be moving with a sense of urgency, as if they feared imminent apprehension.
The location had been provided to the cops by former Special Agent Osgood Riddick. The deal he’d worked out that morning with the Department of Justice mitigated by degrees the sentence he would receive for both menacing James J. McGill and his role in aiding both art thefts and swindles committed by the man currently known as Giles Benedict and art gallery owner Duvessa Kinsale.
If either Benedict or Kinsale was taken into custody and convicted, Riddick’s sentence would be reduced by X years; if both Benedict and Kinsale were caught and imprisoned, Riddick’s sentence would be reduced by 2X; for every work of stolen art recovered an additional year would be eliminated from Riddick’s sentence.
The Emergency Services Unit of the NYPD moved in quietly. A dozen plain clothes cops materialized from the pedestrians passing by the building. At the entrance to the building, they dropped the heavy civilian coats they’d been wearing, revealing NYPD raid jackets, automatic weapons and other tools of their trade. They charged up the stairs to the third floor loft.
Detective Louis Marra had told the ESU people they were dealing with a different type of hostage situation here. There could be paintings worth tens or even hundreds of millions of dollars in the unit. The bad guys, reacting in either anger or panic, might try to vandalize the art work. The ESU’s job was to take the people inside the loft into custody before that could happen.
Keeping their fellow coppers safe was paramount, as always, but they should try not to shoot up any of the paintings, if they could help it.
Ten seconds after the ESU had made their charge, patrol units pulled up in front of the building and behind it. The unmarked helicopter was replaced by one flying the NYPD colors. Getting away was not going to be an option for the bad guys.
Marra parked his unmarked unit at the periphery of the police cordon.
Odo Sacripant sat beside him, watching and listening to their police radio.
Hoping and silently praying that he heard no gunfire.
Or police officers cursing in anger.
What he heard within ninety seconds of the ESU entry into the building was a voice announcing, “All clear.”
Marra said to Odo, “Let’s go see if they’ve got your friend’s painting.”
They had it all right, along with many others, several already boxed and ready for shipping. Odo put in a call to Ethan Winger. Marra went back through the ring of cops to escort him in. It took the young artist no more than a few seconds of study to break into a broad smile.
He looked at Odo and said, “Merveilleux.”
“Marvelous, yeah,” Marra said. “But is it a real Renoir?”
“They don’t get any realer,” Ethan said.
Annecy — France
René Simonet stood before the judge and admitted he was the art thief commonly known as Laurent Fortier. He confessed to killing Charles Louvel in the home of Augustin Pruet during the commission of an art theft, stealing a painting by Pierre-Auguste Renoir.
Simonet spoke clearly, but his voice quavered and his eyes darted about the courtroom.
All the people who had confronted him at his gallery were there. They hadn’t killed him, hadn’t even beaten him, but they’d manhandled him, screamed in his face, even spat in his eye more than once. Told him in no uncertain terms that if he didn’t plead guilty they would tear him to pieces, burn the remains, dump the ashes down a sewer and piss on them.
The judge listened to the recording Pruet provided of Simonet confessing to Charles Louvel’s murder. He asked all those present if they’d heard Simonet confess freely, without any form of coercion. All but one said they had.
The judge asked the exception what he’d seen and heard.
“Nothing, m’sieur,” Augustin Pruet said. “I was late in arriving, for which I will never forgive myself. But I will say to you and all here that I have never been more proud of my son, Yves. He is nothing short of brilliant.”
“Yes, well, your pride is understandable, m’sieur.” He turned to Simonet and asked, “Do you have anything to add?”
The thief shook
his head.
The judge told all those present, “We will have to go through all this again in a formal proceeding, but I will recommend a term of life imprisonment, and I’m sure that will be the final outcome. My congratulations to you, M’sieur le Magistrat.”
Pruet bowed his head in recognition. He handed a sheet of paper to the judge.
He read it and laughed. Looked at Pruet and nodded.
“Yes, I will recommend these conditions be imposed upon M’sieur Simonet, too.”
The thief looked at the judge and asked, “What conditions?”
“For the crime of taking Charles Louvel’s life, the state will take your freedom from you. For the crimes of stealing works of art from their rightful owners, the state will do its best to make sure that you never see any art form of art again. You will be allowed no printed or electronic media showing any art. The window of your cell will be covered in daylight, so you might never enjoy seeing another dawn or sunset. Your window will also be covered on clear nights so you may never again witness the movements of the stars and the moon. If, however, a night is stormy you will be allowed to see the fierce thrusts of lightning in anticipation of what your judgment will be in a courtroom beyond this world.”
Simonet’s face sagged. He would never see any form of art again?
Except that of his own damnation.
The terrible punishment Pruet had promised him.
He tried to run from the courtroom. He was seized immediately.
There would be no escape for Laurent Fortier this time.
Outside the court building, Pruet spoke with his father and Père Louvel.
The priest handed him a name written on a sheet of paper: Langston Hobart.
“Your cousin, a few times removed, I think,” the priest said. “You asked for the name of any American relation who visited your father’s home in the past few years. He is the one. Was quite fascinated by the painting of Antoine and Jocelyn. He mentioned that Jocelyn was his great-great grandmother.”
“What will you do, Yves?” his father asked.
“Shall I lead my family on a trip to America?” Père Louvel asked.
Pruet shook his head. He said, “Let the war end here. If this Hobart fellow bought anything, I am sure it’s nothing more than a forgery. If he thinks he is victorious, he is a fool, deceiving only himself.”
Augustin Pruet and Père Louvel were unsure they agreed with Yves.
Until Odo brought the real Renoir back. Then they thought more of Yves than ever.
Chapter 10
The Oval Office — Wednesday, January 16, 2013
McGill forgave the president for not coming to visit him in prison.
“I didn’t think the optics would be good,” she said.
“Well, as long as you had a sound reason.”
The two of them watched the new video the Secret Service had produced. This iteration took into account the events of the past nine days: a potentially hostile civilian militia had seen what they would be up against facing off against the United States Marine Corps; a would-be truck bomber had been violently dispatched to whatever afterlife might await him; the United States Navy’s ray-gun prototypes had been fast-tracked for practical use.
In the fashion of Hollywood films, the Secret Service provided two endings to its opus. Audience feedback would determine which one made the final cut. In the first ending, the drones that were still missing and their substitute operators got off an attack, but the Navy’s Buck Rogers ray-gunners shot them down before the missiles could be launched. In the second ending, no drone attack was attempted.
Rewinding the video, McGill liked the speech Patti gave and was pleased that nobody tried to either shout it down or shoot up the president.
“That’s it then,” he said. “I’m going to have to let the kids, Carolyn and Lars come to the inauguration. If that’s all right with you.”
The president laughed. “As if I’d say no.”
Chapter 11
West Front of the United States Capitol — Monday, January 21, 2013
Despite the Secret Service’s sanguine view of the current situation, McGill glanced heavenward while holding the Bible as Patricia Darden Grant squared her shoulders and prepared to take the oath of office to become president of the United States of America for the second time.
When the moment came for the president to speak, McGill looked right at her.
“I, Patricia Darden Grant, do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States and will to the best of my ability preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States, so help me God.”
McGill’s heart filled almost to the point of bursting with pride.
Leaving him just enough room to wonder what regrets he might have later.
He made sure not to let Patti feel any of his misgivings as he kissed her in front of the United States and the world. He beamed at his children, Carolyn and Lars. One cause of concern became immediately apparent at that moment. The way Caitie was looking at Patti, there was no question in McGill’s mind that his daughter was imagining herself at her own inauguration.
Well, hell, if she got that far, he’d leave it to her husband to worry about things.
The other person who caught McGill’s eye was Celsus Crogher. He’d pleaded for and received one last chance to catch a bullet for the president if necessary. Good man.
Inaugural Ball — Washington, DC
Merilee Parker told McGill, “You’re a heavenly dancer, sir.”
“Thank you, Ms. Parker. You’re quite accomplished yourself.”
Only two couples were out on the dance floor.
The other was the president and Celsus Crogher.
As tradition required, the president’s first dance had gone to McGill.
Then she’d kept her promise and let her former chief bodyguard lead her onto the dance floor. Now, Merilee Park looked at them and sighed. She turned to McGill.
“I thought Celsus was getting sweet on me,” she said. “Now, I don’t know if I’ll ever get him back.”
McGill told her, “Don’t worry. I’ll see that you do.”
About the Author
Joseph Flynn has been published both traditionally — Signet Books, Bantam Books and Variance Publishing — and through his own imprint, Stray Dog Press, Inc. Both major media reviews and reader reviews have praised his work. Booklist said, “Flynn is an excellent storyteller.” The Chicago Tribune said, “Flynn [is] a master of high-octane plotting.” The most repeated reader comment is: Write faster, we want more.
Contact Joe at Hey Joe on his website: www.josephflynn.com
All of Joe’s books are available for the Kindle or free Kindle app through www.amazon.com.
The Concrete Inquisition
Digger
The Next President
Hot Type
Farewell Performance
Gasoline, Texas
The President’s Henchman, A JimMcGill Novel [#1]
The Hangman’s Companion, A Jim McGill Novel [#2]
The K Street Killer, A Jim McGill Novel [#3]
Part 1: The Last Ballot Cast, A Jim McGill Novel [#4 Part 1]
Part 2: The Last Ballot Cast, A Jim McGill Novel [#4 Part 2]
Round Robin
Nailed, A Ron Ketchum Mystery
One False Step
Blood Street Punx
Still Coming
Still Coming Expanded Edition
Tall Man in Ray-Bans, A John Tall Wolf Novel
Pointy Teeth: Twelve Bite-Sized Stories
Insanity® Diary: A Sixty-Something Couple Takes Shaun T’s 60-Day Challenge
You may read free excerpts of Joe’s books by visiting his website at: www.josephflynn.com.
From.Net