Jim McGill 04 The Last Ballot Cast, Part 1

by Joseph Flynn

  She said, “People don’t do that sort of thing on this island and they especially don’t do it in this establishment. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Completely,” Welborn said, “but I didn’t intend my manner to be peremptory. I was merely providing a sound effect to accompany a passing thought.”

  Willa took the seat across from Welborn, temporarily obscuring his view of the Marlborough Bank. Not that he was about to complain. Not if he could help himself. Keeping any misplaced impulse in check was aided by the fact that Willa, even angered, was easy on the eyes.

  “Peremptory, you say,” Willa said. “Did you go to one of those posh American universities?”

  “Mine was highly selective,” he said, “and it has produced the most astronauts.”

  Actually, the Air Force Academy came in second to the Naval Academy in that distinction, but Welborn was willing to fudge the truth for the moment.

  Willa wasn’t interested in space travel. She had another question.

  “What was the passing thought?” she asked, a note of suspicion clear in her voice. “The one that got you to …” She snapped her fingers.

  “Oh, that. I was thinking about a woman.”

  Now, Willa smiled, and she made a guess that was half right.

  “Things change with women, sometimes just like …” She snapped her fingers again.

  Welborn cautioned, “You might want to stop doing that. People might think it has become acceptable behavior.”

  Willa studied Welborn for a long moment.

  “I like you,” she said. “I bet you could talk a lady right out of her knickers.”

  There had been times, but Welborn didn’t want to send the wrong message.

  “The woman I was thinking of,” he said, “she surprised me but she’s still very much in the picture.”

  Willa sat back in her chair. “As in you’re very much married?”

  “I am.”

  “You’re not wearing a ring.”

  Not when I’m working, Welborn thought. Wouldn’t do to let any bad guy know where a reprisal might be taken.

  “I behave as though I do,” he said.

  Willa sighed. “Sad but true. We can still talk, right?”

  “Of course.”

  A thought struck Welborn just then, an idea that had never made an appearance in the curricula of his federal law enforcement training classes at Glynco, Georgia. He wondered if James J. McGill would approve of it. Cops used snitches, didn’t they? Of course, they did.

  “What’s going on under all your pretty blonde hair?” Willa asked.

  “I’m trying to think of how I might ask a favor of you.”

  “While remembering you’re married.”

  “Always keeping that in mind. I can’t tell you what I’m doing here, but I’d like you to help me do it. You and any of your people working here. I’d be happy to offer monetary compensation for your efforts, if that’s an appropriate thing to do.”

  Willa thought about that. “You wouldn’t put me into any trouble with the police?”

  “Never. What I’d be asking is perfectly legal.”

  “How much money would you be offering?”

  The alumni association of the Air Force Academy had a standing offer of one hundred thousand dollars for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the person or persons responsible for causing the deaths of Keith Quinn, Tommy Bauer and Joe Eddy. Welborn considered what he might add to that bounty as seed money.

  He told Willa, “At least five thousand dollars and perhaps as much as one hundred thousand dollars.”

  The young woman’s eyes widened and then she became suspicious again.

  “Tell me true,” she said, “this has nothing to do with drugs or hurting people.”

  Welborn said, “It doesn’t. If things work out, you’ll learn what I’m doing and you’ll be glad you helped.”

  “You know what I think?” Willa asked.

  “What?”

  “I think you could sell turn signals to fireflies.”

  Welborn grinned. “You just made that up.”

  “Heard it from another Yank not long ago. Had to explain it to me, he did.”

  Welborn took a photocopy of Linley Boland’s likeness out of a pocket. He laid it on the table between them. Willa moved it to a better angle for her to examine.

  “Now, this bloke’s a proper villain.”

  Welborn nodded. “He steals things and he kills people.”

  “And he’s coming to George Town?”

  “Yes.”

  Willa had the wit to turn and look in the direction Welborn always faced. She saw the bank first thing. Everyone in the Cayman Islands knew how their banks were often used. Not everyone approved. She looked back at Welborn.

  “Now we’re at the part you won’t tell me about.”

  Welborn nodded. “The proper villain is a wanted man in the United States. All I want is for your police to take him into custody until he can be extradited.”

  “So you are a copper.”

  “My interest is personal.”

  “And this man, this villain, he’s going to show up at the bank?”

  “I think so.”

  “But he’s got to fly into the airport or sail into a marina, yes?”

  “Yes.” He thought he saw where she was going.

  Willa told him,“One man can watch just one place, but if you know a lot of people …”

  Welborn said, “You can watch a lot of places. That would be helpful.”

  “And all anyone has to do is call the police, have this man arrested?”

  “Yes. That’ll get you five thousand dollars.”

  “He gets sent to prison in the U.S. we get the rest?”

  “Yes.”

  “What if the police don’t want to cooperate?”

  Welborn gestured to the pad on which Willa took food orders.

  “May I?”

  She handed the pad and a pen to him. He jotted his name and a phone number.

  “If the cops aren’t interested, nobody acts like a hero. Just hand the bad guy this information.”

  “You think he’s going to call you? Cop or not, you’re the bloke hunting him.”

  “That’s right. So you tell him one thing.”

  “What?”

  Welborn said, “Tell him I’ve got what he wants.”

  Sunset Marina — Key West, Florida

  Carina Linberg was working on the synopsis of the idea for her TV pilot. She sat in the stern of Irish Grace working on a MacBook Pro. Her boat had WiFi so she could go on the Internet to do research as needed. The sounds of the marina had become second nature to her and usually didn’t disturb her concentration. But that day it sounded like someone a few slips over was using a power saw. That made creative thinking difficult.

  Only until she dug out a set of earbuds, plugged them into the computer and clicked on the Mary Chapin Carpenter channel on Pandora. Dialed up the volume until the sound of the saw became a soft buzz. You couldn’t beat technology for isolating you from the —

  Asshole standing on the jetty yelling at you and waving his arms to catch your eye.

  It was Jackie Richmond, the bartender. The guy was becoming a real pain.

  She was tempted to go below and button up. But it was such a damn nice day. And, Christ, he might have more news about that mess she’d stumbled into. There might be more story material she could use somewhere down the line.

  Make the sacrifice for your art, she told herself.

  She pulled the buds out of her ears and was relieved to find the saw had gone silent.

  Jackie said, “You got a minute?” Catching the look on Carina’s face, he added, “It might take a little longer than that.”

  Carina responded, “I bet it’s not something you want to talk about from a distance.”

  Jackie looked around to see if anyone was paying attention. No one was.

  Even so, he said, “Best not to.”

  Ca
rina’s study of writing for TV had advanced to the point where she’d learned about pitches and log lines. You had to nail the interest of a producer or a studio executive in one sentence. Otherwise it was, “Thank you for coming. Next.”

  “Give me a brief summary,” Carina said.

  After looking around again, Jackie told her in a quiet voice, “There was a shooting at Mango Mary’s, three dead.”

  Carina had to admit that wasn’t bad. Hooked her. A couple of ways. One, it was good story material. Two, she wanted to find out what her own liability, if any, was. She waved Jackie aboard. She took it as a good sign that he didn’t smile as he set foot on the boat.

  He wasn’t running some scam; he was serious about the shooting.

  Carina told him, “Tell me everything that happened, but keep to the point the way you did just now.”

  She opened a new file on her word processing program. She wanted to get down both Jackie’s narrative and any dialogue between the two of them. From where he stood, he wouldn’t be able to see what she was typing, but if he wasn’t a total dope, and she didn’t think he was, he’d be able to guess she was making a record of their meeting.

  What he couldn’t know was that if he made a move to grab the computer or assault her, she could send everything she’d transcribed to a cloud server with the touch of a button.

  That and pull out her LadySmith with her free hand.

  Jackie told her what had happened at Mango Mary’s. He kept his voice down and his sentences short. Blue collar Hemingway. When he finished, he said, “That’s it.”

  “So you shot a guy and killed him?” Carina asked.

  “In self-defense. Three guys in masks charge in with Glocks with extended clips, and one points the damn thing at you, what else you gonna do?”

  The logic was inarguable, but there were a few points to clear up.

  “You recognized the make of the guns they had?”

  “I thought they were Glocks. They were sure semi-autos. The clips were long as a dog’s leg, it seemed.”

  “Okay, and you just happened to have a rifle in hand?”

  “I told you, we were talking guns at the bar. Everyone had theirs out. You got one yourself; you should know how it is. Especially after the trouble we already had at the bar.”

  Carina thought that was reasonable, too.

  “So, out of the goodness of your heart, you decided to come and warn me?”

  Jackie said, “My heart’s only middling good, if that. I want to ask you about doing a job for me.”

  That caught Carina off guard. “What kind of job?”

  “Sail me down to an island off South America. I’ll pay. Can you make it in this boat?”

  Carina nodded and asked, “Where’s Alice? She’s okay, isn’t she?”

  “The last I saw, but the longer we stick around here …”

  He left it to her to imagine the rest. She was already working on that.

  “You’re writing all this down, aren’t you?” Jackie said.

  “I am, but I’m not using any names.”

  “Why not?”

  “When I write a story I like to make up my own names.”

  She was tempted to say the way you made up Jackie Richmond, but she didn’t want to push it. Instead she asked, “What do you expect to pay for a charter to South America? Keep in mind I have the expense of making the return trip.”

  “Would ten grand do it?” he asked. He figured he needed to keep at least fifteen for himself.

  “That’s a bit modest, but worth considering.”

  “Does that mean yes?”

  Carina said, “Tell you what. You go get Alice and bring her along, I’ll have more faith in you. Do it for ten thousand.”

  “Long as we’re adding conditions,” Jackie said, “if I bring Alice, can we make a quick stop at Grand Cayman on the way?”

  Carina liked a plot with twists. She said, “Sure.” Then she added, “I’ll need to get fuel and provisions for the voyage. That’ll take a little while. Can you remember a phone number?”

  Jackie nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Call this number before you come back.” She gave Jackie her mobile phone number. “I’ll want to talk with Alice when you call. I’ll want to see her walking down the jetty with you.”

  “You think I’d leave her behind?”

  “I know what guys do to women,” Carina told him.

  “What if she doesn’t want to come?”

  “Find yourself a travel agent.” Carina took her LadySmith out of her pocket.

  “I’ll call first and I’ll be with Alice. We’ll be back with the money.”

  That, Carina had learned, would be what people in the writing biz called a plot point.

  She watched Jackie depart the marina. He took another look at her Porsche as he left. He’d said somebody had stolen his Porsche. She had the feeling it was more likely the other way around. Then, maybe, somebody took the car from him.

  Once Jackie was out of sight, she called her agent.

  Told him, “Call Sir Edbert. Say I’ve got a TV show I want to pitch him.”

  The White House Residence

  McGill and Patti called Camp David from McGill’s Hideaway. They both spoke with Kenny and were heartened to learn he was in good spirits and continuing to gain strength. He confided to his father that he was eager to resume his training in Dark Alley. Patti, listening in on another extension, raised her eyebrows when she heard that. McGill said they’d get back to it that weekend when he brought Abbie up for a visit.

  Patti said, “I’ll be there, too.”

  Which was the first McGill had heard of that.

  Patti said hello to Carolyn when she joined the call, but then left McGill to speak privately with his former wife. Carolyn said she thought Kenny was looking well. “Almost back to normal. I keep holding my breath that there are no setbacks.”

  “Me, too,” McGill said. “Remember, faith is what keeps you going through tough times.”

  “I’m not as tough as I should be, as you well know. Maybe I should start pumping iron.”

  McGill laughed “There you go. Do that and start talking with an Austrian accent. You could get into movies and become the governor of California.”

  “Kahl-ee-forn-ee-uh,” Carolyn corrected.

  “You’re on your way.”

  “Only if I promise to bring Caitie along.”

  They ended the call feeling the mutual comfort of seeing Kenny on the mend, and knowing each of them would continue to pray as hard as they could for all of their children.

  McGill picked up the house phone and told Patti it was okay to come back.

  She brought Blessing, the White House head butler, with her. He came bearing a cold Sugar Hill Golden Ale and a frosted mug for McGill. The president was refreshing herself with a White House Ice Tea.

  McGill raised his mug to Patti, “To my dear wife, a better woman than I deserve.”

  Patti clinked her bottle against McGill’s mug of beer. “For an undeserving guy, you seem to do pretty well with any number of women.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” McGill said.

  And he did, joined by Patti.

  “I had my daily once-over with Nick,” she said.

  “All’s well?”

  McGill prayed hard for Patti, too.

  She nodded. “The doctors are calling the episode of mitral valve prolapse I experienced an idiopathic event.”

  “Fancy way of saying they can’t figure it out, right?”

  “Unknown cause arising spontaneously, if you’d care to be more precise.”

  McGill said, “Nobody likes an unsolved mystery, but Nick and friends aren’t worried beyond that, are they?”

  “Caution is still the watchword, but I’ve been given the go-ahead to bump up my schedule by twenty percent. I’ve decided to take it up only ten percent.”

  “How come?” McGill asked. Patti wasn’t exactly a slacker.

  “Because I’ve decided to give yo
u the other ten percent.”

  To avoid any possible misunderstanding, she batted her eyes at him.

  McGill beamed. “Maybe there’s more to recommend me than I thought.”

  “Surely you’ve heard of an October Surprise,” Patti said to McGill an hour later.

  “It’s a Halloween prank, isn’t it?” he asked, adjusting his pillow.

  He got an elbow to his ribs for that, but it was barely more than a nudge.

  No point in ruining the easy-does-it mood of what they’d just enjoyed.

  Having considered the matter now, Patti said, “You may be right. It could have been inspired by the idea of trick or treat. Politics being what they are, though, it’s more like trick and treat. You play a dirty trick on your opponent just before the election and enjoy the treat of watching him scramble desperately to recover, only to come up short and lose the election.”

  “If the truth comes out a little late,” McGill said, “there are no do-overs.”

  Patti gave a laugh with a cynical tone.

  “What?” McGill asked.

  “Of course, there are do-overs. They’re called recounts. In many cases, they’re mandated by law. If the first count falls within certain prescribed margins, you count again until everybody’s satisfied — or you have a majority of the Supreme Court in your pocket and they stop the recount. You know, just in one special case. Not setting a precedent or anything.”

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot about that.”

  Patti said, “Anyway, I’m sure that was what Ms. Booker was telling you.”

  “She not only told me what, generally speaking, she told me who — specifically, Sir Edbert Bickford. Kind of rankles having a Brit meddle in American governance. Next thing you know, they’ll try to burn down the White House again.”

  “We have a fire suppression system these days,” Patti reassured him.

  “All to the good, but I still think Galia should send out her minions to see what Bickford is up to,” McGill said.

  “You think Galia has minions?”

  “Somebody had to hire all those displaced KGB workers.”

  The elbow this time was just a touch sharper. McGill took it as a sign Patti was still feeling playful. He rolled over, stroked her cheek and kissed her.

  “It’s probably for the best you don’t know about your chief of staff’s spy network,” he said. “Gives you plausible deniability. I think.”