Jim McGill 03 The K Street Killer

by Joseph Flynn

  She hadn’t been allowed to bring a video crew with her, but if she played things right, she was sure she could get something good on camera later. In the meantime, she’d be patient and mind her manners.

  The thought of being civil had no sooner crossed her mind than she saw Reverend Godfrey stand and notice his lawyer sitting behind him. He waved Williams forward. The lawyer got to his feet and glanced Ellie’s way. He held up a thumb and index finger.

  Give him just a moment, she understood.

  Ellie nodded. No problem.

  There was a story here and she was going to get it.

  With any luck, it would involve James J. McGill.

  In a satisfyingly nasty way.

  New York City, Midtown Manhattan

  The entity known as Mother’s Milk, located in a high rise building on Park Avenue, was neither the headquarters of a dairy nor the offices of a lactation consultancy. It’s name came from a widely known piece of political wisdom attributed to the late Jesse M. Unruh, the 54th Speaker of the California State Assembly.

  In words that had echoed through the years, Unruh had said, “Money is the mother’s milk of politics.”

  Money was what Mother’s Milk was all about. The organization had offices in ten major American cities, and would be going international within a year. Em’s Em, as it was colloquially known, raised money to back legislation at all levels of government in the United States to promote the welfare of women and children and the formation of cohesive family units, both traditional and innovative.

  The founder, CEO and head of the New York office of Em’s Em was Clare Tracy.

  She was willing to see almost anyone who cared to visit her office. The only conditions were that visitors come unarmed, recently bathed and in possession of a civil tongue.

  Other than that, Clare’s philosophy was, “Let’s see what the cat dragged in.”

  That morning the feline had produced a strapping fellow from Down Under. Clare’s sister had moved to Australia ten years earlier to work as a marine biologist. Clare had visited Brianne often enough to recognize the way a certain class of men from the Lucky Country held themselves. They evinced a sense of restrained bravado. Cocky but charming.

  As soon as Clare’s secretary, Gorgeous George, introduced Hugh Collier, the head of Em’s Em said, “Ozzie, Ozzie, Ozzie. Sydneyside?”

  Hugh smiled and said, “Aces. You’ve visited, more than once.”

  Clare nodded and waved her visitor into a guest chair.

  George took their drink orders and left.

  Clare got straight to the point, as she always did. “We’re in the business of taking money from people, Mr. Collier.”

  “Proper bushrangers.” Bandits. Hugh made his comment with a grin.

  Clare smiled right back.

  “In a sense. But we take our swag by appeals to people’s better nature not their sense of self-preservation. How much would you care to donate?”

  Hugh Collier was more than just a handsome face. He’d come prepared. He placed two checks on Clare Tracy’s desk, one atop the other. The uppermost negotiable instrument was made out to Mother’s Milk in the sum of ten thousand dollars. Clare picked it up and looked at Collier’s signature, the name of the bank, the account and routing numbers.

  Clare had seen many a check and this one looked as good as any.

  She tucked it into a desk drawer and said, “Thank you very much, Mr. Collier. I assure you your money will be put to good use.”

  “I have no doubt,” he replied.

  George came back with their drinks. A sparkling Poland Spring for Clare, a Cascade Premium for Hugh. Donors were welcome to drink beer, in moderation, if they chose. George gave Clare a look as he poured for her. He’d run a quick check on their benefactor and the odds were good he’d more than covered the cost of his beer.

  George retired to the outer office.

  “Cheers,” Clare said, raising her glass.

  “Cheers,” Hugh said.

  After a pro forma sip, Clare got right back to business.

  “This second check of yours, Mr. Collier, it’s from the same account and bank as the first one, but it’s unsigned, lacks the name of a payee and a dollar amount. Was it torn from your checkbook by mistake?”

  Hugh said, “Possibly. It depends on whether you mind me asking you a few personal questions. If you do, I’ll put it back in my pocket. If you don’t mind, I’ll be making more money available to you.”

  Clare smiled. She loved situations like this. She was a counter-puncher.

  “If I’m not interested, will you stop payment on the first check?”

  “No, that’s for your organization. It will be honored in full.”

  “The second check would also have to be made out to Em’s Em. The only remuneration I accept is my salary.”

  “As you like.”

  Clare said, “I’ve led a busy life, Mr. Collier, but hardly one of titillation.”

  Hugh said, “I believe you were once acquainted with James J. McGill.”

  Clare’s eyelids closed momentarily. When they reopened her eyes were sapphire bright and diamond hard. It wouldn’t have surprised Hugh Collier if she tried to run him through with her letter opener.

  Instead, she plucked a pen from a holder on the desk and extended it to him.

  “Sign your name to the check, Mr. Collier.”

  Hugh knew he had to comply or leave. He signed.

  Clare took the pen back and inscribed Mother’s Milk as the payee. Then she wrote the figure 100 in the dollar box. She showed what she’d done to her guest.

  “The answer to your first question is a bargain, Mr. Collier. One hundred dollars. For each successive answer on the subject of Jim McGill, I’ll add a zero. That way, we’ll find out quickly how interested you are and how much money you have to spend.”

  George reentered the room. He was half again as big as Hugh. His knuckles looked liked they’d known the impact of fist to jaw, but his face was unmarked. No scars, no thickening of soft tissue. He watched impassively.

  Hugh asked, “Where did you meet James J. McGill?”

  “At DePaul University in Chicago, freshman English composition class.”

  Hugh moved on to the obvious question. “Was he your boyfriend?”

  Clare added a zero. “Yes, for a time.”

  Given the multiplication factor involved in the dialogue, Hugh cut to the chase. “Were the two of you sexually intimate?”

  The tab reached ten thousand. “Yes.”

  Hugh considered whether to take things further. Ms. Tracy was exacting a serious toll for her answers, but the next question was too important to omit.

  “Did you become pregnant by James J. McGill?”

  George started to move toward Hugh but Clare held up a hand.

  The total was now one hundred thousand dollars. “Yes.”

  Next stop was a million dollars. Hugh wondered if Uncle Edbert would reward him for asking another question or fire him. It wasn’t necessary for him to ask whether Clare Tracy had been married to McGill at the time she became pregnant. Ellie Booker’s research had already shown McGill had been married only two times: to Carolyn Roberts and to Patricia Darden Grant. So there was no question that young Ms. Tracy and Mr. McGill had done the naughty while still single.

  But it would be oh so interesting to know what had happened to their child.

  And the woman in front of him seemed cold-bloodedly willing to tell him.

  He was just about to ask the question when his business school training kicked in. The cost of his question would be nine hundred thousand dollars. Was there a less expensive way to get the answer?

  Hugh felt sure there must be.

  If there wasn’t, he’d blame Ellie Booker for the failure.

  He got to his feet, but didn’t bother to extend his hand.

  “Thank you for your time, Ms. Tracy. Both checks will be honored.”

  He gave her a small bow and made his way out past G
orgeous George.

  Five minutes later, after enduring all the painful old memories she could bear, Clare picked up the phone and called Jim McGill for the first time in almost thirty years. She didn’t have his number, but she reasoned that if she called the White House and left her name and number he would get back to her.

  The West Wing, Captain Welborn Yates’ office

  Kira Fahey sat in a guest chair, opposite her fiancé, and made a face at him.

  “Getting cold feet?” Welborn asked.

  She’d just told him everything was set for their scaled down wedding. A simple ceremony was set for that Saturday, three days hence. It would take place at Vice President Wyman Mather’s official residence at Number One Observatory Circle. Francis Nguyen would be on hand to bless the union. The District of Columbia marriage license had been obtained at a price of forty-five dollars. Welborn had paid for that; Kira bought lunch.

  The guest list, at a minimum, would be Kira’s mother and Uncle Mather and Welborn’s mother and father. If the president and Mr. McGill were available to attend and so inclined, they would be welcome.

  “My feet are as warm as my heart,” Kira said.

  Welborn wasn’t going anywhere near that one.

  Instead, he said, “You’re worried we might offend someone who won’t be there.”

  “Yes, I’m concerned, considering the original guest list.”

  Welborn had dozens of names on that list; Kira had hundreds.

  “It would be impractical,” he said, “to ask people to drop things at the last moment and rush to Washington. Most of them are probably off on vacation and not easily reached.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Practical.”

  “Insufficiently supportive?” Welborn asked. “We could always do a webcast.”

  Kira asked, “Who would we get to play the groom?”

  Casual sniping was a character trait they shared, but Kira relented.

  “We’re terrible aren’t we?” she asked. “There are so many people with real problems and we go on about inconveniences.”

  Welborn nodded. Their troubles were nothing compared to having a seriously sick child like James J. McGill or losing a husband and father like the families of the lobbyists who had been gunned down. Still, a marriage, if you hoped to have it last a lifetime, was nothing to take lightly.

  “How about this?” he asked. “We’ll come out and be honest. Confess to everyone on the original guest list what irregular lives we lead. Admit our plans oft go awry and our impulses have been known to get the better of us. So we’ll beg everyone’s pardon, via the Web, and ask anyone who’s free to drop by this Saturday.”

  Kira said, “You’re right, only a few people will be able to make it on such short notice.”

  “But everyone will appreciate that we extended them as much courtesy as possible. Given the circumstances and our deep character flaws, they’ll probably forgive us.”

  Kira smiled and said, “Forgive me, anyway. But sending wedding invitations by e-mail. How tacky is that?”

  Welborn said, “Wedding planners everywhere would certainly let us know, but we can jazz things up. In each e-mail, we’ll include a secret password. Can’t get in without it.”

  Kira liked the idea. It gave things a note of exclusivity.

  Before she could comment, though, Welborn’s phone rang. He came to attention while still seated and said, “Yes, ma’am. Right away.”

  He replaced the receiver and got to his feet.

  “The president,” Kira said. “Summoned you chop-chop, did she?”

  “Always time for a brief but memorable kiss.”

  He gave Kira a touch-and-go buss.

  “Be still my heart,” she said.

  Already out of sight, he called back, “Think of something good for the secret password.”

  The Oval Office

  Senator John Wexford (D-Michigan), the majority leader of the Senate and Congresswoman Marlene Berman (D-New York), the minority leader of the House of Representatives shook hands with the president and looked around. They had thought they’d been invited to the White House for an impromptu meeting of the chief executive and the Congressional leadership, but their counterparts from the Republican side were absent.

  Only Galia Mindel was there with them.

  “Coffee, Mr. Majority Leader?” she asked. “Tea, Madam Minority Leader?”

  Their preferred beverages were ready and waiting for them.

  “Please, Marlene and John,” the president said, “make yourselves comfortable.”

  Wexford took the cup Galia extended to him.

  “Will the Senate minority leader and Speaker Geiger be arriving soon?” he asked.

  Patti said, “No, I have not asked them to be present.”

  For just a second Marlene Berman looked as if she might return her cup of tea to Galia.

  Patti smiled. “It’s okay. I haven’t brought you here to sandbag you, honest.”

  The president took her own cup of tea and sat on the near sofa. The two Democrats, still wary, sat opposite her. Galia took a seat to Patti’s right, but she wasn’t partaking of either coffee or tea. She’d have liked to hold a pen and notepad, but the president had vetoed that idea. She didn’t want to put her visitors any more on edge than they already were.

  Wexford put his cup and saucer down on an end table.

  Berman kept hers on her lap.

  Patti opened the discussion. “The chairman of the RNC, Reynard Dix, spoke with me yesterday. He asked me if I intend to run for another term.”

  Both Democrats laughed involuntarily.

  The president smiled. “I was a bit surprised myself. I pointed out that my poll numbers suggested it might be a worthwhile idea. That was when Mr. Dix informed me that I could expect to be challenged in the Republican primary elections.”

  That revelation caused the two Democrats to look at one another.

  “I promised Mr. Dix that I would beat any challenger badly.”

  Marlene Berman nodded. “I believe you would, Madam President.”

  Wexford kept his own counsel on the matter.

  Patti continued, “I did wonder, though, if Mr. Dix’s message wasn’t a clumsy attempt to try to rein me in, bind me more tightly to the party orthodoxy. Present me with a group of challengers who would hew to a strict conservative dogma and show me as being … unlike them.”

  The majority leader picked up his coffee cup and smiled.

  “That’s what I’d do in their place,” he said.

  “And what would you do in my place, John?” the president asked.

  “Please allow for my political bias, Madam President, but your best move would be to show the country you’re nothing like your competitors. You’re better than them.”

  Wexford took a sip from his cup, put it down with a smile.

  Now, Marlene Berman looked at Galia.

  Saw John Wexford had given exactly the answer the president had wanted.

  She asked, “Are you asking us to help you secure your party’s nomination, Madam President?”

  Patti laughed. “That would be highly bipartisan of you.”

  “It would be political suicide for Marlene and me,” Wexford said.

  “Well, I certainly couldn’t ask that of you. No, the reason I asked you here today is to let you know that I’m going to announce some new policies soon. Some I’ll be able to implement on my own and others … well, that’s where I’ll need some help in Congress.”

  “And you’re coming to us for help with that?” Marlene asked.

  “Let me tell you what I have in mind,” Patti said. “See how much of it you can support.”

  The president told them what she had in mind for the remainder of her term, and the two Democratic leaders loved all of it. They promised to do everything they could to muster support.

  Wexford closed the meeting by asking, “Madam President, are you sure you’re in the right party?”

  “John, I’ve been asking myself that v
ery question.”

  After Wexford and Berman left, the president went to the residence where Jim, Sweetie, Putnam Shady and Rockelle Bullard were waiting for her. Sensing a need for one more person, she summoned Captain Welborn Yates.

  White House Roof

  At least once a day, when the president was in residence, SAC Celsus Crogher went to the top of the building and surveyed the grounds and the surrounding city streets. He also checked the two-story basement. He worried less about an underground attack, saw it as far less likely. To make up for that deficiency in imagination, he had tasked a special agent who came from a coal-mining family to worry about nothing but an underground assault. The man monitored sensing devices that would detect any burrower larger than a mole.

  The insectivore variety.

  Keeping pace with Crogher as he walked the roof’s perimeter was his new subordinate, Elspeth Kendry.

  “So Holmes has you stiff-arming the press for him?” Crogher asked.

  “Yes. At the moment, it’s only the crew from WorldWide News.”

  Crogher grimaced and shook his head.

  “Leave it to that guy to subvert his security detail.”

  “There’s no serious threat on the radar, sir. There’s always the possibility of a lone wolf attack, but …”

  “But what, Kendry?”

  “Special Agent Ky confirmed your observation about Holmes’ quickness. Said he’s never seen a faster gun draw, and Holmes, I hear, knows how to take care of himself in close quarters combat.”

  Crogher gave his subordinate a baleful look.

  “So you think everything’s peachy the way Holmes wants it?”

  “Permission to speak frankly, sir?”

  Crogher nodded.

  “In your position, I’d be unhappy if I couldn’t lock Holmes in a secure room for as long as Holly G. is president.”

  Kendry’s imagery made Crogher smile. Fleetingly.

  “And in your position, Special Agent?”

  “I don’t think there’s a lone wolf in the world that could get past both Special Agent Ky and Holmes, and from what I’ve learned Leo Levy is probably the best driver in the entire federal government.”