Jim McGill 03 The K Street Killer

by Joseph Flynn

  Geiger turned the TV off. He’d watch the recording later.

  Anticipating further distractions, he told his secretary to hold all calls.

  Turning back to Putnam, he said, “I assume you’re one of us.”

  Putnam’s job, as agreed to with Sweetie, was to worm his way into Geiger’s confidence and then betray him completely. The more Putnam thought about that, the less it bothered him. Geiger’s Super-K plan was the philosophical opposite of Putnam’s Share America idea. One concentrated power in the hands of fewer fat cats than ever; the other dispersed power widely, democracy for anyone with a hundred bucks.

  Despite his pledge, Putnam couldn’t help being himself.

  Channeling Bill Clinton, he said, “Define us.”

  “Us, goddamnit. The Republican Party. People of means. The job creators. Everyone who makes our country great.”

  “I’m all for greatness,” Putnam said, “but, frankly, I don’t vote.”

  “What? Not for anyone?” the speaker asked.

  As someone who for years had seen the making of political sausage, Putnam had long ago become a vegetarian. Metaphorically speaking. He still liked a good steak and, as he’d told Sweetie, he’d voted for Patti Grant.

  Other than that, he’d been truthful about not casting a ballot.

  “How do you expect me to take that?” Geiger asked hotly.

  Putnam stayed cool. “Any way you please. I thought you asked me here because you need a new divorce lawyer.”

  Patti Grant wasn’t the only one aware of the Hatch Act’s strictures against conducting political activity on government property. Moreover, Putnam thought Geiger might be dumb enough not to have learned a thing from history about having a recording system — other than a DVR — running as he talked to visitors to his office.

  Putnam didn’t intend to ever have to explain himself to a special prosecutor.

  Geiger had the wits to understand his guest’s allusion.

  Playing along, wondering now if a third party might have bugged his office, he asked, “You think you’re up to the job?”

  “I haven’t read family law since college, but I’m a quick study.”

  True beyond dispute, Putnam thought. His little tap dance would steer him clear of any prosecutor if his words were ever repeated, but they should reassure Geiger he could do the job. To solidify his position in both halves of the equation, he added, “Mrs. Geiger has hired Gerald Mishkin, the top divorce lawyer in town.”

  That sat Mister Speaker back in his seat.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Jerry and I go back a ways; we talk.”

  “So you really do think you can help me?”

  Phrased with lovely ambiguity, Putnam thought.

  Maybe the speaker wasn’t a total dope.

  “I think we can work something out,” Putnam said.

  Thing Two

  McGill did a double-take when Leo arrived at the White House that morning driving Patti’s back-up limo. Deke didn’t bat an eye. If anything, he looked amused and maybe a bit pleased.

  Secret Service guys could sometimes think they deserved a presidential ride.

  Entering the back seat, McGill asked Leo, “Where’s the Chevy?”

  “Elspeth Kendry and a dozen or so techies have it.” Leo told McGill what had happened.

  Deke said, “The thief got past your garage alarm and the Chevy’s primary security system?”

  Leo nodded glumly. “Yeah, the sumbitch. Damn, I wanted to shoot that boy. Musta been that guy I spotted yesterday.”

  “What?” McGill asked, surprised.

  Leo told him about the suspicious tail he saw the day before. “I didn’t want to bother you, what with Kenny bein’ sick and all. But there was this guy I didn’t like the feel of yesterday. He had a kid with him, maybe about ten or twelve.”

  “Sonofabitch is right,” McGill said.

  Circumstances were beginning to justify his expanded protection detail.

  He didn’t like that at all.

  “Special Agent Kendry and her crew are goin’ over the Chevy with every forensic trick in the book,” Leo said. “That bastard left any little piece of himself behind, they’ll find it. But it could take a while. Meantime, this is what SAC Crogher said is our new ride.”

  His mother, Leo thought, would love it, him being at the helm of an ocean liner.

  He hated it. McGill did, too, but it was the least of his worries.

  “Where to, boss?” Leo asked.

  “The D.C. Ritz-Carlton.”

  Leo entered the name into the limo’s GPS system.

  McGill was going to pick up Clare Tracy. Dr. Divya Sahir Jones had requested that Clare be retested at GWU just for everyone’s peace of mind. Clare, bless her, had consented.

  “Twenty-second Street it is,” Leo said, and Thing Two began to roll.

  As of last night, the question of who would be Kenny’s donor, Patti or Clare, had been left undecided, and when the president had told McGill the news she would be breaking to the world that morning, they left the matter to be discussed later.

  Celsus hadn’t attached a motorcycle escort to Thing Two, for which McGill gave thanks. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and tapped out Carolyn’s mobile number. The last thing his ex-wife needed was to hear the blare of motorcycle sirens.

  Carolyn answered by saying, “Kenny’s still with us, Jim.”

  McGill felt a mountain lifted off his heart.

  The Oval Office

  “The simple truth is,” the president told the nation, “I won’t hang my hat anyplace I’m not wanted. It’s become apparent to me I’ve worn out my welcome in the Republican Party. In working to advance what I see as the best interests of the American people, members of my former party have been my most stubborn opponents.

  “Only two days ago, in a meeting with the chairman of the Republican National Committee, Reynard Dix, I was asked whether I intend to run for a second term as president. I have to admit this question took me by I surprise. I haven’t accomplished everything I had hoped to by now, but this was due, in no small measure, to the obstruction of Congressional Republicans.

  “When I told Mr. Dix that I did intend to run for a second term, he advised me I would face not just one opponent in the primary elections but several. The only way to look at this was that I was being rebuffed by my former party’s leadership at a time when I enjoy a substantial margin of approval by my fellow Americans.”

  Patti paused to let the camera show her emotions.

  She was disappointed, but far more angered and determined.

  She flicked a glance at Galia.

  Her chief of staff had provided bomb number two to throw.

  “I’m sorry to say that more than policy differences and political calculations were involved in my former party’s disaffection for me. I’ve learned that a senior member of my former party has described me as an ‘accidental president.’ He said I never would have been elected if I hadn’t benefitted from a sympathy vote resulting from the murder of my first husband, Andrew Hudson Grant.”

  Patti’s anger predominated now and it was easy to see. She’d felt exactly the same way when Galia had told her how Derek Geiger had characterized her.

  “This assertion insults not only me but also everyone who voted for me.”

  The president hadn’t named Geiger, but she’d fired a starting pistol to set the media racing to find out who had insulted her. Describing the character assassin as a senior Republican would make it easy to determine the speaker was the culprit. Geiger would be forced to explain himself quickly.

  If he denied his culpability, so much the better. Galia would produce her source: Harlo Geiger. The chief of staff had made a call to the speaker’s alienated spouse as soon as she’d heard from Bob Merriman of the Geigers’ impending divorce. Striking while emotions were still high, Galia had even gotten Harlo’s permission to record her assertion.

  The president filled a glass with w
ater.

  She took a sip and continued.

  “There’s one more thing I should tell you about my meeting with RNC Chairman Dix. I promised him that I would deliver a substantial political beating to any primary opponent who ran against me. Now, having left my former party, I won’t be able to do that. So I feel compelled to make a new promise.”

  Patti waited a beat as the camera moved in for a close-up of her face.

  “In the general election, I will win by a substantial margin over any opponent, and by the grace of God I will be your president for a second term. I’ve yet to determine whether I will run as an independent candidate, as the leader of a new political party or in some other fashion.

  “Thank you for giving me the time to speak with you. I’ll be holding a press conference soon to elaborate on what I’ve said this morning.”

  The camera’s red light went off and Patti was done.

  She’d just laid down her challenge to the Democrats.

  If they wanted her on their ticket, they’d have to draft her.

  The Washington Ritz-Carlton

  Clare Tracy was waiting when Thing Two pulled up to the hotel’s main entrance. Deke got out of the limo fast, didn’t give the doorman a chance to reach for the near side passenger door. A simple shake of his head made the hotel employee back off. It wasn’t for the general public to see just how thickly armored a presidential limousine was.

  With commendable panache, the doorman still gestured Clare to her ride.

  With great discretion, she tipped him for his solicitude.

  Deke had to make due with the bob of her head and a smile.

  He helped Clare inside, closed the top secret door and took his seat up front.

  Thing Two headed for GWU Hospital.

  Clare sat beside McGill and beamed at him, happy to see him again after so many years. “You always did know how to impress a girl.”

  McGill smiled back. “I wanted to bring the Harley, but it’s in the shop.”

  He’d had a 1972 Fat Bob when they were in college. They rode it all over town, even in the winter if there wasn’t snow or ice on the road — sometimes even if there was. But he had sold the Harley, reluctantly, when Abbie was born. It was time to be responsible. Not the time to risk a car-versus-bike traffic accident.

  Clare smiled. She knew McGill was joking. She always knew.

  “How are you, Jim? I mean, it’s terrible the way you’ve ballooned up, got jowly and lost your hair. But other than that, you’re all right?”

  “Not bad,” he said. “Sorry to learn you’ve gone blind.”

  She patted his hand. “Make sure I don’t bump into anything.”

  For a moment they were silent, unselfconscious as they looked at each other, taking measure of how the passing years had exacted their due. From their bright expressions, it was clear they felt they had gotten away lightly.

  Except for some recent worry lines on McGill’s face.

  “How’s your son, Jim?” Clare asked.

  “He’s hanging in, says he’s got things he wants to do.”

  “You have a picture?”

  McGill took a studio portrait out of his wallet. Taken a year ago, the three McGill children had all been scrubbed, dressed to impress and on their best behavior.

  For just a second, Clare bit her lower lip.

  “They’re all beautiful,” she said. “Kenny’s going to make some young lady very happy. I’m glad I’m able to help.”

  In that moment, McGill thought to tell Clare that Patti was another compatible donor, but he didn’t want to do anything to spoil the mood.

  He only said, “It’s so good to see you again, Clare.”

  Portland, Oregon

  Senator Roger Michaelson, Democrat and the junior senator from Oregon, knew treachery when he saw it. Worse, he felt the cold fear of knowing that Patti Grant, that evil bitch, was going to try to thwart him again. He snapped off the TV.

  Michaelson was home for the August Congressional recess. Many of his peers were using the second half of the month to take their longest vacation of the year. Europe was still a favorite destination for many. Younger, more daring representatives of the people or those with ethnic ties might head to Africa or Asia. If some media busybodies wanted to stir up trouble, Michaelson would bet they could find that better than half of the legislative branch of the federal government chose to take their summertime leisure outside the country.

  Unpatriotic bastards.

  The revelation might be defended as a matter of personal privilege.

  Politically, though, preferring a foreign holiday would be indefensible.

  Especially to all those Americans who couldn’t afford to go overseas.

  Michaelson had stayed home. He’d even declined joining a three-day fishing trip to nearby British Columbia. Besides simply unwinding at home, he’d made a point of being seen enjoying the many natural wonders of his home state. He was putting a nice chunk of his government-funded salary back into the local economy.

  He had an ulterior motive, of course.

  He was about to announce his intention to run for the Democratic nomination to be president. The absolute first step in that plan was to lock up his home state. Oregon had only seven electoral votes, but just ask Al Gore what losing the place you called home could mean in a presidential election.

  Roger Michaelson was not about to make that mistake. He’d been attending local picnics for firefighters, little league baseball games, all sorts of ethnic festivals and every sort of aw-shucks, Jack Armstrong All-American Boy events he could stomach.

  He’d been warmly received at all of them. The only time things got the least bit awkward was when, against his better judgment, he’d allowed himself to get coaxed into participating in a pick-up game of basketball with a group of soldiers home on leave. Michaelson had been an All-Big Ten player at Northwestern. Asking him to join the game had been a natural thing to do.

  But the senator was reluctant to get back on the court. He hadn’t played the game since Jim McGill had given him the beating of his life the last time he played. Michaelson had left plenty of bruises on the president’s henchman, but there was no question he had gotten the worse of the battle by far.

  Still, his main fear when he realized he had no choice but to step onto the court for at least a few minutes was that he’d lose his temper and lash out physically at some unsuspecting soldier. He could imagine a front-page photo of him standing over some young enlisted man he’d coldcocked, and a headline “Senator Michaelson Assaults Soldier Home on Leave.”

  It would be far better to take a bump or two from an opposing player and shrug it off. Show he could be a good sport. People would lap that up and ask for more.

  Turned out, he needn’t have worried. He was twenty years older than anyone else in the game, but he was in shape, and none of his skills had deserted him. They weren’t as sharp as they’d once been, but they were more than enough to overwhelm younger men who didn’t play the game regularly and with a passion.

  Michaelson drove past flatfooted defenders to lay the ball up and in. He’d have loved to be able to dunk just once, but he didn’t have the lift anymore. He remembered reading that plyometric training could restore some of the spring to aging legs and thought he’d have to give it a try. When he didn’t take the ball to the hole, he swished jumpers from twenty feet out. He changed sides for a second game so everyone could have a chance to be on the winning side.

  It was the most fun he’d had since … that bastard McGill.

  Still, basketball had become fun again.

  Made him feel better about himself.

  Gave him confidence he could become president, too. But now goddamn Patti Grant was pulling some major bullshit, quitting the goddamn GOP. Saying maybe she’d run as an independent or head a new party. That was so much crap.

  It was the last possibility she’d mentioned that made Michaelson’s sphincter pucker.

  Run in some other fashion. What
other fashion was there except to run as a Democrat? Have his goddamn party draft her, and the hacks in Washington would do it in a heartbeat. The only reason he’d decided to get into the race was because the potential field of Democratic candidates looked so pathetic; he was sure he could win the nomination. He also had the balls to run an all-out campaign against Patricia Darden Grant.

  When she was still a Republican.

  He’d longed for a rematch ever since she’d beaten him in what had been the first race for elective office for both of them, the House seat on Chicago’s North Shore.

  Well, fuck the party’s power brokers. He wasn’t going to step aside for Patti Goddamn Grant. He’d run against her in the primaries regardless of what anyone else wanted.

  He’d get back at his own personal Judas, too.

  There was no question in his mind who had put the join-the-Democrats bug in the president’s ear: Bob Fucking Merriman. He’d been suspicious that Merriman had been up to no good ever since the prick had quit his Senate staff.

  Roger Michaelson’s phone rang just then.

  Sonofabitch. He saw it was Merriman calling.

  He grabbed the phone and said, “You soulless bastard. You did this.”

  “Of course, I did,” Merriman agreed. “Didn’t see the president’s formal announcement coming, though. Now we have to go to her or risk a three-way race which we’re sure to lose. But you know why I did it, don’t you?”

  “To get her endorsement when you run for my Senate seat.”

  “Well, yeah. But I meant the underlying reason.”

  Michaelson forced himself to take a breath. Merriman was a far more subtle political thinker than he was and they both knew it. Even so, Michaelson was good at playing catch up. He took it a step at a time.

  “You knew I’d be the only one to oppose the president in the primaries.”

  “Right,” Merriman said.

  Michaelson followed his former hatchetman’s trail of breadcrumbs.

  “And you know I’ll give her a hard race. I will win some states.”