by Joseph Flynn
The closer the thief was to the gun’s owner, the more he’d know.
Rockelle had a thought that wasn’t covered by the article. Household help. She was dealing with affluent people here. Maybe there was a housekeeper, a cook, a gardener or someone else who worked in or around the home. Might even be someone who worked in more than one of the victims’ homes.
“Almost there, Lou,” Meeker said. “You and your machine come up with anything?”
“Yeah,” Rockelle said. “Maybe the butler did it.”
McGill Investigations Inc.
Caitie McGill and Harlo Geiger finished their pas de deux with beaming smiles and an embrace. Harlo picked up her handbag, and Caitie introduced her father.
“Dad, this is Harlo Geiger. Ms. Geiger, this is my father, James J. McGill.”
The two new acquaintances shook hands. McGill introduced Sweetie, and the two women also shook hands. Putnam Shady only smiled at Harlo. He walked over to Caitie and said to McGill, “I’ll have her home by midnight.”
McGill didn’t think that was funny, but let it slide.
Harlo accepted that Putnam did not rate an introduction, and didn’t ask for one.
The two detectives ushered their new client into McGill’s office.
Harlo declined the offer of coffee, tea or water. Everyone took a seat and they got down to business.
“I’m divorcing the speaker of the House of Representatives,” Harlo told McGill and Sweetie. “I’d like you to find as much dirt on him as possible. I want him to be left with a guilty conscience and little else.”
Sweetie asked the first question. “Why should he feel guilty?”
McGill followed up. “What kind of dirt?”
“For breaking his marriage vows,” Harlo told Sweetie. To McGill, she said, “Personal, political or potting soil. Any old kind of dirt you can name.”
“Why do you think your husband cheated on you?” Sweetie asked.
Harlo bluntly told Sweetie and McGill of her husband’s failure to perform.
“These things happen,” McGill said.
“Have they happened to you?” Harlo asked.
Thoughts came to McGill’s mind of unhappy times near the end of his marriage to Carolyn. He said, “As a matter of fact.”
Harlo leaned forward. “You don’t have to answer, but was it because there was someone else?”
McGill thought it was more a case of Carolyn becoming someone else.
At least from his point of view.
“There was no one else,” he said.
“You know,” Sweetie said, “your husband’s not a young man. Even if he’d never failed to acquit himself before, what happened might just be the first sign of an illness. Maybe something treatable, maybe something serious, but in either case not his fault.”
The idea, plainly, had never crossed Harlo’s mind, and she didn’t like it.
In her defense, she said with a slight whine, “I found a fax from his lawyer, Brad Attles, the one who got killed. The message said Derek was planning to divorce me. That’s what a man does when he’s found someone new, not what he does when he loves his wife and finds out he’s sick.”
Both McGill and Sweetie thought that was a fair reading.
McGill had never expected to take on divorce cases when he went into private investigations, but considering this one’s relevance to the political firefight that would be the next presidential election, and his determination to protect his wife, he felt he had no choice. He told Harlo what the investigation would cost and she didn’t bat an eye.
“When can you start?” she asked.
“As soon as you can point us in a likely direction,” McGill said.
“That’ll be easy,” Harlo told him. She reached into her handbag and brought out a sheaf of paper held together by a bulldog clip. “Before I kicked Derek out of the house, I copied his date book for the past year. His personal date book.”
McGill wondered if he and Sweetie should read it.
Or just turn it over to Galia Mindel.
White House, Welborn Yates’ Office
The phone rang and Welborn picked it up on the first ring. There was always the chance the president might be calling, and it wouldn’t do not to respond promptly. Whatever foolish thoughts he might be having about working in the White House, as long as he was there, he intended to do an exemplary job.
“Captain Yates,” he said.
“Welborn, it’s Chris.”
It took him a moment to place the name; the slight Valley Girl lilt helped.
Chris Peterson, the summer intern at Warner Brothers.
“I’ve got your M&Ms,” he told her. “Will a dozen boxes do?”
“That’s great. Not that I’d eat so much candy. Well, maybe one or two boxes, but the rest I want to give to family and a couple of good friends.”
“Impress them with your connections?” Welborn asked.
“Exactly. You can see movie stars in any supermarket out here, but knowing someone who works in the White House, now that’s cool.”
“You flatter me far too much. In my world, I’m a bit player.”
“Maybe now, but I’ll bet you go far.”
Welborn’s mother told him to always be gracious about accepting a compliment.
“Thank you, Chris. I’ll try to justify your optimism. Do you have anything on Porky Pig for me?”
“Yes, quite a bit, actually. I didn’t know it but Porky’s been around since 1935. That’s why it took this long to get back to you. Here’s what I have.”
She gave him a list of all the people between Washington and New York who tried to take a bite of the cartoon character’s bacon without permission, at least those who rose to the notice of the studio. When she finished, Welborn made sure he had her mailing address for the cachet candy.
Looking at the twenty-six names he’d written down, he knew he’d be unable to get to more than a few of them in the next twenty-four hours. On Saturday, he would be busy marrying Kira, and then they were off to Barcelona where Welborn’s father, Sir Robert Reed, had a villa. The honeymoon was scheduled to last at least one week and possibly two, depending on sun exposure, chafing and the call of duty.
Leaving a case hanging fire, even with a pro like Rockelle Bullard working it, made Welborn worry that he might bail out on Kira after three days. Four if she started showing him moves he hadn’t seen yet. Five if he remembered something he hadn’t shown her.
The number wouldn’t matter, though, if he let Kira see he was distracted.
That wouldn’t be the way to get married life off on the right foot.
He skimmed his list of copyright infringers and saw a company called Loch Raven Locketry, a manufacturer of novelty items. It made him proud that trinkets could still be made in the USA — assuming LRL hadn’t been offshored to Taiwan or Vietnam.
He called the phone number he’d been given and a male voice with a distinct Mid-Atlantic accent said hell yes Loch Raven Locketry was still in business at its original location and doing quite well, thank you.
And, happily, was located in nearby Baltimore.
Kira was away from her desk when he called her. He left a message.
He was going out of town on official business.
He’d do his best to make it to the church on time.
The Oval Office
Vice President Mather Wyman had been watching from the wings as the president had made her announcement of the new most favored enterprise initiative. All of the newsies present cast glances his way, all of them thinking: What the heck is that guy doing here? Wyman was a distinctly low profile veep.
Nobody knew how much, if any, influence he had with the president.
Still, he always had a sunny disposition, conducted himself in a dignified manner and hadn’t committed a gaffe of any sort in almost three years. Whenever any pollster bothered to ask, he turned in an approval rating of sixty percent, plus or minus three points. Virtually nobody worried that he’d scr
ew up if he ever had to step up to the big job.
Which was exactly the topic the president raised as soon as the two of them were alone in her office.
“Mather, I’m going to invoke Section Three of the Twenty-fifth Amendment. I’ll need you to sit in for me as acting president for a short period.”
Patti Grant had long ago extended to her vice president the privilege of pouring each of them a drink whenever they were together in the Oval Office. Hearing what the president had in mind, he very nearly dropped the glasses of Hennessy X.O. cognac he held in his hands. As it was, he downed his own drink like it was a shot of rotgut.
After pausing to make sure he wasn’t imagining things, the vice president offered the other glass to Patti.
She said, “You might want that one, too. Let’s sit down.”
Having a chair under him offered the vice president a measure of both support and comfort. But he leaned forward to look closely at Patti.
“Please tell me you’re well, Madam President.”
She smiled. “The White House physician couldn’t be more pleased.”
“Then —”
“The truth is, Mather, I’m about to become a health resource for someone else.”
Patti told the vice president about Kenny McGill. Wyman raised his full glass.
“God bless you, Madam President.” He sipped his drink. “And may God keep and heal young Master McGill.”
“From your lips, Mather,” the president said. “You don’t have any reservations about stepping in for me, do you?”
The vice president chuckled. “This will give my résumé a bit of extra gloss when I run for Congress.”
“Good for you. I look forward to having a friend in the House.”
“No more than —” A look of wonder came across Mather Wyman’s face.
Patti would have had to be blind to miss it.
“Are you all right, Mather?”
Without a by your leave or coasters, the vice president set both of the glasses he held on the president’s desk.
“Madam President, I’m quite well, but I’d like to both tell you something I’ve told only one other person, and I’d like to ask a favor. If you can’t grant the favor, I’ll understand, but in that case I’ll ask you not to reveal what I tell you to anyone else.”
Patti now looked closely at Mather Wyman.
Seeing neither madness nor inebriation, she nodded.
What Mather Wyman told her, she never would have guessed.
Couldn’t imagine anyone else guessing.
Thinking the matter through, she said, “Yes, Mather, if that’s what you wish to do, go right ahead. It’s either time or past time for it. But will it play back in Ohio?”
“I’m willing to find out,” the vice president said.
Patti picked up the half-full glass.
“Here’s to you, Mather.” She let the remainder of the cognac slide down her throat. “There is one more thing I have to say.”
“Yes?”
“I’d intended to bring this up before hearing what you had to say. I’m going to insist the level of Secret Service protection you receive as acting president be extraordinary.”
The vice president took a moment to think about that.
He said, “You don’t want to take any chance Derek Geiger will sit in this office.”
“None whatsoever,” the president told him.
Georgetown, The Four Seasons Hotel
Caitie McGill sat alone in the living room of Putnam Shady’s suite. The lobbyist had beaten her in their first three hands of gin, and excused himself to use the bathroom. He had been, as promised, giving her his A-game. He probably would have won anyway, but Caitie took advantage of a rationalization: She was distracted.
That crack Dad had made to her at his office, she’d never heard anything like that from him before. The more she thought about it, the more it disturbed her. What he’d said about her being married to Deke and seeing his … she didn’t even want to finish the thought.
Okay, maybe, just of late, she had been wondering what one or two of the boys in her class might look like without their clothes on, but certainly not a grown man. That was just gross. So why would —
Then she got it. She had been pushing Dad, the way she always did. She didn’t particularly want to see some fancy gun; she just wanted to see how far she could take things. What Dad had showed her, making her blush in front of everyone, was that he could push back — in ways she would never expect.
He didn’t just do the normal dad thing, get mad and send her back to the White House to pout. He showed her she had better be careful how she spoke to him in public because. Or — pow! — he might embarrass the heck out of her.
He must not have gone too far, though, because Sweetie would have said something if he had. Wouldn’t she? Yeah, she would.
But maybe not in front of anyone else. It was all kind of confusing.
Still, Dad had let her come to the hotel with Putnam, so he couldn’t be too mad. Maybe he was just worried about Kenny. She said a short, silent prayer for her brother.
A knock at the door to the suite sounded as soon as she finished.
Putnam had ordered room service for them: a bowl of fresh fruit for him, a slice of devil’s food cake for her. He hadn’t given her a hard time about her choice. Just said she’d have to brush her teeth afterward; the hotel provided complimentary brushes.
That was cool.
Caitie called out, “I’ll get it.”
Putnam’s muffled voice replied, “What?”
Caitie didn’t think the Four Seasons would like its guests to shout at each other. She decided just to get the door, let the waiter bring their treats in. Only when she opened the door, she didn’t see a waiter.
From her point of view — standing five-foot-one — the man at the door looked like a giant. An old giant, but real big just the same. If he hadn’t smiled when he saw Caitie, she might have gulped. Maybe even screamed.
The smile gave her the courage to maintain good manners.
“May I help you, sir?”
He said, “I think you already have.”
Caitie didn’t understand that. The big old man turned to leave but then stopped.
He said, “You look familiar. Do you have a brother?”
Caitie thought this was getting creepy, but she nodded.
“Kenny McGill, right?”
“Who are you?” Caitie asked.
“A friend of Kenny’s. I came to see the fellow you’re —”
The big old man frowned.
“Mr. Shady is behaving properly, isn’t he?”
Caitie replied, “He won our first three hands of gin, but he let me order chocolate cake from room service. Is that proper enough?”
The old guy smiled. “Yes, that will do. I won’t bother you further. I’ll catch up with Mr. Shady later.” He touched a hand to his forehead and left.
Caitie closed the door, and locked it.
Decided Putnam could open it the next time.
Chevy Chase, Maryland
Joan Torkelson met the Metro homicide cops at her front door wearing a cheerful yellow dress and a string of pearls. Rockelle knew that was just for show. The pain in her eyes made it clear she was not bearing up well.
Nonetheless, she invited the detectives into a perfectly ordered living room and offered each of them a cup of tea. They all accepted. Rockelle had told Meeker and Beemer she would beat them into pudding if they brought up Porky Pig or cracked wise about anything at all. They would be introduced and would remain silent unless she or Mrs. Torkelson addressed them directly.
Thus far, the two detectives were behaving.
Rockelle had twice spoken to Joan Torkelson on the phone; the first time the homicide lieutenant had borne the burden of making the death notification. She had extended her condolences at that time, and did so again.
“Mrs. Torkelson, I am so sorry about the death of your husband.”
J
oan nodded, and asked if anyone needed more sugar for their tea.
More bereavement behavior, Rockelle thought. When your world was falling apart, you made things better wherever you could. It would be hard to lean on poor Joan, but there were questions Rockelle needed to have answered.
“Mrs. Torkelson, did you and your husband entertain much at home?”
The widow looked at Rockelle as if she’d lapsed into Chinese.
Even Meeker and Beemer, mute though they stayed, looked puzzled.
Rockelle elaborated. “Did you have social gatherings for coworkers or clients from your husband’s place of employment? Did you have family over for special occasions? Were there times when neighbors dropped by and stayed for a drink or dinner?”
The point of the questions was still unclear to Joan Torkelson, but she responded to the structure they represented; it was orderly.
“Why, yes. All of those things.”
“Did you happen to keep guest lists for the formal parties, notes or journal entries for the more spontaneous occasions.”
“Am I that easy to classify?” the widow asked.
“I’m sorry,” Rockelle said. “I don’t understand.”
But she did.
Joan Torkelson said, “I mean, I do all those things. I’m a bit compulsive that way.”
“It would be helpful if you could give me a list of everyone who’s been in your home for the past year.”
“You want the service people, too.”
“The household help?” Rockelle asked.
“Oh, them, too, but I meant the plumber, the electrician and the cable TV people.”
Rockelle hadn’t thought about those types, but hey.
“Everyone,” she said.
“This could take a little while,” Joan Torkelson said.
“We don’t mind,” Rockelle told her.
“Very well. I …” Getting to her feet, Joan’s composure slipped. She grasped for it and regained her bearing. “I’ll copy the names on the machine in Erik’s office.”
She left the room, dabbing at her eyes with a lace trimmed handkerchief.