Jim McGill 03 The K Street Killer

by Joseph Flynn

  McGill was certain there was any number of things the SAC would dearly love to tell him, but all he said was, “Sure. Tell me why we have the pleasure of your company.”

  Crogher looked at the subordinate doing her best not to allow either of her hips to make contact with either of the two men bracketing her. Then he spoke as if she wasn’t present.

  “Have you had any problems with Special Agent Kendry or her people?”

  “Not at all.” McGill thought about Crogher’s question and his unexpected appearance. “Is anyone looking to do me harm?”

  “Not yet,” Crogher said

  McGill said, “What’s that mean? You’re expecting a new threat?”

  “It’s inevitable that sooner or later someone’s going to take a run at you.”

  Crogher had intended to tell McGill that privately, but now he was glad to be on record as having given him the warning in front of three witnesses. The car’s driver, Levy, wasn’t even one of his people; that was a good thing. He’d be considered impartial.

  “But it’s more likely you’re going to face the renewal of a previously stated threat.” Crogher looked for the words to explain himself, the reason he’d come to see McGill. He finally said, “I don’t know how much the president shares with you but there’s reason to think your threat profile might be rising.”

  McGill had heard enough to know where Crogher was going. “Erna Godfrey? She’s really going to rat out her husband? That whole situation is going to blow up again.” When the SAC was slow in responding, McGill asked, “What about my children? Are they going to be threatened again?”

  Crogher said, “There’s no sign of that; there are no new specific threats against you, but the old ones haven’t been rescinded and we have to anticipate possibilities.”

  “Be ready for anything?”

  “Exactly.”

  Goddamn, McGill thought. You fell in love with and married a woman who got elected president and look what could happen. It wasn’t beyond his imagining that some cretin might even go after Kenny in the hospital where he was already fighting for his life.

  At home, in Evanston, his kids had their own detail of local cops to keep them safe. Patti picked up the tab for that. But now with Abbie going to school at Georgetown and Caitie and Carolyn here in D.C. …

  “You’ve already made arrangements to take care of my kids and Carolyn, haven’t you, SAC Crogher?”

  He nodded. “With the president’s approval.”

  “Thank you.” McGill turned to Elspeth Kendry. “The special agent here has done an excellent —” A thought popped into McGill’s head. “An excellent job. In fact, I’d like her to to do something for me as soon as I go into the Praetorian Club.”

  Suspicion narrowed Crogher’s eyes. He was certain that McGill had already subverted Deke Ky; he didn’t want Elspeth Kendry to fall under the man’s spell. McGill could see just what Crogher was thinking.

  “Don’t worry, SAC Crogher,” he said. “I’m not going to mess with your chain of command.”

  “Yes, you are,” Crogher said.

  Elspeth Kendry’s eyes tracked the conversation as if it were a tennis match.

  “Okay, I am, but all for a good cause.”

  “The Secret Service is not a day labor service for your investigations, Mr. McGill,” Crogher said.

  “I never thought it was, but this particular job?”

  Leo pulled the car to the curb in front of the Praetorian Club.

  “Yes?” Crogher said.

  “It comes with a presidential seal of approval,” McGill said.

  Celsus Crogher wanted to curse McGill aloud.

  But there were all those witnesses present.

  The Four Seasons Hotel, Washington, D.C.

  Margaret Sweeney sat in an arm chair in the bedroom of Putnam Shady’s suite at the luxury hotel. She was draped in a spare blanket taken from a closet. She didn’t long for a cigarette, wouldn’t have smoked if one had been available. But she wondered what the appropriate thing to do was after having sex for the first time since she was a teenager.

  She might have asked Putnam, but he was still sleeping. He hadn’t taken her virginity, but with the three rounds they’d gone since his meeting with the president that morning he’d doubled her sexual experience. It had all started with a simple conversation. She’d reassured him that she was truly on his side. To affirm that fact she’d taken his hands in hers and looked straight into his eyes.

  Only this time they’d each seen something new. Something not to be denied.

  She’d been very tentative at first and he’d been very patient. Funny, too, in a gentle way, acting as if he were the one who was new to all this, asking her for pointers. Wanting to know if he was doing things right. He’d gotten her to laugh and then relax, and nature took its course.

  Nature was pretty spectacular, too. Things became more heated and vigorous. Putnam had long joked about having her spank him and while things didn’t reach that specific point there were several moments when the role of the superior officer shifted between them. She had found she liked playing both parts.

  She had enjoyed the whole experience. Didn’t feel the least need to go to confession; didn’t see anything they had done as rising to the level of a sin. Yet another divergence with the views of Mother Church for her. Good thing she’d had earlier differences of opinion or she might have felt guilty about something she thought was entirely wonderful.

  In fact, she considered her intimacy with Putnam Shady as a perfect example of the Lord working in mysterious ways. If she’d never answered his apartment-for-rent ad, they would never have wound up where they were. She would never have taken the time to come to know him if they hadn’t lived cheek to jowl for the last three years. He never would have found the depth of character he now had if she hadn’t been there to influence him.

  But what was the reason for such an unlikely pairing?

  She looked within her soul for an answer, but the Lord wasn’t forthcoming.

  That was okay. The here and now was fine with her. She was looking forward to further sharing, both personally and physically. She only had to figure out what to do if she kept waking up before he did. Didn’t seem like an appropriate time to say her rosary.

  But if Putnam woke up more than a time or two and saw her staring at him he might think she was —

  A knock at the door to the suite ended her reverie.

  A loud, door-rattling knock.

  Not the hotel staff, unless the place was on fire.

  Putnam stirred and muttered, “What the hell was that?”

  Sweetie realized by now it was a threat of some sort.

  The knock came again, louder than before.

  “Lock yourself in the bathroom,” she told him. “Call hotel security.”

  There was no question who was in charge now, and Putnam did as he was told. Sweetie grabbed her Beretta off the night stand and still shrouded in the blanket entered the suite’s living room and advanced toward the door, but avoided standing directly in line with it.

  You never knew when someone might stop knocking and start shooting.

  “Who’s there?” she called out in her best cop voice.

  “Metro police,” came the response in the same tone.

  “Identify yourself by name, rank and badge number,” Sweetie said.

  She heard the voice say, “Sonofabitch!” Then it added, “Who the hell are you, lady?”

  “Margaret Sweeney. Formerly of the Chicago and Winnetka, Illinois police departments. Currently a private investigator.”

  “You armed?” the voice outside the suite asked.

  Sweetie said, “Yes,” and moved to the opposite side of the door.

  “Sonofabitch,” the voice repeated. “We’ve got orders to bring in Mister Putnam Shady. Suspicion of murder.”

  “Still haven’t told me who you are.” Sweetie moved back to her original position.

  “I’m Detective Marvin Meeker. I’m with my p
artner Detective Michael Walker.”

  “You know Lieutenant Rockelle Bullard?”

  “Sonofabitch,” Meeker said yet again.

  A new voice said, “She’s our boss, the one who sent us.”

  Sweetie sighed. “Okay, here’s how we’ll do this. I’ll call Lieutenant Bullard. If she verifies sending you, Mr. Shady will call his lawyer. As soon as he arrives, I’ll open the door.”

  Meeker said, “We’re the police, lady. Here to make an arrest. We’re the ones decide how this thing goes.”

  Sweetie replied, “Everything’s been peaceful so far. Be a shame to change that.”

  She didn’t get an argument on that point.

  The Praetorian Club

  The woman who served as the club’s receptionist was attractive but severely groomed and her blouse and maybe even her skirt looked like it had come back from the dry cleaner with plenty of starch.

  “Marine Corps?” McGill asked.

  “Army. Drill sergeant. Retired.”

  “Bet you haven’t lost a step,” McGill said.

  “No, sir. Not even half a step.”

  McGill gave his name and said he was there to see Representative Garner.

  “Yes, sir. He left word. Please come with me.”

  McGill was impressed that the receptionist had been provided with the necessary information, made him think the Praetorian Club was on the ball about maintaining its security. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the receptionist had been given a picture of him, maybe even a bio. If so, she was one of the few people he’d met who wasn’t impressed after learning he was married to the president.

  The receptionist led him to a wood paneled room off the entryway. It had an oil portrait of Omar Bradley hanging on one wall. McGill liked that. The man had been the last five-star general in the U.S. Army. Despite his preeminent rank, he’d been known as “the G.I.’s General” for his civility to soldiers of all ranks.

  The receptionist saw McGill looking at the painting.

  “You know who that is?” she asked.

  The portrait’s frame offered no inscribed identification of its subject.

  McGill still answered the pop quiz question correctly.

  “My grandfather talked about him,” he explained.

  The receptionist nodded. “Did you serve?”

  “Not in the military. I spent most of my adult life as a cop.”

  Not the same thing, but good enough for the woman.

  “Representative Garner will be with you shortly.”

  She left McGill alone. There were four leather arm chairs in which he might have seated himself. Instead, he walked over to a pair of windows looking out on Massachusetts Avenue. His Chevy was gone, but he was sure Leo had it parked with a clear view of the club’s front entrance so he could pull up when he saw McGill exit the building.

  Deke had wanted to enter the premises with him but McGill had said no.

  So he’d be positioned somewhere outside, too, even closer than Leo.

  The person McGill was most interested in was Elspeth Kendry — her and any of the agents working under her. McGill had asked Elspeth to set up a photo shoot. Specifically, he wanted pictures that could be used to identify anyone who entered or exited the Praetorian Club while Zachary Garner was on the premises and for an hour afterward.

  Elspeth hadn’t had a camera with her in the Chevy, but the Secret Service kept photographic equipment nearby most if not all of the time. They shot pictures far more often than they shot bad guys. She had assured him she wouldn’t have any problem laying her hands on several cameras in short order.

  Celsus Crogher had known better than to debate the matter, but no doubt he was already questioning the wisdom of supplementing McGill’s security detail. Out on the street, all of the pedestrian and vehicular traffic looked perfectly normal. The Secret Service when need be was adept at living up to the first half of its name.

  The door to the room opened and McGill turned around.

  “Representative Garner,” he said.

  The man was tall, McGill saw, and unbowed by either age or his disease, but what once must have been an athletic frame had been stripped of most of its mass. Garner’s suit hung on him. He still managed to give McGill a smile of welcome that seemed genuine.

  Garner said, “Mr. McGill, a pleasure to finally meet the president’s henchman.” The two men shook hands and Garner gestured McGill to a pair of facing chairs. “I’m not up to standing for prolonged periods anymore, don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to sit upright either.”

  McGill took his seat. He watched as Garner lowered himself. It was an exercise in closely considered movement, nothing taken for granted, accomplished by mental effort as much as physical strength. Having achieved his goal, Garner nodded in satisfaction. He was still mobile within limits.

  “Now, what can I do for you, sir?” he asked McGill.

  “I’m trying to get some insight into the thinking of a serial killer,” McGill said, deciding at that moment how he would approach the conversation.

  Garner’s smile returned, this time showing amusement.

  “And you came to me? Why?”

  “Well, this particular killer is doing in lobbyists.”

  Garner nodded, possibly in approval, but he didn’t say anything more.

  McGill continued, “I’ve been looking into the matter, and people who know a thing or two about lobbyists tell me that the most likely culprit will turn out to be another lobbyist. Someone whose plans have been frustrated by a colleague representing opposing interests.”

  “That’s certainly a plausible notion,” Garner said.

  “I considered it to be a possibility, but it didn’t hold up for me.”

  “Why not?” the congressman asked.

  “Well … if you look at white-collar disputes in general, they can get heated, but they rarely result in bloodshed. At least compared to crimes of passion.”

  “Acts of marital infidelity?” Garner asked.

  “Those certainly, but even relatively minor disputes such as bar fights. When disagreements are rooted in emotional contexts, that’s when you get physical mayhem.”

  Garner said, “Losing a professional confrontation can get quite emotional, believe me.”

  McGill studied the congressman, as if the man had just confirmed something for him.

  “I do believe that. If this situation had involved a single homicide, I could see one professional taking out his rage on another. But it doesn’t work for me with serial murders.”

  “Why not?” Garner asked.

  “Well, if a lobbyist lost one major battle, his firm might let it slide. After all, nobody’s perfect. But if he followed a first loss with a second, I think he’d be out on his ear. Nobody likes to have a loser hanging around. It’s bad for morale. Worse, it’s bad for the big boss’s career. If a two-time loser makes it three in a row, his head won’t be the only one to roll.”

  “Very canny, Mr. McGill. I find that position hard to rebut.”

  “That’s why I can’t see a lobbyist killing more than two professional foes. He wouldn’t be employed long enough to kill three or four.”

  “Maybe you should be looking for more than one killer.”

  McGill said, “That thought has occurred to me. Or maybe a killer and a copycat. But you know about Occam’s Razor, I’m sure.”

  “The simplest explanation is likely the correct one.”

  “Exactly,” McGill said. “Simple in this case is one killer. But not a lobbyist.”

  “Who does that leave?” Garner asked, his face impassive.

  “My instinct all along has said it’s a politician. Maybe that’s because I’m from Chicago where politics can be a blood sport, but that’s what I think. I think it’s someone who worked hard to get elected the first time and then did his best for his constituents. I see someone who had his best efforts thwarted time and again by the water-carriers of moneyed interests. Someone who resents not only that an
unaccountable fourth branch of government exists at all, but has personal grievances with the bastards for laying waste to genuine hard work to help his people and his country.”

  Garner steepled his hands under his chin.

  Made McGill wonder what he might be praying for.

  “That’s entirely possible. Do you know anything about my background?” Garner asked.

  “Only a few details. I’ve heard about your military service, how you were wounded.”

  “That’s what I was hoping you’d know. Not about what happened to me as much as what happened to the Dominican Republic.”

  “I know that President Johnson sent in the troops, thinking the Cubans might take over if he didn’t.”

  “The communists were certainly the bogeymen in those days and often justifiably so, but the situation in the D.R. was different. The dictator, Rafael Trujillo, was assassinated. Instead of being replaced by another of his ilk, a man named Juan Bosch was freely elected as president. A constitution was written that guaranteed the rights of the individual, that asserted civilian control over the military. Initiatives for land reform were begun. People who had never had a place to call their own or a voice in government were being recognized for the first time.”

  McGill remembered what Crogher had told him.

  “But that didn’t last. The other side fought back.”

  “They did, and the country’s seven-month flirtation with democracy was over. The military, the big land holders and even the church didn’t like the new government because it threatened their privileged positions. They called Juan Bosch and the new government communists. Fighting broke out, a civil war on a small scale. The U.S. military was called in and I was almost killed.

  “Being a fellow with a sense of curiosity, I wanted to learn why I got shot. So I read everything I could find about the situation in the Dominican Republic.What I learned sickened me. The American government didn’t support a democratically elected government; it backed one of Trujillo’s puppets, a fellow named Joaquin Balaguer, in the election that followed the cease-fire. With the big money and the big guns behind him, Balaguer won. Authoritarian government was restored, positions of power were preserved and the people of the D.R. remained poor and disenfranchised.”