Jim McGill 03 The K Street Killer

by Joseph Flynn

  Salvation’s Path Church, Richmond, Virginia

  Reverend Burke Godfrey’s church stood a half-mile off of I-295. The original structure had been a small building with a modest steeple and a cracked bell. The leaded glass windows were the product of an artisan of very modest talents, and water stains caused by leaking gutters streaked the stonework like trails of rusty tears.

  The Catholic archdiocese had put the property up for sale when the contributions of the parishioners failed to meet operating expenses for the tenth year running. Burke and Erna Godfrey, both of them planners and savers, snapped up the church, then named Saint Mary Magdalene, for a song. As part of the deal, they agreed to rehabilitate the church and maintain it as a house of God.

  The Godfreys would honor their promise but the building itself was a secondary consideration in making their purchase. What really interested them was the land that came with the church, fifty acres of it, with a brook running through it. They envisioned a complex of buildings that would rise on the property: a huge church of modern design, able to hold three to five thousand worshippers, depending on seating configurations; an administration building where the Godfreys would manage the business affairs of their ministry; a television studio that would let them minister first to the country and eventually to the world; a retreat with twenty-five luxury suites and its own dining facilities for prominent individuals who needed a time out from the world of Mammon; a day-care center to give small children the opportunity to take their first steps toward socialization in a Christian atmosphere.

  All that would be laid out while allowing for ample landscaped green spaces to permit, in clement weather, worship services to be held directly beneath the gaze of heaven. That was the Godfreys’ plan and they were sure it would be glorious when it was realized.

  Over the course of thirty-five years, with the help of over two hundred thousand donors from all fifty states and eighteen foreign nations, they had reached their goals and more. A former Hollywood actor who had kicked drugs and found Jesus paid for a three hundred seat amphitheater to be constructed so that Bible stories and newly written Christian plays could be acted out under the stars.

  It was understandable that Reverend Burke Godfrey would be reluctant to trade in such surroundings for a cell in a federal prison. It was less obvious to the casual observer that the complex had been laid out in such a fashion that it would be easily defensible by a small, well-armed force.

  Reverend Godfrey had planned for a possible attack by the minions of Satan.

  Which was precisely how he viewed the administration of Patricia Darden Grant.

  The only building that lay outside the defense perimeter was the original stone church, now called The Chapel, lovingly renovated and shining like a small gem.

  Q Street NW, Washington, D.C.

  The planned attack biography on President Patricia Darden Grant was designated as Ellie Booker’s baby. She would be freed from all other duties. In addition to keeping her recently elevated salary, she would be given a half-million dollar advance on the book and sole writing credit for it; if the finished manuscript met or exceeded Sir Edbert’s high expectations, Ellie would be given a second half-million dollars as a bonus.

  In addition, she would have the use of Hugh Collier’s Washington townhouse for the duration of the project. That was Hugh’s contribution. He said on such occasions as he had need of a lover, they would repair to a hotel; otherwise he would be present but take care not to disturb Ellie. He would be available to help her if she so chose.

  Sir Edbert, never one to miss an opportunity to turn an additional dollar, pound or euro, suggested that Ellie might earn additional funds by subletting her condo while she stayed at Q Street. Ellie said that was something to think about, but she decided immediately to keep her place. A girl never knew when she might need a place where she could run and hide.

  Ellie was outlining the book chronologically. She’d start with Patti Darden’s parents, maybe even her grandparents, if they had a compelling skeleton or two in their closet. She’d move forward and describe the state of the country at the time Patti was born. She’d continue with Patti’s school years, kindergarten through college.

  Rumors had been whispered in Washington just last year that Patti Darden and Jean-Louis Severin, the president of France, had been lovers during their year together at Yale. No media outlet had followed up on that at the time, but she would in her book. She’d also talk with Severin’s ex-wife to renew interest in the accusation that the two presidents had a second act to their affair at last year’s G8 meeting in London.

  Then there were Patti’s years in modeling and acting. It had to be the work of masterful publicists that she had sailed through those two occupations and emerged with a reputation that Shirley Temple couldn’t have topped. Even if it were true that Patti had been honest, brave and pure, she must have pissed somebody off, made enemies who were jealous, envious or just plain malicious enough to stick out a foot and trip her. Ellie would find those people, listen to the bile they had stored for years and present it as the unvarnished truth.

  As Sir Edbert had suggested, Ellie would explore Patricia Darden Grant’s first marriage, look for instances of infidelity either by the president or Andy Grant. The philanthropist might have had one of the country’s most beautiful women as his wife, but he also had billions of dollars to his name, and other beauties must have been available to him. Why would he limit himself to just one alluring woman when he could have had many?

  That would bring Ellie to the president’s entry into politics, her first race for a seat in the House. Her opponent had been Roger Michaelson, now a senator from Oregon. His reputation as the president’s foremost political nemesis was known to everyone who followed American politics. He and the president despised each other.

  There were even rumors that James J. McGill had once beaten Michaelson to a pulp as they played a game of one-on-one basketball.

  Surely, Michaelson would —

  Ellie’s cell phone sounded. No musical tone for her. Just an old-fashioned rrrring.

  She cursed herself for not silencing the thing. She’d been on a roll and now —

  It rang again. She saw the caller ID. Hugh was calling.

  The boss’s nephew or not, she answered with a surly, “What?”

  He laughed and said, “If you were a bloke, I’d break your beak for you.”

  “Not you and Uncle Edbert both.”

  Hugh said, “We’ll see. Someday, we shall see. But for now I have news for you that bears on your project. Reverend Burke Godfrey would like to see you in Richmond, Virginia, at his church. He wants to offer you an exclusive story.”

  Ellie said, “Is he about to do something dramatic?”

  Didn’t want to say criminal when you were talking on a cell.

  Never knew who might be listening in.

  “That would be for you to find out, wouldn’t it?”

  “You really think there’s a tie-in?” With her book, she left unsaid.

  “Almost bound to be, isn’t there?”

  Meaning literary license was a wonderful thing for stretching the truth.

  “You’re right. He wants to see me soon?”

  “Soonest,” Hugh said. “Bring a videocam.”

  Robert F. Kennedy Department of Justice Building, Washington, D.C.

  Attorney General Michael Jaworsky had his golf bag in a corner of his office behind his desk. For several years now, the Church had allowed Catholics to meet their weekly obligation of attending mass by going on Saturday evening rather than Sunday morning. But what was good enough for the Vatican didn’t cut it with the AG’s eighty-nine-year-old, born-in Krakow mother, Marzina. Sunday, she insisted, was the day all good Catholics went to church and partook of the symbolic re-creation of their Savior’s body and blood.

  As the meaning of his mother’s name still reflected her spirit, warlike, the nation’s chief law enforcement officer didn’t argue with her even now. He ac
companied her to Sunday mass, as he had for as long as he could remember. That meant if there was work to do at the office on the weekend the best he could hope for was to sneak in a few holes at the Congressional Country Club Saturday evening before it got dark.

  He was working toward that goal at the moment. He’d urged Deputy Attorney General Linda Otani to make her summation of the repentance of Erna Godfrey et. al. as concise as possible. You couldn’t hit a golf ball if you couldn’t see it.

  The DAG said, “Three of Erna Godfrey’s four accomplices, Walter, Penny and Winston Delk have admitted and signed sworn statements that Reverend Burke Godfrey knew of and took part in the planning of the murder of Andrew Hudson Grant. He approved the final plan and blessed those who would carry it out.”

  Michael Jaworsky shook his head. “Blessed them, did he? That should play well in court. What about Lindell Ricker? He’s holding out?”

  “Yes, but not for long.”

  “He’ll come around?”

  Linda Otani shook her head. “He’ll die first. In fact, he’s going to die soon. Pancreatic cancer. More aggressive than it usually is, which I’m told is saying something. Ricker says he’s being struck down because he betrayed Erna Godfrey and the Delks in the first place. Checking out without further betrayal is his idea of martyrdom. He says he got that idea from a story Margaret Sweeney told him when he was first arrested.”

  The AG had seen the video of that interrogation. It was as good and clean an interrogation as he’d ever seen. Couldn’t blame former Sergeant Sweeney now if it came back and bit them.

  Linda Otani concluded, “As I see it, sir, the only decision you have to make now is whether to wait until Ricker dies or order Burke Godfrey’s arrest right now.”

  Being older and a bit wiser, Jaworsky saw another consideration.

  “Do you think doing it one way or the other would have any effect on whether Erna Godfrey gives up the names of the other killers for the sanctity of life?”

  The DAG had been in the room when the video of Erna’s incrimination of her husband had been made. She’d have a better feeling for what would move the woman.

  Otani said, “I think she’s using the threat to reveal other names as a spur to have Reverend Godfrey do what she thinks is the right thing. She seems genuinely concerned for the fate of his soul. I think her giving up the others will be conditional on what he does.”

  Jaworsky accepted that judgment.

  He said, “Have Burke Godfrey arrested.”

  That should have been it for the AG that Saturday. It was still morning. He should have had time for an entire round of golf — two, if his knees allowed him to walk that far.

  The way things worked out, he wouldn’t even get to take his mother to mass.

  Florida Avenue NW, Washington, D.C.

  Sweetie and Putnam had slept together in his bed at his townhouse but hadn’t followed up sexually on the night before at The Four Seasons. Returning to the place they both called home had reimposed a sense of status quo ante. Sweetie lived downstairs; Putnam lived upstairs. She was the tenant; he was the landlord. They’d started out as acquaintances, had become friends. But at that particular place, and all others save one hotel, they had never been lovers.

  Sweetie, left to her own devices, would have gone down to her one-room basement apartment and done what she’d told McGill: pray on matters that concerned her.

  Putnam, wisely soft pedaling things, pointed out a flaw in that plan.

  “Somebody comes calling,” he said, “cops or killers, you’ll have to expose yourself to hostile forces to come to my aid.”

  Sweetie nodded. “I didn’t do much witness protection when I was a cop.”

  “I didn’t need much, until recently.”

  They agreed it would be better for her to stay somewhere in Putnam’s ninety percent of the building. Sweetie said she’d sleep on the couch. Putnam said she could sleep with him; he wouldn’t try anything. Not only because he was a man of his word but because they both knew she could kick his backside if he got frisky.

  “Your word is good enough for me,” Sweetie said.

  They’d cleaned up separately, slipped under the top sheet in the dark and went to sleep. Neither made a move on the other, and Sweetie got up only once to check the premises, thinking she might have heard something. Going back to bed, she looked at the silhouette of Putnam’s sleeping form. He was still materialistic, self-serving and situationally ethical, but the last time she’d looked she didn’t walk around under a halo either.

  Each of them had made changes to accommodate the other.

  She was less stiff; he was less … situationally ethical.

  If they hadn’t made a pact, she would have reached for him as she got back into bed.

  But they had and she didn’t. They waited until morning to make up for lost time.

  Lying next to each other, Putnam asked, “You think these crazy young kids will make a go of it?”

  “Welborn and Kira? Yeah, I do. Each of them is strong enough not to feel threatened by the other. And I think they love each other enough to give the other the benefit of the doubt when a hard decision comes up.”

  “The grace not to say ‘I told you so,’ if the decision turns out wrong?”

  Sweetie smiled. “Unless it’s a question of whether they should have gone skydiving, I think so.”

  Putnam laughed. “Well, something like that, you wouldn’t have to bother with a divorce lawyer.”

  “We better start getting ready,” Sweetie said. “Don’t want to be late to the wedding. You mind if I go first?”

  “We could scrub each other’s back.”

  “Great idea … when time isn’t an issue.”

  Putnam said, “You go first.”

  Sweetie started for the bathroom, but turned and looked at Putnam.

  “Did you buy a wedding gift?”

  He said, “Golden handcuffs.”

  “You, too?”

  Thing was, neither of them was kidding.

  They decided to keep a pair for themselves.

  Letting Sweetie hit the shower first left Putnam in bed to answer his cell phone when it rang. Putnam’s boss, Barrett Rodman was calling. He said, “Putnam, I’ve done something terrible.”

  “Forgot the sequence of your numbered account?”

  Rodman laughed. “You know, I’ve often thought of you as a son.”

  “I know you’ve called me a sonofabitch. You’re not firing me, are you, Pop?”

  “I do that by e-mail now.”

  “So you’ve screwed me some other way?”

  Rodman told Putnam about betraying him to Derek Geiger.

  “That’s not the terrible thing,” the senior lobbyist said. “What worries me is that I’ve come to regret it. I may be developing a conscience.”

  Putnam reassured his boss, “No worries there. You just had second thoughts because you decided I’m the better bet to come out on top. You’re acting out of self-interest not moral anguish.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then Rodman said cheerfully, “By God, if I did have a son, I’d want him to be as smart and clear-eyed as you.”

  “Thanks, Pop,” Putnam said. “Have a good time in Saint Bart.”

  There had been times he wished he could go along, but now —

  Sweetie appeared in the bathroom doorway wrapped in a towel.

  “Your turn,” she said.

  SAC Celsus Crogher’s Office, the White House

  Elspeth Kendry sat opposite Crogher. He had his hands folded on his desk, almost like a parochial school kid. Only difference was the nuns, at least at the girls’ school Elspeth had attended in Lebanon, made the students sit with their hands steepled, pointing straight up to heaven. Casting your thoughts toward salvation was a minute by minute occupation when you grew up Christian in a Muslim country.

  She thought the local imams cut the school a bit of slack because the nuns in their habits weren’t far from being clad in burqas, and they
were subservient to the local priests, which their fellow People of the Book also considered to be the right thing to do. Elspeth, taking a contradictory view, had started smoking at twelve and flicked her butts at men of any denomination as soon as their backs were turned.

  Having advanced in her education, matured in her emotions and outrun the guys she’d actually hit with butts, she was able to work both with and for men who had earned their positions honestly. She regarded SAC Crogher as one of them, but he was one weird dude. He had his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were white, but then so was the rest of him. The guy wasn’t an albino but he was as pale as you could be without crossing that line.

  She felt like telling him, “It’ll be all right,” but didn’t think that would go over big.

  “What’s the count up to, Kendry,” he asked. “How many people other than our personnel will be armed at this wedding?”

  “The current number is four, likely going to five if Speaker Geiger shows up uninvited.”

  “Uninvited but knowing the password.”

  “That’s right.” A thought occurred to Elspeth. “Might even be six, if Margaret Sweeney gives Putnam Shady a gun.”

  Crogher’s eyes bulged at the idea. Pale or not, his blood pressure could spike like anyone else’s. “No, goddamnit,” he said. “That’s going too far.”

  “Mr. Shady passed the word through Ms. Sweeney that Speaker Geiger might attempt to —”

  “Assassinate the vice president and frame him for it. We already had the first half of that assessment from Galia Mindel,” Crogher said between clenched teeth. The idea boggled his mind … but then he thought it probably shouldn’t. With what politics in this country were coming to, having the bastards shoot each other was the next logical step.

  “Of course,” Elspeth said, “there could be an element of denial working on Mr. Shady’s part. The speaker might simply intend to do him in.”