The Good Guy with a Gun (Jim McGill series Book 6)

by Joseph Flynn

  Still, the most sincere kiss he received from each of them was the moment before they boarded the yacht’s helicopter to be flown back to the port from which they could make their way home with far more money than they’d ever earned before.

  Ah-lam, as astute as she was watchful, understood the problem.

  She came to Busby as he idled in the main salon watching what he called a spring training game of American baseball. Ah-lam neither understood the sport nor had any intention of learning it. Busby paused the broadcast when she appeared. He looked at her —

  “Now is not the time,” she said, knowing exactly what he was thinking. “I’m sorry the Chinese girl disappointed you. I told her she had nothing to fear.”

  “And yet you frightened her so much she couldn’t help but tremble as she slept.”

  “You were a part of her terror,” Ah-lam said.

  Busby couldn’t deny he’d had that effect on women before. Some of them had thought they’d had their hooks in him. Their only worries were that they’d lose the small fortunes he’d have to settle on them for even the briefest of marriages. As a younger man, he’d done just that three times. Now, he made do, in the fashion of game show hosts, by offering lovely parting gifts.

  Other women, though, exhibited true existential angst.

  As if his fortune would insulate him even from murder.

  Well, truth was, he had tried to help kill a president.

  So maybe people, not just women, were right to be scared of him.

  He looked at Ah-lam and asked, “Do you have an answer for my problem?”

  “I have two answers.”

  “And they are?”

  “My sisters. They know no fear. They resemble me closely. You will like them.”

  Busby felt better than any time since he’d fled the United States.

  “I’ll certainly be happy to give them a try. How soon can they be here?”

  “They are en route to Bandar Seri Begawan right now. Do you need anything else?”

  Busby turned back to the baseball game. Brought the television back to life.

  “Yes, I’d like some hot dogs. Nathan’s Famous Hot Dogs.”

  The kind they served at Yankee Stadium.

  What was a baseball game without hot dogs? He ordered a Budweiser, too.

  You had to find little bits of home wherever you could.

  The National Mall — Washington DC

  “Nice to see you again, Captain Bullard,” McGill said.

  “Despite the circumstances.”

  “Yes, despite that.”

  Any site that had been bloodied by a mass killing weighed heavily on its community.

  A machine-gunning on the National Mall brought the tragedy home to the whole country.

  Jordan Gilford’s body had been taken away by that time. There were crime scene techs still present and some residual patrol officers to keep away the looky-loos, as they like to say out West. The chill, overcast weather kept that number to a handful. Captain Bullard shivered in the cold, herself.

  “Would you like to talk in my car?” McGill asked.

  Rockelle looked at McGill’s gleaming armored Chevy parked at the curb.

  She had a city-issue car with her, not her classic ’67 Impala.

  “Yeah, your ride has to be a lot nicer than mine. Your friends going to keep us company?”

  Meaning Deke and Leo.

  “I’ve got no secrets to keep here, but if you’d like privacy, I’ll ask them to step out.”

  “No, no reason they should be cold on my account.”

  McGill held the door for Rockelle as she slid into the back seat. That amused her. McGill got in on the other side.

  He said to Rockelle, “Might not be the weather for it, but I think we have a few bottles of White House Ice Tea available, if you’d like a drink.”

  The captain’s eyes lit up.

  “Captain Yates gave me some of that; my mother and I love it.”

  “I think we can spare a few bottles. My compliments to you and your mother.”

  Leo handed Rockelle a bottle. She rolled it between her palms a moment, as if to warm it up. She opened the bottle, took a sip and then looked at McGill with a grin.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You are one sly man. That or you think you can buy a police captain cheap.”

  “I used to be a police captain.”

  “Yeah, and a chief, too. Now, you’re married to the president. Some folks keep right on rising in the world.”

  “You’re recently promoted, aren’t you?”

  Rockelle nodded.

  “You keep doing good work,” McGill said, “who knows where you might end up?”

  Rockelle took another sip, screwed the cap back on.

  “Okay,” she said, “you want to tell me why we’re having this little social?”

  “I was hired this morning by Zara Gilford to find out who might be threatening to kill her husband, Jordan.”

  “Well, hell. Don’t that beat all?”

  “I’m very disappointed in myself, that I wasn’t able to do better for Mrs. Gilford.”

  Rockelle bobbed her head. “I would be, too.”

  “Mrs. Gilford would now like me to find out who killed her husband.”

  “That’s an FBI investigation. Why are you talking to me?”

  “I’ll talk to them shortly. The point is neither Mrs. Gilford nor I believe Abel Mays did it.”

  “Metro has its own doubts.” She told McGill about the Mays’ killer taking his shell casings with him. “What’s that sound like to you?”

  McGill stopped to think. Deke and Leo, who’d been following the conversation, turned to look at him. Clearly, they had their own ideas. Withheld them for the moment.

  McGill said, “That’s the mark of a pro, just the kind of guy Mrs. Gilford feared might be after her husband. Not some vigilante who happened to spot Mays and decided to grab some glory.”

  He waited to see if Rockelle saw where he was going.

  She said, “If a hired killer was waiting to kill Mr. Gilford —”

  “And knew where to find him,” McGill said, thinking of another piece of the puzzle.

  Rockelle continued the thread, “He’d get to the place he wanted to make the hit early. Set up, check everything out. Make sure he could do his job and get away.”

  The Metro captain looked at Deke and Leo.

  McGill’s driver said, “A pro would want the best chance to run and not get stopped. He’d be listening to a police band radio. Taking the whereabouts of local patrol units into account before he took his shot.”

  “How’d he know who Mays was, what he looked like?” McGill asked.

  Deke said, “Mays’ picture and info were all over TV. If the killer had a tablet with 4G capability —”

  “He could’ve seen Mays’ picture,” Rockelle said.

  “Decided he’d get tricky,” McGill said. “Lay the killing off on a madman who’d already shot up a high school football team.”

  Everyone thought about that for a moment.

  “Maybe we’re trying to tie all this up too neat,” Rockelle said.

  McGill asked her, “Where was Mays’ car parked?”

  “Right here. This parking space.”

  Couldn’t ask for more than that, McGill thought.

  He looked at Deke. “You remember how we were talking about what the Park Police surveillance cameras could do?”

  “Yeah,” Deke replied.

  “You never gave me an answer.”

  “I’m not supposed to do that.”

  “So tell Captain Bullard. She has a legitimate interest.”

  Rockelle leaned forward, seconding McGill’s point of view.

  Deke grimaced. “Yeah, she does. But I still should probably tell the FBI first.”

  Rockelle turned to look at McGill.

  Her expression saying, “Goddamn feds, what can you do?”

  McGill had an idea.

  He a
sked Rockelle, “You get along well with Welborn Yates?”

  “Sure do.”

  “He’s a fed, too.”

  “Nicest one I know.”

  “Okay, Captain, here’s what I’m proposing. I’ll bring Welborn into this case. He’ll be the official intermediary between Metro PD and the FBI.”

  “They’ll go for that?”

  “I have a strong feeling they will,” McGill said with a straight face. “He’ll keep the lines of communications open. Deke, here, will talk to Welborn about the surveillance cameras.”

  Deke nodded, grudgingly.

  “What are you going to do?” Rockelle asked.

  “The best I can for my client,” he told her.

  FirePower America — Falls Church, Virginia

  Auric Ludwig stood behind the lectern reading his notes in the press relations room of the Firepower America suite. In five minutes, reporters from approved media outlets would enter, sit in plush chairs and nod in approval as Ludwig explained, yet again, that guns weren’t to blame for shooting deaths. It was nature’s fault, maybe even God was to blame, for providing human beings with trigger fingers.

  That was his private joke, of course. Never to be repeated to anyone, not even to his wife or his mistress. He often wondered, though, how far he could venture into the realm of absurdity as he deflected blame from the people who provided him with his seven-figure salary. So far, he perceived no limits.

  The talking points arrayed on the lectern were all the usual ones.

  Untreated mental illness — no matter that Abel Mays had never been diagnosed with any aberrant condition.

  Violent popular culture — not that Mays was known to watch any film except the ones that featured high school football games, and he was not of the generation to play video games.

  Ludwig scribbled a quick note to himself. Maybe football could be blamed as a source of gun violence. That might be risky, as popular as the game was, but what the hell, you worked with the material you were given.

  Before he could review the next talking point, his cell phone sounded.

  Tchaikovsky’s “1812 Overture,” the passage with the cannons firing.

  The piece usually made his heart swell, but now he was disconcerted. He’d forgotten to turn his phone off. Something he’d normally do before speaking to the press. He took his distraction as a possible warning sign and wondered if the call was bringing bad news.

  He almost decided to let the call go to voice mail.

  But maybe it was news he needed to know, before he said something he shouldn’t.

  He clicked the phone on and said, “What?”

  The caller was one of his informant cops, the same one who’d given him the news that Abel Mays had been shot to death. Hearing the man’s voice, he thought for a moment that he might have more good news. Turned out to be anything but.

  “What?” he asked again.

  This time, as he heard the reply, a band of cold steel constricted his heart.

  “You’re sure?”

  The caller was.

  Ludwig said, “Sonofabitch.”

  James J. McGill was poking his nose into Mays’ final shooting on the Mall.

  Like everyone else who lobbied in Washington, Ludwig knew who McGill was and what he did for a living. Ludwig didn’t know exactly what that would mean for him, but he felt sure it would be nothing good. Worse, he was uncertain how to play McGill’s involvement. How he should spin it? There was no precedent. McGill was the president’s husband but he had no official status.

  If Ludwig got out in front and condemned McGill before he knew what the man might do or say, he might wind up looking like a horse’s ass. Damage to his own cause. He had to find out what McGill was up to fast.

  Trouble was, he’d reflexively clicked off the informant’s call.

  Never thinking about offering compensation to the snitch.

  Or what the consequences of such a snub might be.

  The doors to the press relations room opened on the dot of the appointed hour. Reporters poured into the room. FirePower America controlled the only video camera in the room. Copies of the event would be edited before they were distributed. Ludwig pulled himself together and gave his usual predictable spiel. Then he got to the good part. The great part, really.

  He shared the news that Abel Mays had been killed.

  “By the police?” the question was shouted at him.

  Ludwig shook his head. “No, not by the police. By a citizen who remains unnamed thus far. Abel Mays, a bad guy with a gun, was killed by a good guy with a gun.”

  The newsies were astounded by the revelation.

  An armed citizen had killed a mass murderer?

  When the Metro Police and the FBI heard of Ludwig’s declaration, they were caught off guard, too. The circumstances of Abel Mays’ death had yet to be officially released.

  Auric Ludwig had been too eager. He’d gone too far.

  Questions were soon raised.

  How had Ludwig learned the authorities hadn’t killed Mays?

  Who’d given him that information?

  Answers were quickly pursued.

  Wisconsin Avenue NW — Washington, DC

  Roger Michaelson saw Margaret Sweeney eyeing the condo he was renting. The place cost $7,500 a month, furnished. It was far bigger than he needed, but it was what WWN had found for him when they offered him his job as a commentator, and he decided to keep it. When his wife, Wendy, was in town, about ten days a month, the condo seemed somewhat like a home.

  When he was there alone, it was just a place to eat breakfast and sleep. It was comfortable. The furnishings were top end, but he didn’t give a damn about brand names in anything except sportswear. When he worked out or played basketball, he liked to have the best gear he could find.

  Now, watching Margaret Sweeney check the place out, he examined his Washington home with a newly critical eye. It was definitely over the top for him. Looked like it was intended for a photo shoot in some glossy coffee table magazine.

  “What do you think?” he asked Sweetie, not fishing for a compliment.

  “Too fancy for me,” she said. “When I first got to Washington, I lived in one room in a basement.”

  Michaelson took that in and asked, “And now?”

  “I married my landlord and moved upstairs.”

  Michaelson laughed. “Well, good for you.”

  “Good for him, too. We’re adopting a young girl named Maxine. She was orphaned when my husband’s brother and sister-in-law died.”

  “That’s … I hope that’s what I’d do, too, in your situation.”

  He gestured Sweetie to a chair and sat on the sofa opposite her.

  “Was it a hard choice?” Michaelson asked. “Adopting.”

  Sweetie told him, “It was the only choice for both of us. I was at the White House earlier today. I gave the president your message.”

  “And?”

  “She asked if I believed you. I said I did.”

  “I was being honest with you; I’ll keep doing that.”

  Sweetie contented herself with a look that said he’d better.

  “Accepting your word that you were no part of a plot to kill the president,” she said, “that leaves only one alternative. Someone set you up to be a patsy. Who do you think that was?”

  Michaelson reflected on the question for a moment.

  “I asked myself that same thing a thousand times. Half the Senate and a majority of the House disagreed with me politically. I rubbed plenty of people the wrong way personally. After that beating McGill gave me, some other people thought they could push me around, too.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, it wasn’t exactly a prison-yard situation. More just a bump-and-jostle kind of thing, passing in a corridor or getting on and off the Senate subway.”

  Senators had the use of two private subway lines running between the Capitol and the Russell and Dirksen Senate Office Buildings for their convenience. No met
ro cards or tokens necessary. The taxpayers picked up the tab.

  “Sounds kind of schoolyard,” Sweetie said.

  “Yeah, well, boys will be boys. But you let them get away with that crap, they’ll think they can roll you on legislation, too. After I bumped back a few times, comity was restored.”

  “So who do you think set you up?” Sweetie said, getting back on point. “Had to be someone you didn’t bump back, right?”

  “The only answer that makes sense to me is Philip Brock. He’s the one who mentioned me on Didi DiMarco’s show, and that led to WWN signing me up. Without Brock, I wouldn’t have come back to town.”

  Sweetie thought about that.

  “Did you ever have any personal contact with Brock before he brought up your name?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ever take the same side on a piece of legislation?”

  “No.”

  “Were you ever members of the same organization outside of Congress?”

  “No. I thought about that. What, if anything, did we have in common? The only thing was we both were elected federal officials who worked on opposite ends of the same building.”

  Margaret watched Michaelson closely. She didn’t see any sign of intention to deceive, neither on the former senator’s face nor in his words.

  “What do you know about Joan Renshaw, the director of the Andrew Hudson Grant Foundation? She was the one who told the president that she’d informed you when the president would visit Inspiration Hall, the place the assassination attempt would occur.”

  Michaelson shook his head. “I have no recollection of meeting the woman or speaking to her. But retail politics involves a lot of grips-and-grins.”

  Shaking hands with strangers and smiling, often in front of a camera.

  Again, Sweetie saw only honesty.

  Well, that and restrained anger.

  She knew she’d feel the same way if she’d been falsely accused.

  “You don’t believe in coincidences, do you, Senator?”

  He shook his head. “Not in general and definitely not in this case.”

  “So what I’ll have to do,” Sweetie said, “is look for the connection between the two people who put you into all this trouble. Philip Brock and Joan Renshaw.”