by Joseph Flynn
She handed a bottle to McGill. They went into his office and sat down.
“Black raspberry?” McGill said, reading from the bottle. “Never heard of that.”
He unscrewed the top and gave it a try. “Hey, that’s good. Maybe you and I should drink a case first, before you let Maxi risk her health.”
The two old friends laughed.
Sweetie said, “I’ve always seen how much your kids mean to you, Jim, and I love them with all my heart, too, but —”
“You’ve got a whole new fix on things with Maxi in your life.”
“Exactly. The feeling is so intense sometimes it almost takes my breath away.”
McGill glanced at the wall clock. “Isn’t it about time to pick Maxi up from school?”
“Putnam’s doing that. He dropped her off this morning. He’s feeling pretty wound up about letting her go to school. Afraid of copycat shooters.”
“Can’t blame him,” McGill said. “How do you feel?”
“I’m saying my rosary twice a day now. But Putnam and I found some time to talk and we came up with an idea for school safety maybe you can pass along to Patti.”
“Sure. What is it?”
“Well, it’d have to be implemented on a individual school-district basis, but if Patti liked it and pushed it, that would help. What we’re thinking is when any student registers for classes, the parents or guardians would have to disclose whether they keep any guns in their home.”
McGill thought he saw at least part of what Sweetie had in mind.
“If they do,” he said, “somebody from the school district goes to the home to make sure all weapons are properly secured. Can’t fall into the kids’ hands.”
“Close. We thought it would carry more weight if the local PD sent out a cop to check things out.”
“Yeah, that’d be better. I like that. What if Mom or Dad has a gun and keeps it on the night stand?”
“That falls into the same category as what if the parents or guardians refuse to say whether they own any firearms at all?”
“Okay,” McGill said, “what then?”
“You send the kids whose parents play ball or don’t own any guns to one set of schools and the other kids get sent to a second set of schools.”
“Wow,” McGill said.
“I know. It’s almost like the idea punishes the kids who live with irresponsible adults. The response to that is our plan endangers fewer kids.”
Both Sweetie and McGill took hits from their soft drinks.
“What about the teachers at the second set of schools?” McGill asked. “You couldn’t just put newbies or the dregs in them. You’d get charged with discrimination.”
“Right. Putnam said teachers should be offered a hazardous-duty pay premium, and the schools with non-compliant parents should have extra security people to cut down on everyone’s risk.”
“That would make it more doable,” McGill said.
“It would also put pressure on all but the true hard cases to get with the program.”
“That or home school their kids.”
Sweetie said, “Home schooling is what Putnam and I were originally thinking of for Maxi. But she loves her school and we don’t think she should be isolated or punished for other people’s recklessness.”
“I’ll talk to Patti about the idea. I’m sure she’d have to get a legal opinion on it. I’ll let you know if …” McGill looked at Sweetie and read her mind. “Even if Patti were to say no, you and Putnam are going to make the idea public, aren’t you? Try to start a movement.”
“Yeah. We feel we have no other choice.”
“Good, you should do that. I’ll tell Patti that, too.”
“I don’t want to cause any hurt feelings, Jim.”
“Not a chance, not with me, not with Patti.”
“Good.”
That matter taken care of, Sweetie told McGill of her conversation with Lisa Stone, and her proposal to Galia to get Erna Godfrey to work as a jailhouse snitch.
For a moment, McGill was at a loss for words.
Then he said, “Use Erna Godfrey to accomplish something good? That being to clear the name of Roger Michaelson? Hard to believe.”
“You know what they say about God moving in mysterious ways.”
“More so now than ever, apparently,” McGill said. “And Joan Renshaw’s friend said she was looking for a rich husband? Having Patti take that away from her must have hurt.”
“Enough to fester for years, it seems.”
McGill said, “If Galia hasn’t spoken to Patti about the idea of Erna helping you yet, I’ll talk to her about that, too.”
“Good,” Sweetie said.
Chapter 18
Rayburn House Office Building — Washington, DC
The lobbyists in Washington lingered in the hallways of the House and Senate office buildings waiting for an office holder or a senior staff member to appear in the same way vultures circled a dying animal waiting for it to expire. In anticipation of feeding.
Constituents from back home would amble down the corridors checking the numbers and names on the office suites they passed. Finding the one they wanted, they’d beam and tell the spouse and kids, “Here he/she is honey. Let’s go in and say hello.”
Sometimes the constituent visits were scheduled, in which case chances were good they’d actually get a minute or two of time from the person for whom they’d voted. If the drop-in was a matter of impulse, they might get a brief tour of the office and have to make do with that.
Discerning the status of the visitors to the Congressional office buildings was easy. Constituents, far more often than not, were the picture of casual attire. Lobbyists wore business suits. They were often custom made. Many of them cost more than a constituent’s entire trip to Washington — even if they came from Alaska or Hawaii.
Though she was only eight years old, Maxi Shady was immediately able to distinguish between the two classes of people in the Rayburn Building. She had gone there straight from school with Putnam, whom she was starting to think of as Daddy. She also had no trouble discerning to which class Putnam belonged.
“You’re a fancy man, Putnam.” She was still reluctant to call him Daddy.
Fancy man was an archaic term for pimp, but Putnam felt sure that wasn’t what Maxi meant. The irony was, he felt it was entirely apt for many of the lobbyists they passed. It might even have applied to him before he met Margaret and left the dark side. Hell, of course it had.
“I like to dress well,” he said.
He took more pride than ever in his attire as his fitness increased.
“You look pretty spiffy, too,” he added.
Maxi beamed. Then her face fell. “You and Margaret buy me nicer clothes than Mama and Daddy did.”
Putnam stopped and dropped to one knee. He put his hands on Maxi’s shoulders.
“Tell me the truth. Did your mom and dad love you with all their hearts?”
Maxi nodded, a tear rolling down her cheek.
Some of the tourists noticed; none of the lobbyists paid any attention.
“Honey,” Putnam said, “as long as someone is doing their best for you, that’s all you can ask. You understand that, don’t you?”
Maxi wiped away the tear and nodded again. “I’m okay now.”
Putnam stood and said, “That’s my girl.”
Maxi took his hand and held it tight. A moment later they entered the office of Representative Philip Brock, Democrat of Pennsylvania. Putnam got Maxi seated and doing her homework on her iPad. Then he presented himself to the receptionist.
She gave him a questioning look. Not about Maxi. She’d smiled in her direction. But the receptionist had made Putnam for a lobbyist, too. It was considered bad form to drop in on a representative or a senator without an appointment, usually made for an hour when the building was quiet and there were few if any TV crews lurking.
Putnam hadn’t let protocol deter him.
He gave his name to the re
ceptionist and said, “I’m not here to ask for a single thing. I’ll only be a few minutes, and I have something to tell Representative Brock he’d really like to hear.”
Part of the receptionist’s job was to know when people were blowing smoke.
Putnam sounded good to her, and she’d never seen a suit bring a little kid with him.
She picked up her phone and said, “Let me see what I can do.”
What she did was summon the congressman’s chief of staff, who came out of the great man’s personal office. Putnam repeated his spiel. Unlike the receptionist, the chief of staff knew who Putnam was, by appearance and affiliation, if not personally.
“You work for Darren Drucker, don’t you, Mr. Shady?”
“With Mr. Drucker, yes.” Parts of speech mattered.
It also didn’t hurt to let the other person bring up a billionaire’s name.
By this time, Philip Brock had come to stand in the doorway to his office. He cleared his throat to get his chief of staff’s attention. Then the congressman pointed at Putnam and made a beckoning gesture.
Surprisingly, Brock told his senior staffer that he’d see Putnam privately.
The two men shook hands and took seats on opposite sides of Brock’s desk.
“ShareAmerica,” Brock said, “that was your idea, wasn’t it, Mr. Shady?”
“It was.”
“A mutual fund lobbying group working for the public interest. Ingenious. How’s it going?”
“We’re starting to make some headway.”
“Have you gotten any legislation passed yet.”
“Not yet, but we’ve stopped some legislation we didn’t like.”
“Made a few enemies?”
“That’s inevitable, all a part of the game.”
Brock didn’t question Putnam’s characterization of government as a game. He felt the same way. He also knew to whom Putnam Shady was married, Margaret Sweeney. James J. McGill’s partner in his private investigations agency. The man had connections any other lobbyist would kill for.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Shady?”
“As I told your staffers, I came to do something for you.”
“What’s that?”
Putnam told Brock of the new political party he and Darren Drucker were forming.
“Cool Blue?” Brock smiled. “Love the name.”
“Thank you, sir. I thought I’d extend you the courtesy of telling you that Cool Blue will be running a candidate against you in the upcoming election.”
Brock laughed. “Well, that’s everyone’s right, including a brand new party.”
“Yes, sir. We’re innovative in a number of ways. All our candidates come fully pre-funded so they don’t have to spend a lot of time grubbing about for campaign contributions. We also let our opponents know how we’ll run against them. In your case we’re hoping that, since you call yourself a Democrat, you’ll start voting like one.”
“My voting record is highly popular in my district.”
“In that case, the honest thing to do would be to change your party registration to Republican or True South.”
Brock’s smile remained in place, but he was quiet for a moment as he studied Putnam’s face. Putnam looked back without blinking.
“Are you trying to make me angry, Mr. Shady?”
“No, sir. What Cool Blue is trying to do is improve the chances that someone with progressive views will represent your district whether that’s our candidate or you with an increased allegiance to the Democratic Party.”
Brock nodded. “I see. Well, thank you for stopping by. I’ll take what you’ve told me into consideration when I campaign for reelection.”
The congressman stood. Putnam got to his feet and they shook hands and said goodbye. Putnam picked up Maxi on his way out and they headed home. Maxi asked, “Was your meeting fun?”
“Great fun,” Putnam said.
He hadn’t gone to see Brock to give him a political heads-up. He was sure Brock was smart enough to know that. So now the congressman would wonder what Putnam had really wanted. Meaning that Putnam had sown confusion in Brock’s mind: a benefit in itself.
What he’d really visited the man’s offices for was to get a close look at his walls. See what photos, plaques and awards resided there. Find some possible point of connection between him and Joan Renshaw for Margaret.
The most interesting thing to attract Putnam’s notice, though, hadn’t been inanimate. It had been Brock’s face. The man had the start of a nice tan. The sweet blush of the sun, not the rotisserie roast of a tanning bed. Natural high color wasn’t something he had acquired locally.
So where had Brock gone recently? Had to be someplace sunny and warm.
Didn’t matter if he’d traveled on the public purse or his own dime.
Either way, his tan suggested he had found the leisure time to darken his complexion.
That made Putnam wonder: Had Brock and Joan Renshaw ever taken a vacation together?
J. Edgar Hoover Building — Washington, DC
For a special agent, Abra Benjamin had a pretty big office, Welborn thought. Nicely furnished, too, with a good view of Pennsylvania Avenue. For just a second, he wondered if he would have been given a new office at the White House, if he’d accepted the promotion to major. Maybe Kira had been right and he should’ve —
No. He pushed thoughts of self-aggrandizement aside.
Benjamin had just asked Hume Drummond, inspector general of the department of defense, if he’d like a cup of coffee or tea, and he’d declined both.
The amenities observed, Welborn jumped in with the first question, while Benjamin was still fiddling with her audio recorder.
“Mr. Drummond,” he said, “is Zara Gilford in any danger?”
Appearing startled, Drummond asked, “What kind of danger?”
The look Benjamin shot Welborn told him he was the one in trouble. She must have thought that just because she’d seated Welborn next to Drummond, on the visitors’ side of her desk, that he’d sit silently by and observe. Welborn had no such intention, and no worries about any reprisal from Special Agent Benjamin.
His boss, the president, could beat up any other boss in town.
“The kind of danger Mr. Gilford experienced,” Welborn said.
“You think someone might kill Zara?” Drummond looked even more incredulous.
“It’s your opinion that concerns me, sir. Is Zara Gilford in danger?”
Welborn saw that Benjamin wanted to seize control of the questioning, but she was interested in Drummond’s response, too. She bided her time. The man was clearly examining the idea that Welborn had presented to him.
“I … don’t think so. Jordan told me he never talked shop with Zara.”
“Do you think the people who had Mr. Gilford killed know that?” Welborn had beaten Benjamin to the punch again. She might have complained, but once more she wanted to hear the answer.
“I can’t say; I don’t know who they are, and there’s no way to say what they might have in mind.”
“So, it would be a good idea to err on the side of caution?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And the DOD will be happy to pick up the tab?”
“Yes.”
Welborn nodded to Benjamin. Whenever possible, it was a good idea to allow more than one interrogator have a go at a subject. Not just good cop, bad cop. Subtle differences worked well, too. They forced the respondent to relocate his balance each time the verbal baton was passed.
The easiest way to deal with such circumstances was to speak honestly.
Lies or even pauses for equivocation became glaringly obvious.
Benjamin, recovering her bearing nicely, set up the next major question.
“Mr. Drummond, was anyone other than you involved in making the decision to hire Mr. Gilford?”
“No, it was strictly my call.”
“Why did you hire Mr. Gilford?”
“He has … had an all but uni
que array of skills and a track record of exposing wrongdoing at major corporations. That calls for strength of character as well as a high intellect.”
Welborn was curious to see if Benjamin let Drummond’s evasion go unchallenged.
She didn’t. “That tells us you thought Mr. Gilford was well qualified. It doesn’t say a thing about the reason, the purpose for which you hired him. Please don’t try to tell Captain Yates and me that it was an ordinary recruitment and you had nothing more in mind than hiring the best man available. Unless, of course, you can cite examples of other routine hires being gunned down on the National Mall.”
Drummond looked stymied.
He’d wanted to say Gilford was nothing more than a good personnel move.
But Benjamin’s challenge to name someone else who’d come to grief simply by signing on with the inspector general’s office left him no room to maneuver. Welborn liked that. He saw there was a measure of satisfaction in Benjamin’s eyes, too.
With nothing left to do, nowhere else to go, Drummond told them, “I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?” Welborn asked.
“I’m not even sure I can tell you that.”
“Very convenient for you, but I’m not sure that’s a lawful position.”
Benjamin told Welborn, “It’s not unlawful, but it is a risky strategy. You know why, Captain Yates?”
“Oh, yeah,” Welborn said. “The right to remain silent applies only to people who have been arrested. Since we haven’t placed Mr. Drummond under arrest, well then, any pre-arrest silence can be introduced into evidence at trial.”
“From which a jury might reasonably infer guilt, since an innocent person would feel free to talk.”
It was a nice pincer movement, but now Drummond was getting testy. Welborn and Benjamin, being young, had underestimated him. He had a lot on his mind, was even fearful to a degree, but with a Juris Doctor degree from Duke Law School and decades of real-world experience, he wasn’t about to buckle under their threat like some mope off the street.
“Oh, balls,” he said, “I’ll never go to court or face a jury.”
“Why not?” Welborn asked.
“Two words: national security.”