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

by Joseph Flynn

  “I told Phil Brock not Roger Michaelson.”

  Then Joan Renshaw suffered what a doctor at the prison described as a psychotic break. There was a good chance she wouldn’t be offering a rational explanation for what she’d done for a very long time, if ever. She’d been transferred to a secure hospital ward and placed on suicide watch.

  Several minutes of silence passed before the president said, “I know I’m not being lied to, but I’m having a hard time believing that Erna Godfrey is really dead. Now. After I granted her clemency from the death penalty. After … I’d almost found it in my heart to forgive her for killing Andy.”

  Galia nodded. Not that she’d been thinking of the irony of the situation. She’d been unable to divorce herself from the political and practical realities of what had happened. Roger Michaelson had been exonerated, as Margaret Sweeney had hoped, and Erna Godfrey was dead, as Galia had long thought fitting for what she’d done to Andy Grant and the president.

  So one of Galia’s long-time nemeses, Michaelson, was redeemed.

  The other, Erna, had gone on to whatever judgment awaited everyone.

  And she hadn’t put up a fight to save her life. Did she know, in some way, dying at that moment was her fate? The violent outcome of her own deadly actions. Had she accepted her death in the hope that if she saw Jesus again, this time he’d be more compassionate?

  Maybe a divine figure would be forgiving, but Galia didn’t think the president’s political enemies would be. Reverend Burke Godfrey had died after he’d refused to submit to arrest and had faced off against the government. Now, Erna had died after the president had sent Joan Renshaw into the same cell with her.

  Galia shuddered to think how that would be portrayed on the political right.

  As if reading her chief of staff’s mind, the president said, “I’ll make the announcement of Erna Godfrey’s death in the briefing room this morning, and explain the circumstances. Can we get Warden Timkins down here from Connecticut quickly? If the media want a detailed explanation, she can provide it. We’re going to be absolutely transparent about all this.”

  Galia thought that was far from the best idea the president had ever had. She thought there should be an investigation, a report written and — No, that would be worse. Any delay would look like an attempt to create a coverup. It was better to make a clean breast of it.

  “Yes, ma’am. I am truly sorry about all this. I never should have let it —”

  “The responsibility is mine, Galia. I could have said no, but I didn’t. I don’t want you to think that Margaret Sweeney is at all responsible either. She acted in good faith, thinking she’d help prove her client’s innocence, and it looks like that was what happened.”

  Galia shook her head. “I’m not so sure about that, Madam President. Even though there are people who heard Renshaw’s declaration, the fact that she’s suffered a mental collapse might make her words suspect. It’s also possible she was just screwing with all of us. Having one last joke.”

  “By saying enough to make it impossible to convict either Michaelson or Brock?” the president asked.

  “Wouldn’t that be crazy like a fox? Especially if Renshaw escapes liability for killing Erna because she’s judged to be mentally incompetent.”

  The president shook her head. “No, I don’t think it’s going to work out like that. Joan Renshaw had no previous record of violence. I don’t think she could kill Erna, consciously muddy the waters on who she told about my planned trip to Inspiration Hall and then fake a psychotic break that fooled a trained physician.”

  Following the president’s logic, Galia said, “Well, we know for sure that Erna’s dead, and if we assume the mental breakdown is real too —”

  “Then Joan really did tell Brock not Michaelson. Brock’s involvement with a plot to kill me seems much more credible in light of Byron DeWitt’s suspicions that Brock is involved in the killings of both Senator Hurlbert and Dr. Ben Kalil.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “So when I make my statement to the media, I’ll reveal that Joan’s statement exonerated Michaelson without mentioning her implication of Brock.”

  Galia nodded. “Brock will hear the news and be waiting for the other shoe to drop. Under that kind of pressure, he might do something foolish, maybe even incriminating.”

  “Let’s have around-the-clock surveillance on Congressman Brock. Get the FBI on that right away.”

  Just then the intercom buzzed and Edwina said, “Madam President, Deputy Director DeWitt and Special Agent Benjamin of the FBI are here to see you. They say they have important news.”

  FirePower America — Falls Church, Virginia

  The goddamn roof had fallen in on Auric Ludwig. He hadn’t been able to sleep all night, and he’d turned on the sunrise network news programs. Except for SNAM and Fox, every damn one of them now had a National Gun Death Counter on their program and, of course, the damn things kept ticking off a new death every few seconds, or so it seemed to him.

  If his freaking stock holdings went up half as fast, he’d be able to chuck his job and retire somewhere … well, he didn’t know just where he’d go. Somewhere warm and remote. Argentina maybe. He thought they still had a lot of open land down there. He probably had enough money right now to buy a pretty good sized rancho out on the … what’d they call their plains down there? The pampas, that was it.

  They were supposed to have great beef in Argentina, too.

  He could become a rancher. Have a hacienda of a few thousand acres and run his little kingdom the way he saw fit. He’d have a posse of … what’d they call their cowboys? Gauchos, yeah. See, he was halfway there to fitting in.

  All his men would be armed to the teeth, of course.

  To protect his property and his cattle.

  Do whatever else he told them.

  From what he remembered reading about South America, quite a few Germans had immigrated there. He’d fit in on that account, too. Learn to speak passable Spanish and he’d be good. At first glance, he didn’t see any holes in his plan.

  What made even thinking of such plans necessary was the reaming he’d gotten from his three biggest clients last night. The top dog in the industry, Liberty, Unlimited, was fighting for its financial life against a group of Winstead School parents and their friends. LU couldn’t be touched in the gun market; they controlled forty percent of it. But at heart LU was an investment bank, and the Winstead group was fucking with all the other deals they had pending.

  The bastards intended to keep it up, too, unless LU sold them its gun manufacturing base.

  Of course, every firearm manufacturer and retailer hated the goddamn gun death counters. That and the fucking Four Degrees of Getting Shot app that was spreading like the plague. Word was, goddamn James J. McGill’s son had created it. The little prick.

  Ludwig had tried to tell his clients he had a great plan to fight back.

  The restoration of gun rights for felons.

  The damn president wouldn’t be able to send them to prison in Alaska once that legislation passed. Over the president’s veto, if need be. Ludwig was sure he could get the votes to —

  Get cut off in mid-sentence. His clients hated the idea.

  It was one thing to give a wink and a nod to straw-purchasers for criminals, but to be seen siding with thugs was a non-starter. Thinking of lobbying for legislation to benefit lawbreakers never should have entered his mind, Ludwig was told. Had he lost his senses?

  Pussies, Ludwig thought.

  Now that he’d had the rug pulled out from under him, he was left to fantasize about starting a new life. That didn’t help him one bit, though, with what he was going to say to the press conference he’d set up for that morning. Absent the announcement to restore gun rights to felons, he had nothing.

  He got dressed and went to his office. That didn’t inspire him. Just standing in front of the newsies and ripping the president would make him look weak, especially in light of all the real moves th
e other side was making. So what could he do except to cancel the press conference?

  Only that would make him look really feeble.

  He was tempted to pray for a miracle.

  Only he didn’t believe in either praying or miracles.

  Not until his phone rang.

  Danny O’Day, uber-conservative radio host, real name Fred Walters, broadcasting out of Arlington, Virginia — home of the Pentagon — was on the line. O’Day always sounded cheerful, asserting that a new day was about to dawn for right-thinking Americans. Patricia Grant had been reelected by one stinking, stolen electoral vote? Didn’t matter. Great times were just ahead.

  “Got some news for you, Auric, old buddy. Bet it’s gonna knock your dick stiff, too.”

  Something that hadn’t happened for a long time, Ludwig thought. Not for any reason.

  “What is it, Danny?”

  Ludwig wasn’t in the mood for any happy horseshit, but he didn’t want to tick off anyone who still sympathized with him.

  “I got a real interesting call yesterday.”

  “You get hundreds of calls every day.”

  “Not like this one. The guy had some sort of Spanish accent. Not thick like he just swam the Rio Grande. Maybe like he’s been in the country a long time, got himself acclimated.”

  “Is this an immigration story? If it is, you’ve got —”

  “Auric, listen to me.” Danny’s voice had gone hard, and then it got quiet. “This compadre thinks he might have your shooter for you. Your good guy with a gun.”

  Ludwig felt his heart race, but he didn’t want to get his hopes too high.

  “What makes you think he could be legit?”

  “Well, the guy said his man was in DC at the time Abel Mays got shot. And here’s the good part: The caller knows for a fact his man has already killed one bad dude for sure. The caller helped the guy dispose of the body.”

  “Jesus, this could be real. But why didn’t you call me yesterday, after you got your call?”

  “I’ve been working on it since then. The caller made a good point. Your reward offer didn’t provide a way to collect the money anonymously. You know, like the Crime Stoppers program.”

  Ludwig winced. He should have thought about that. But another thought came to mind. “How do we know this guy’s not full of shit, some lousy con man?”

  “I asked the same question.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He said you can pay him after you see that he’s delivered the goods.”

  That idea made the offer seem real, if the informant was that confident.

  “Okay, that’s good,” Ludwig said. “Let’s assume he’s for real. How does he want the money, a wire transfer to a numbered offshore account?”

  O’Day laughed. “That would have been my idea, too, but this guy has another way of doing it. He wants a suitcase filled with cash delivered to a boat in international waters. He wouldn’t say exactly where, but it’s one more thing that makes me think he’s for real.”

  “That is good. The person making the delivery wouldn’t have to know what he was dropping off. The person taking delivery wouldn’t have to know either. The guy getting the cash could be watching from another boat or even an aircraft to make sure no one tries to cheat him. He could wind up with all the money and no one would ever know who he is.”

  “Yeah, sounds like a spy caper, doesn’t it? Something the CIA might cook up. Anyway, the guy’s going to call me back this afternoon. You want me to tell him you’ll come across with the money if he gives you the right guy?”

  “Yes. Under the terms we’ve just discussed, absolutely. Wait. When this guy with the accent called your station, you must have logged his phone number. Did you —”

  “Yeah,” O’Day said, “we checked. That’s part of the reason I didn’t call you yesterday. We just found out the guy called from a disposable cell phone, what they call a burner on the cop shows. I thought that was intriguing, too. This guy knows his stuff, and if he doesn’t want any money until you’re happy, where’s the harm?”

  “There isn’t any that I can see … and that’s almost enough to worry me.”

  “Well, it’s up to you. I was just trying to help out,” O’Day said.

  “And I appreciate it, Danny, I really do. You just might have helped me a lot.”

  “Anything to advance the cause.”

  The radio host said goodbye.

  Leaving Ludwig with a decision to make. No, there really was no choice. And he already had his press conference scheduled.

  The only thing left for him to do was tell the world: He’d just made the arrangements to put his hands on his good guy with a gun. Revealing the man’s identity to the world was now just a matter of time.

  Then Ludwig’s phone rang again. He thought it might be O’Day calling back, having forgotten to mention something. But it was someone else, an unfamiliar voice.

  “Hello, have I reached Mr. Auric Ludwig?”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “Sir, my name is Jerry Nerón. Some friends of yours have contacted me on your behalf. They’ve paid me to make three new suits for you. Perhaps you’ve heard of the custom tailoring I do.”

  Now, that the man mentioned it, Ludwig did know his name.

  Other members of the DC lobbying community wore Jerry Nerón suits.

  They were exquisitely made with the finest fabrics.

  He’d thought more than once he’d like to have one; he was just too cheap to pay the price.

  “Sir?” the voice on the phone said.

  “Yes, I’m still here, and I do know your work. You say friends of mine have paid you to make three suits for me? Did they say why?”

  “I assume this is a gesture of friendship and respect. Perhaps you have some important events to attend in the near future?”

  That was it, Ludwig thought. The suits wouldn’t be a gift; they’d be somebody’s idea of a cruel joke. He had enemies like any other lobbyist. Hell, he had more people who wanted to see him fall than any other lobbyist. Somebody wanted to see him wear Jerry Nerón suits to court for his obstruction of justice trial, and then he’d get shipped off to prison somewhere and have to wear a jailbird jumpsuit for the rest of his life.

  Leaving behind only the cruel memories of what he’d lost.

  Like the custom-made suits by Jerry Nerón.

  “Sir, if you are not interested, I will let your friends know.”

  “No, no. I’m definitely interested. I only wish I had one of your suits to wear this morning when I speak to the media.”

  Nerón chuckled. “I’m sorry, but I don’t sew that fast. If you like, however, I can do a fitting for you this afternoon.”

  “That would be great.”

  “We can do the fitting either at your office or my hotel suite.”

  “My office. You know where it is?”

  “Yes, sir. Will three o’clock be good.”

  “Fine. Can you tell me the name of my generous friends, the ones paying for your services?”

  “I am not supposed to say, but I can ask. If I get permission, I’ll tell you when I come to your office.”

  “Fine. See you then.”

  Ludwig laughed to himself. Some of the SOBs he knew, they’d love to see him laid out in a casket wearing a Jerry Nerón suit. But they didn’t know he was on the verge of finding his damn good guy. That was going to turn everything around. He felt sure of it.

  He’d expose that bullshit medical examiner’s report about Abel Mays suffering a heart attack as a fraud.

  He’d ruin James J. McGill’s reputation as an investigator, him with his supposed alternative killer to blame for the death of Jordan Gilford.

  He’d turn the tables on the national discussion of gun death counters and all that other shit.

  And he’d do it all in style, wearing Jerry Nerón suits.

  McGill’s Hideaway — The White House

  McGill called Ellie Booker. “I wanted to give you a head
s-up.”

  “About what? Something good or bad?”

  “You decide. Didi DiMarco invited me to do an interview, and I accepted.”

  “At the White House?”

  “No, if I speak at the White House, it’s only in the press room, and everybody’s welcome.”

  “That’s fair. So, what? You’re just being considerate?”

  “My manners are fairly good, but I appreciate what WWN did, taking the lead with the gun death counter, and I’m sure you had at least something to do with that.”

  “Something, but it was getting shot that put Hugh on board.”

  “Well, anyway, I wanted to say thanks and let you know.”

  “And tell me I can’t count on a string of exclusives with you,” Ellie said.

  “That would ruin your credibility and mine,” McGill said.

  “Yeah. I hate it when there’s a good reason for not getting my way.”

  “Makes us both work all the harder.”

  “Try not to give Didi anything too good, will you?”

  McGill laughed. “You were the one who got her to jump in so fast on the gun death counter, weren’t you?”

  Ellie was quiet.

  “Had to be you, because it wasn’t me,” McGill said.

  “You know what? Sometimes you’re a scary guy.”

  “Why? Because I can do basic arithmetic?”

  “You graduated from DePaul magna cum laude, I checked. So don’t play humble.”

  “It’s part of my charm,” McGill told her.

  MSNBC — Washington, DC

  Didi DiMarco could see McGill’s master’s degree and raise him a doctorate.

  From Oxford yet.

  But McGill felt he could hold his own. He and Didi sat in facing chairs.

  “Are you trying to change America’s gun laws, Mr. McGill?”

  “No, that’s not within my power to do.”

  “You’re married to the president of the United States.”

  “For which I give thanks every day, but it’s not within her power to do, either.”

  “So you’re saying it’s all up to Congress?”

  “In terms of passing legislation, yes.”