by Joseph Flynn
Michaelson nodded. Sweetie kissed Putnam, gave McGill a smile and took the arm Michaelson offered. McGill and Putnam heard Deke tell her, “Stay strong.”
Putnam closed the door.
“What’s up?” McGill asked.
Putnam put a hand on the shoulder of his suit Margaret had used as a crying towel.
“Wet all the way through,” he told McGill. “That reminded me of something. Margaret and I were going to work on it. But now … I thought I’d better tell you before I forget.”
He told McGill of going to see Jerry Nerón and how he’d felt something was wrong.
McGill’s eyes went wide, he held tight to the arms of his chair.
Putnam asked, “You see an apparition or something?”
McGill blinked and looked at Putnam. “More like a revelation. You did say Nerón, right?”
“Yeah, first name Jerry, short for Jeronimo.”
“Was this guy’s father involved in the Bay of Pigs invasion?”
“Not his father, his grandfather: Dario Nerón. How’d you know that?”
McGill told Putnam of the FBI identification of a particular strand of hair.
“You’re saying my tailor is a killer?” Putnam asked.
“Unless it’s his father,” McGill replied.
“I can’t see it being either of them, but something was up with Jerry. Shit. I had Maxi with me when I went to see him.”
That thought rattled Putnam.
“Do you know who else this guy might be seeing in town?” McGill asked.
Putnam shook his head.
“Where did you meet with him?” McGill asked.
“He has a suite at the Four Seasons. He’ll do measurements and fittings either at a hotel or the client’s office or home.” Another thought jarred Putnam. “You think Jerry is after one of his other clients?”
McGill said, “I don’t know. I’ll go to the Four Seasons and see what I can find out. Take things from there. You go help Margaret. Don’t keep her waiting.”
“I won’t. Hey, give me a call when when you can. All right?”
“Sure thing,” McGill said.
Rayburn House Office Building — Washington, DC
DeWitt and Benjamin, minding their manners, had called ahead to the Capitol Hill Police and had four of their officers with them when they entered the building where Representative Philip Brock had his office suite. The House of Representatives wasn’t in session that afternoon, but the FBI pair had done their due diligence and had gone to the House chamber to make sure Brock wasn’t doing a solo performance, giving a speech for the benefit of the C-SPAN camera. He wasn’t. The next step was to check for him in his office.
If he wasn’t there, DeWitt and Benjamin would look for Brock at his DC residence.
They stopped hallway passersby in their tracks as they marched in formation to Brock’s suite. DeWitt and Benjamin had their FBI badges on display; the Capitol Hill cops were in uniform. They looked exactly like what they were: a half-dozen hard-asses out to make an arrest. People stared at them as they passed.
More than a few wondered: Do they have anything on me?
And prayed that they didn’t.
A few congressmen poked their heads out of their suites. Tried to muster a show of indignation at the idea that any of their colleagues might be treated as roughly as a common criminal. Their disapproval, however, was limited to scowls and grimaces. No one said a word.
Benjamin picked up her step and opened the door to Brock’s suite for the others. DeWitt stopped in front of a goggle-eyed receptionist and said in a measured tone, “We’re here for Congressman Brock. Is he in? Please don’t say he isn’t, if he is. We’ll check the entire suite, if need be.”
The young woman looked to be in her early twenties and couldn’t find her voice. Had no idea of what to say. Seemed as if she might burst into tears.
DeWitt was just about to ask the Capitol Hill cops to look for Brock when a mature woman, who’d clearly bumped up against more of life than the receptionist had, stepped out of an office and asked DeWitt, “Is there something I can do for you people?”
Her tone suggested people was a synonym for morons.
“We’re here for the congressman,” DeWitt said. “Is he in?”
“He’s not.” Understanding the feds and cops were not about to take her word for it, she added, “See for yourselves, if you like.”
Benjamin and the cops did just that.
“You’re the congressman’s chief of staff?” DeWitt asked the woman.
“I am. Janet Wagner.”
“Ms. Wagner, do you know where Congressman Brock is right now?”
“I do not.”
“Are you aware if he’s made any recent travel plans?”
“No, I’m not.”
“To your knowledge, is the congressman ill or has he suffered an accident?”
“Not to my knowledge, no.”
“You answer questions as if you’ve been to law school, Ms. Wagner. Is that right?”
“It is.”
That being the case, DeWitt knew the woman would cooperate while being of little to no use whatsoever. Benjamin returned with the cops. She said, “He’s not here.”
DeWitt looked as if he might address the half-dozen curious staffers watching the drama that was unfolding before their eyes, but Ms. Wagner held up a hand and beat him to the punch.
“This gentleman is from the FBI. I advise you to cooperate with him, but only after each of you has had the benefit of conferring with your own lawyer. That way, we’ll all be protected.”
The woman was good, DeWitt thought.
She was messing with him, but in a way that left him no leverage over her.
At the very least, she’d just bought Philip Brock time to run, if that was what he was doing.
There was only one thing left for DeWitt to do. Four of the junior staffers were women. Neither as young as the receptionist nor as old as the chief of staff. DeWitt looked their way. He ran a hand through his longish surfer blonde hair. He directed a winning smile their way.
“She’s right, Ms. Wagner is. Everyone has a right to legal counsel. But lawyers are expensive, and calling on one, well, that makes it look like you have something to hide.”
“Hey!” Wagner said.
Benjamin backed her off before she could say more.
DeWitt continued, “I’m not saying there is anything wrong with talking to a lawyer. Just that how things look matters in this town. Politics, you know. Conservative voters like Congressman Brock’s constituents, they believe in law and order. They don’t expect their elected representatives and their staff to stonewall the FBI.”
“Wait a goddamn minute!” Wagner said, her voice louder this time.
Benjamin walked her out into the hallway.
DeWitt smiled again, all charm and good will. “All I’m asking for now is a show of hands. How many of you would like to talk your lawyer before you talk to me, and how many would like to save yourselves the time and expense?”
One hand after another went up, followed by the declaration: “Lawyer.”
Until the young receptionist said, “I want to report a theft.”
Bemused, DeWitt looked at her and said, “I beg your pardon.”
She said, “I don’t know where Congressman Brock is. What I do know is somebody stole a tube of sunscreen from my desk. I put some on every time before I go out. So my skin won’t get old and wrinkly. Everyone here knows I do it. They know I keep my sunscreen in my desk. That’s all I have to say. Except that my sunscreen was gone when I came in this morning.”
DeWitt looked at the other staffers. “Anyone here steal this young lady’s sunscreen?”
They all shook their heads.
“Well then. Thank you all for your time.”
DeWitt thanked the Capitol Hill cops for their time, too.
Leaving the building, he told Benjamin, “Brock grabbed a tube of sunscreen. He went somewhere sunny and warm
.”
“You didn’t ask Ms. Wagner if she stole the sunscreen.”
“I got a good look at her,” DeWitt said. “Too late to stave off wrinkles.”
Chapter 31
M Street NW — Washington, DC
McGill was headed to the Four Seasons Hotel in his Chevy with Leo and Deke when the call from Father Inigo de Loyola reached him.
“All’s well, Father?” McGill asked.
“I am tempted to remain in San José.”
“Not at the insistence of the government, I hope.”
The priest laughed. “No, amigo, I have not been arrested. As I have shown to my compadre, Lieutenant Poncé, my visit here is largely pastoral and entirely peaceful.”
De Loyola told McGill of the fiesta he threw on Brock’s property.
“I made many new friends, and they introduced me to many details of their lives.”
“Learn anything that might interest me?” McGill asked.
“Señor Brock has a fine property along the Pacific coast of this lovely country. He has the land and the resources to build both a runway and a helipad on his land. He plans to do just that. Depending on his choice of aircraft, he might fly to Panama, Venezuela or even Bolivia. By no coincidence, he has met in recent months with gentlemen from all three of those countries.”
“You know what I’m thinking, Father?”
“If you are thinking of drugs, you are mistaken. Our friends in Costa Rica are all too familiar with that problem. They are doing their best to eliminate it. Lieutenant Poncé assures me his government has investigated all of Brock’s new friends. No drug connections among them.”
“Then there’s the next most obvious thing,” McGill said.
“Looking for a second safe haven? Yes, that is much more likely.”
McGill said, “Depending on how high the heat gets turned up under Brock, he’ll need a country that won’t comply with an extradition request.”
De Loyola offered geopolitical opinions. “Panama might cooperate with the U.S. Venezuela will not, but that country is in turmoil. A new government might prove friendlier to Washington. Bolivia is more of a certainty. Dislike of los estados unidos is an article of faith in La Paz. President Morales might take Señor Brock in just to have the pleasure of thumbing his nose at Washington when it asks to have him back.”
McGill asked, “What’s the level of creature comforts in Bolivia, Father?”
“As an American would think of it, there is not a lot of nightlife.”
McGill laughed. “Is there an expatriate community in which Brock might come to be an important figure?”
“There are some Europeans. They range from Spaniards to Russians. There are also some people from the Middle East.”
“Arabs?” McGill asked.
“Yes.”
“Huh.” McGill wouldn’t have thought of that. Turning to a more immediate concern, he asked, “Did any of the people at the fiesta say when Brock might return to Costa Rica?”
“He is here already. Lieutenant Poncé told me of this only an hour ago.”
The SOB was on the run, McGill thought.
“One last question, Father. Why might you stay in San José?”
“To warm my bones until summer comes to Washington.”
Understandable, McGill thought.
“I have something for you, my friend,” de Loyola said.
“What’s that?”
“A photograph taken by Lieutenant Poncé with his phone. He will send it to your phone momentarily. Do we not live in a world of wonders?”
McGill agreed that they did.
He thanked de Loyola and said goodbye.
As promised, the emailed photo arrived in seconds.
Philip Brock and Joan Renshaw, looking all chummy, smiling broadly. It wasn’t conclusive, evidence but the image lent credence to the idea that Brock, not Michaelson, had been Renshaw’s co-conspirator in the attempt to kill Patti. He’d wait to see how well Sweetie had rebounded before showing it to her.
A moment later, Leo said, “We’re here, boss.”
Deke asked, “How do you want to do this?”
Meaning was it going to be just the three of them confronting Jerry Nerón.
Not bothering about calling in the cops or the FBI.
“We’ll play it as it lays,” McGill said.
Meaning it would be just the three of them.
At least to start with.
McGill got out of the Chevy before the hotel doorman could open the door for him. Deke was almost as touchy about outsiders getting a glimpse of how heavily armored the car was as his colleagues were about letting civilians see what beasts the presidential limos were.
The doorman stepped back. He recognized the president’s husband and knew a Secret Service agent when he saw one. He touched the bill of his hat and gave McGill a smile.
The doorman said, “If you’ll ask your driver to pull up about ten feet, sir, I’ll see to it that no one asks to have your car moved while you’re visiting the hotel.”
Courteous guy, McGill thought. Sharp, too, the way he grasped things so quickly.
That prompted McGill to say, “I understand the hotel’s need for discretion, but have you met a guest by the name of Jerry Nerón?”
Just asking put the guy in a bind. He wanted to help. But he wanted to keep his job, too.
Deke showed the guy his badge and stepped forward to whisper into his ear.
The doorman nodded and Deke stepped back.
“Yes, sir. I’ve come to recognize Mr. Nerón. He’s a regular guest.”
“Do you know if he’s in the hotel at the moment?”
“He isn’t, sir. I got a taxi for him not ten minutes ago.”
“Did you hear where he wanted to go?”
“Falls Church, Virginia.”
“The address?”
The doorman sighed and gave that up, too.
McGill told Deke, “Please double whatever tip it was you offered this gentleman.”
Deke gave McGill a look but dug out his wallet.
Starting out for Falls Church, McGill told Leo, “Fast as you can, use the siren and lights.”
Leo grinned and did as he was told. Revving up his old racing skills was always a moment to be treasured. Technically, the only time McGill was supposed to have his Chevy run hot was in case of a true emergency, e.g. he was bleeding profusely or the president had declared a national emergency.
Sometimes, though, a henchman had to go with his gut.
McGill had recognized the Falls Church address the doorman had given him. It was opposite the location of the second gun death counter site: the office tower where FirePower America had its headquarters. Auric Ludwig had been begging for the good guy with a gun — whom he’d thought had killed Abel Mays — to come see him. Well, Jerry Nerón was on the way, making it a clear case of needing to be careful what you wished for.
If McGill was right, and he felt sure he was, Jerry had killed both Mays and Jordan Gilford.
Having Ludwig trying to ferret him out would be the last thing Jerry wanted.
With Ludwig showing no sign of giving up his quest, he had to go. So Jerry was on his way to take care of that. McGill was not far behind, and the way Leo was driving the margin was closing quickly.
Deke said, “I didn’t offer that doorman a tip.”
“No?” McGill asked. “What did you tell him?”
“That you’d send him a personal letter of thanks on White House stationery and stand up for him if anyone at the hotel gave him grief.”
McGill nodded. “Quick thinking. I’ll do both those things. So how much money did you give him?”
“Since you told me to be generous, a hundred bucks.”
McGill opened his wallet and repaid Deke. “Fair is fair.”
Somewhat mollified, Deke asked, “So are we going to call for backup?”
“After you and I go in, Leo is going to call the FBI.”
McGill had promised Patti to
try to take the killer alive.
No way he could do that if he passed the baton to anyone else.
Of course, Patti wanted him to come home in one piece, too.
Women were so demanding.
Cowboy Café — Arlington, Virginia
Changing their tactics, DeWitt and Benjamin dispensed with the Capitol Hill cops when they went to the Cannon House Office Building in the hope of picking up Congressman Tanner Rutledge — the guy would rather die fighting than surrender. Or so it was said. The two feds kept their FBI eagle-and-shield badges in their pockets. Benjamin entered Rutledge’s suite alone. DeWitt stayed outside listening for yells of help, which he thought might come from anyone except Benjamin.
In fact, there was no outcry at all. Benjamin returned within a minute.
“No problem?” DeWitt asked.
“The congressman is dining at the Cowboy Café in Arlington, his preferred destination for chicken-fried steak.”
“I thought that was a breakfast dish,” DeWitt said, “not that I have personal knowledge.”
“Me either, but I did ask. The congressman, being a Texan and a good tipper, can order it anytime he likes.”
“His staff bought your story?”
“What’s not to buy? The application of a kid the congressman nominated for a slot at West Point got routed to the FBI when something disturbing popped up. We just want to keep Rutledge from winding up with egg on his face.”
DeWitt had decided to dip into Sun Tzu’s tactic of spreading falsehoods.
He and Benjamin found Rutledge right where his staff said they would, the Cowboy Café. They decided the decent thing to do would be to let him finish his meal. It also gave them the opportunity to see if they thought he might be carrying a gun. Weapons were not allowed in the Capitol, but when a member of the Texas delegation to Congress stepped out to lunch, who knew if he’d feel the need to arm himself?
Neither DeWitt nor Benjamin saw a giveaway bulge. They contented themselves with burgers and soft drinks, and grabbed Rutledge without resistance in the parking lot when he went to retrieve his car. Contrary to the warnings DeWitt and Benjamin had received, he offered no resistance. He simply invoked his right to summon his lawyer and otherwise remain silent the way any perp might.