Jim McGill 02 The Hangman's Companion

by Joseph Flynn

  McGill had always done his best to watch his temper when he’d been a cop. When you were given the power of arrest, a gun, and a stick, it was best to exercise conscious self-restraint. You either did that or you explained yourself to disciplinary boards and maybe the state’s attorney.

  His former police powers were chump change compared to the might Patti wielded. Armies marched when she gave the order. So having her angry enough to want to strike someone — and having him teach her the Dark Alley way to do just that — worried McGill.

  “You know,” he said, “maybe it would be better if you forgot about the physical rough stuff and had Galia show you how to politically knife whoever is bothering you.”

  Patti laughed. “Don’t worry, I’ve got that part covered. And I won’t beat anyone up unless I have to. The real reason I called was to hear your voice. It calms me. Makes me feel loved.”

  McGill’s heart swelled and he told his wife, “Put the phone on your pillow. I’ll sing you to sleep.”

  Patti said, “Do you know how long—” She stopped abruptly. McGill heard what sounded like the rustling of sheets. Then his wife’s voice told him, “Okay, go.”

  He took a sip of water and started to sing “You’ll Accomp’ny Me.”

  His inflection originated two hundred miles west of Bob Seger’s, but both men’s voices were similarly Mid-American. And every note McGill sang in his soft sweet baritone was on key. Memories of singing lullabies to his children added to the warm glow he felt.

  He finished by whispering, “Je t’aime, ma chère.”

  He’d seen those words on a dozen T-shirts in Paris that day.

  Gabbi had told him what they meant, and how to pronounce them.

  Not ten seconds after clicking off with Patti, the phone sounded again. “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” This time, it was Sweetie.

  “I’m not calling too late, am I?” she asked.

  “Just got off the phone with Patti,” he told her.

  “How’s she doing? After all the uproar.”

  McGill’s pause told Sweetie he’d missed something.

  “We didn’t talk about business,” McGill said, “hers or mine. What’s going on?”

  Sweetie told him about Patti’s proposal to reorganize the defense structure of the globe’s major industrial democracies.

  “We’re not going to be the world’s cop anymore?” McGill asked.

  “Not if enough countries go along,” Sweetie told him. “And maybe even if they don’t.”

  “Huh, I think I like it,” McGill said. “How about you?”

  Sweetie agreed. “We’ve carried the load long enough. But I think the news didn’t come out the way Patti planned. There was no positive spin here at home; she’s catching a lot of grief from her own party. Russia and China both think there must be booby-traps being set for them. The biggest support is coming from right where you are. The president of France is Patti’s best bud.”

  “So somebody leaked the news, maybe hoping to wreck the whole plan, sabotage Patti’s administration. And we both know who that’s likely to have been.”

  “Roger Michaelson,” Sweetie said. “But I don’t think you’re going to get him on a basketball court again.”

  McGill had delivered a savage beating to his wife’s political nemesis under the cover of a one-on-one basketball game. But he didn’t have the free time to deal with the junior senator from Oregon right now.

  Then again maybe, with Patti asking him to teach her Dark Alley, she intended to deliver the blows personally. Sweetie then gave McGill something else to ponder.

  “You remember Putnam, my landlord? He called me to say Erna Godfrey’s first appeal of her death sentence has been denied.”

  “Huh,” McGill grunted. “Any political blowback on that?”

  “Might have been if Patti’s news out of London hadn’t smothered everything else.”

  McGill smiled. “So Michaelson might have inadvertently done Patti at least a small favor. But let’s keep all that stuff on the back burner for now.”

  Taking the cue, Sweetie moved on and told McGill what was happening in her investigation of Deke’s shooting.

  “You told me the shot was meant for Deke’s mother, right?” he asked.

  “Yeah, that’s what she told me. After that, Deke informed me his mother’s something of a criminal mastermind, at least on a conceptual level.”

  “What?”

  Sweetie filled him in on the details. McGill thought about what he’d heard.

  “Something she did is coming back to bite her?”

  “Her and maybe her nephew, Deke’s cousin, the Reverend Francis Nguyen, and possibly his eminence Bishop George O’Menehy.”

  “This involves the church?”

  “Oh, yeah. The church, at least one of its sacraments and, my guess, a lot of money.” Sweetie told McGill about eavesdropping on the bishop’s confessional. “Welborn snapped pictures of the two Vietnamese guys who dropped in on his eminence. He’s going to run the photos through the feds’ databases.”

  “Good. You feel comfortable handling this one alone, Margaret?”

  Sweetie said, “I’m not alone. I’ve got Welborn and — Jim, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you back tomorrow.”

  “What happened?” McGill asked, alarmed.

  “It’s okay. Father Francis Nguyen just dropped in for a visit.”

  Georgetown

  20

  Sweetie got to her feet as the young Asian-American cleric stepped in front of McGill’s desk. She stood a good six inches taller than he did, probably outweighed him by forty pounds. But the man’s stoic face, steady gaze, and sense of self-possession told her how strong he was.

  “Good day, Father Francis,” Sweetie said. “Please have a seat. Would you like some coffee, tea, or water?”

  He gave her a small shake of his head.

  “My Aunt Musette told you who I am?” he said.

  “She did, and showed me a picture. A good likeness.”

  “May I ask what else she told you?”

  Sweetie gestured to a chair, “Please, Father, if we’re going to talk, have a seat.”

  Father Nguyen was plainly a man who didn’t like to bend, but he sat. So did Sweetie.

  She told the priest, “Father, I think we’d both be much better off if the two of us could speak freely. Solve our problems quickly and probably keep people from being hurt. But you have your sacramental vows to keep and I have my professional confidences to keep. We both want at least some of the same things, but the problem is, how do we talk to each other?”

  The idea that Sweetie might have to be discreet about what she knew had clearly eluded the cleric. But he accepted it without complaint. “I’m sorry I bothered you. I should have realized I wasn’t the only one with obligations of secrecy.”

  A thought entered the priest’s mind, apparently an unwelcome one as Sweetie could see him struggle before yielding to it. “I don’t suppose it would dissuade you from pursuing your investigation if I prevailed on my aunt to dispense with your services.”

  “No, Father. Not now. And I’m not the only one. Deke’s not going to quit and neither will the Secret Service.”

  Before the priest could respond, the phone rang.

  “Pardon me, Father. This might be important, but I’ll try to keep it short.” Sweetie picked up the phone. “McGill Investigations.”

  “Sweetie? It’s Abbie. If you’ve got a minute, I need to talk with someone.”

  Sweetie caught the note of distress in her goddaughter’s voice.

  “No one’s threatening you or Kenny or Caitie, are they?” she asked.

  Sweetie saw Father Nguyen’s head swivel toward her. He’d turned his head away to afford her a measure of privacy, but now he was looking right at her.

  “No, no,” Abbie said. “We’re all fine. Well, I’m not. I told my dad something, and I think I might have hurt his feelings.”

  Father Nguyen must have overheard, Sweetie thou
ght, because he looked away once more.

  “What did you say, Abbie?” Sweetie asked.

  The eldest McGill child told Sweetie about deciding to use her mother’s maiden name on her college applications so she wouldn’t be given undue preference in admission decisions. Sweetie saw a small smile light the priest’s face. A sign of approval? If so, the good father had hearing as keen as Sweetie’s.

  “I don’t think I should get any special treatment. I don’t want it. But I don’t want to hurt my dad, either. I was hoping you might have some advice.”

  Sweetie bobbed her head. “Abbie, not wanting an unfair advantage is exactly the right position to take. But why can’t you just say so?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Isn’t there a place to make a personal statement on each application?”

  “They all require an essay.”

  “There you go,” Sweetie said. “Tell them what a wonderful young woman you are. Tell them how smart you are, how strong you are, how kind you are. Tell them you are also the daughter of the man who’s married to the President of the United States, but if they let you in just because of that you’ll use your connections to get all their federal funding yanked.”

  Abbie laughed, and out of the corner of her eye Sweetie saw Father Nguyen’s smile brighten.

  “That’d teach them,” Abbie said.

  “If you need a character reference, give them my name, Margaret Mary Sweeney. Tell them who I am: a former novice, a former police sergeant, and currently a private detective. If that’s not good enough for them, they don’t have the school for you.”

  “Yeah,” Abbie said. Then her voice softened. “I love you, Sweetie.”

  “Same here, kiddo.”

  They said their goodbyes and Sweetie put the phone down.

  Father Nguyen asked her, “You had a religious calling?”

  “I thought I did, briefly. Now I just try to live a good life.”

  The priest stood and extended his hand. Sweetie got to her feet and took it.

  “I’m very glad I met you, Ms. Sweeney,” Father Nguyen said.

  Sweetie told him, “Let’s do it again, Father.”

  Chapter 6

  Thursday, June 4th — Paris

  1

  Early morning found Magistrate Yves Pruet sitting in the backseat of his Citroën C5 saloon with Paul Leroux, the businessman who had thought to come to the aid of Ms. Casale during the reenactment of the fight under the Pont d’Iéna.

  “This investigation of yours, m’sieur,” Leroux said to Pruet, “it has to do with the death of Thierry Duchamp, does it not?”

  Pruet’s car was parked at the curb along the Quai Anatole France, less than a kilometer from the magistrate’s home, and not far from where the football star had met his end. Odo sat up front in the driver’s seat. Pruet nodded to a woman passing by on the sidewalk.

  “Her?” the magistrate asked.

  Leroux, who had the curbside seat, looked out.

  “No, she is not a regular.”

  Having learned that Leroux hadn’t seen the conflict that caused Duchamp’s death, Pruet thought to take the process a step farther. The magistrate asked if Leroux saw the same cast of faces on most of his morning walks to work. The businessman said he did, and now he was seeking to point out familiar strangers, so Odo might take their names and phone numbers for later questioning.

  Turning to Leroux’s question, Pruet asked, “Would it matter to you if this investigation concerned Thierry Duchamp?”

  Leroux adjusted his weight on the seat, seeking a more comfortable position.

  Odo watched the man’s reflection in the rearview mirror.

  “I am not so passionate about sports as others. I do not follow football. But—” Leroux’s eyes widened. “Him!”

  Pruet saw two men about to draw opposite the car, one older, one younger.

  “Which one?” Odo asked.

  “The fellow with the garish tie.”

  The younger one. Odo got out of the car, caught up with the man and identified himself.

  “One down, five to go,” Pruet said to Leroux, “if your estimate of half-a-dozen regulars was correct.”

  “I told you I wasn’t sure I saw all of them every day.”

  “We will be patient and catch such fish as swim by. You were saying you do not follow football, but…”

  Leroux looked at the magistrate. “But I wonder what the repercussions would be for me if I were to aid in freeing the Ami who was arrested.”

  “Why should there be repercussions for correcting an injustice?”

  Leroux gave the magistrate a look. Who was he trying to kid?

  Pruet sighed. “You are right, of course. We will make provisions for you, if that should become necessary.”

  “If I have to leave Paris, there is only one other place I’d want to live.”

  “Tahiti, perhaps?”

  “An island, yes, but not Moorea. Manhattan. I could work there.”

  “You said you are with Publicis?”

  “That’s right, an art—” Leroux stopped, leaned forward, looked past Pruet at the far side of the street where a waist-high concrete wall stood. “An art director. Where is Bertrand? I forgot all about him.”

  Pruet asked, “Who is Bertrand?”

  “An artist, an African immigrant. He paints remarkably good cityscapes on ceramic tiles. I have been trying for the past year to think of a way to feature his work in an ad. If you’ve ever walked along this section of the river, you must have noticed him.”

  Pruet had, in fact, walked the area frequently, but in the evening not the morning.

  “He must retire to the comfort of his bed by the time I’m about.”

  Leroux frowned. “If Bertrand has a bed, he is lucky. He would do much better selling his work if he could afford clean clothes and a regular bath.”

  “Is he a drug user?”

  “No, he is an artist. That is an opiate in itself, believe me.”

  “Perhaps he provides for another as well as himself.”

  Leroux nodded. “More than likely. I am ashamed I didn’t notice he was missing. He is usually here first thing in the morning.”

  Odo came back to the car just as Pruet asked, “When was the last time you remember seeing Bertrand?”

  Thinking for a moment, Leroux said, “The day before Thierry Duchamp died.”

  “Did you ever buy any of Bertrand’s art?”

  The art director nodded. “I have two of his tiles at my office.”

  “I would like to see them, please.”

  Leroux said, “Of course.”

  “Odo, we need to take M’sieur Leroux to his office, and while we travel perhaps he can do a sketch of Bertrand for us.”

  Leroux took a sketch pad and pencil out of his leather folio and went to work.

  St. Germain, Paris

  2

  McGill and Gabbi sat at a corner table inside the famous Les Deux Magots café. A waiter delivered a citron pressé and a pain au chocolate for McGill and an expresso for Gabbi.

  Ever the gentleman, McGill sliced his chocolate croissant in two.

  “Please,” he said, “take half.”

  Gabbi sipped her drink. “I’m really not hungry.”

  “So, what’s bothering you, my decision to see this reporter?”

  “That and…” She didn’t want to say at the moment. But McGill knew.

  “You’re worried about my safety. If this guy blabs, it might bring all sorts of creeps out of the woodwork.”

  “Not just creeps. Kidnappers. Killers. L’ecumé de la terre.”

  McGill needed a moment to puzzle out the French phrase. “The scum of the earth?”

  Gabbi nodded.

  “So you’re worried about me?”

  “You’re a very attractive target. Me, they’d kill just to show they meant business.”

  “Now, that worries me. When I asked, you told me you’re discreetly armed.”

  Gabbi didn
’t respond and kept her face impassive.

  McGill said, “I’d be armed at home. I’d feel better if I had a firearm here, too. But I won’t put you on the spot by asking for one. All I can say is, I can take care of myself pretty well. And the guy we’re meeting is just a sportswriter, right?”

  “Yeah,” Gabbi said, but she still wasn’t happy.

  She’d called the U.S. Embassy to check out M’sieur Arno Durand last night. He came back clean after Gabbi had his name run through a bunch of intelligence databases, the acronyms of which she wouldn’t disclose to him. But she did tip her hand a bit when McGill asked her to check Durand’s phone records to see if she could find out who, if anyone, in the U.S. had called the reporter in the past seventy-two hours. When she came back with a number of a phone in Frederick, MD, that had called the Paris office of La Bataille de Sports only yesterday, he knew she had the juice to go to the all-hearing ear of the NSA and get an answer.

  It continued to amaze McGill, the power his wedding vows had conferred on him.

  After some more coaxing, he got his downcast companion to eat half the chocolate croissant.

  The reporter entered the café just as she swallowed the last bite. The morning was fine, and only a handful of other indoor tables were occupied. The crowd was outside. Durand found them quickly and made his way to their table. That led McGill to think Durand had gone to the trouble of finding pictures of him on the Internet. It reassured McGill that the reporter was conscientious.

  McGill stood and extended his hand.

  Durand took it and said, “A great pleasure, m’sieur.”

  The reporter didn’t use McGill’s name, nor did he ask for Gabbi’s. McGill liked that, too. He gestured Durand to a chair, and the waiter took his order for an expresso. Nobody said a word until the reporter’s coffee came and the waiter left. In the meantime, Durand looked at McGill and Gabbi, both of whom understood he was trying to determine the nature of their relationship.

  Gabbi began the conversation with a question: “You are carrying an audio recorder, m’sieur?”