by Joseph Flynn
“Done.”
McGill smiled inwardly. In the old days, he’d have asked for a cup of coffee and a brownie. Walking through the house on the way to the cellar made him think of the future not the past. The scale of the rooms and the quality of the furnishings would have wowed him, had he not spent the past six-plus years in the country’s most famous residence. The tone of the star’s home was decidedly masculine but understated. Everything from the lighting fixtures to the hand-woven rugs exhibited not just craftsmanship but a subtle artistry.
Just passing through was an exercise in visual indulgence.
McGill wondered if living there would be enough to overwhelm his senses.
For the first time, he was also forced to think of what kind of place he and Patti would soon call home. His house in Evanston had seemed fine when he’d been a bachelor father police chief, helping to raise his three children. It was homey, safe and the roof didn’t leak.
Now, it struck him as humble, to be kind about it, suitable for someone … who hadn’t changed more than he ever would have imagined possible. Good God, was he becoming a … no, he wasn’t a snob. But he also wasn’t the man he used to be.
Patti still owned the lakefront mansion in Winnetka where she had lived with Andy Grant. Only Andy had been blown to bits there. And later McGill had thrown Damon Todd out a window there, just before that particular madman could detonate another explosive device. McGill didn’t think either he or Patti would consider it a peaceful place to revisit.
So where would they go?
Before he could begin to grope for an answer, he saw he’d entered a cellar that looked like it belonged to a chateau in France — and perhaps it had been imported board by board, barrel by barrel. A table for two had been set up. An open bottle of wine, a basket of fruit, a tray of chocolates, two glasses, and plates and silverware had been placed on a tablecloth as radiantly white as a newborn’s soul.
The movie star gestured to McGill to take the seat of his choice.
Before he sat, the star said, “I’d be pleased to offer your special agents something non-alcoholic to drink if they’d like.”
Elspeth answered for herself and Deke. “Thank you, but no. I’ll need to stand watch where I can see Mr. McGill. Special Agent Ky, I think, will need to wait upstairs. I’m not getting any cell signal down here. We have to stay in touch with the outside world. You have any signal, Special Agent?”
Deke shook his head.
“See what you can get at the top of the stairs. Stay as close as you can.”
Deke nodded and left.
She hadn’t seen any sign the star had a weapon on him. Said a silent prayer all would be well and stepped back as far as she could while keeping Holmes in sight.
Left to themselves, the star sat opposite McGill and told him, “Before we get down to business, I just want to say I’d appreciate it if you’d tell the president I’ve always supported her and think what’s going on in Washington now is politics at its absolute worst.”
McGill didn’t see anything but sincerity in the man’s face, but then he was an accomplished actor. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, though, he nodded and said thank you.
The star also gave McGill a conversational opening. “Is your visit today about Mira Kersten and me?”
“It is, but why would you think that?”
“Well, I assume you’re in town on business not pleasure or you’d be back in DC standing at the president’s side. Since you’re here and you want to speak with me, I had to ask myself why that would be. The only unusual thing happening in my life is that I’m going to become a father for the first time.”
The star had a reputation for being intelligent, shrewd enough to negotiate some of the most favorable contracts an onscreen talent in Hollywood had ever known. That was how he paid for a home like this one, and he had another that was supposed to be even grander in Italy. McGill did his homework, too.
“You’re right,” he said, “it is about Ms. Kersten. She hired me to locate some missing property — if she hasn’t already told you.”
The icon took a moment to think about that.
“You mean our embryo?” he asked. “That’s the only possession we hold in common. Well, that and the child she’s carrying.”
McGill said, “One child in the process of gestation, another possibly awaiting the same development. Seems like quite a significant connection.”
The host poured wine for each of them and took a sip from his glass.
“So the embryo is missing.” He sipped his wine and watched as McGill nodded. Having gotten the answer to his question, he said, “Damn.”
“I’d feel the same way,” McGill replied. “It’s not nearly as bad as a kidnapping, but it’s a first step toward feeling that way.”
“Yes, it is. I’m surprised Mira didn’t tell me.”
“I was hired to get all her embryos back.”
The star looked at McGill with a new degree of interest.
“All of them? There are others?”
McGill nodded, and his host’s attitude shifted to the philosophical.
It wasn’t like Mira was the only woman in his life.
“Do you think you’ll get them back?” he asked McGill.
“I think there’s a chance, maybe even a good chance. The thief has asked for ransom so it’s even money he’s preserved the embryos. Ms. Kersten says she doesn’t have the compensation that’s being demanded but I think she might have an idea of who does.”
“Why do you think that?”
“It’s a political thing, what the thief wants, a document. She’d have a better idea than I would as to who might be holding the ransom item. What I need to know is how motivated Ms. Kersten might be to see that a deal is worked out. I’d think she would want to see the embryo the two of you made returned, but if she’s already pregnant by you that motivation might not be quite so strong.”
The star emptied his glass and poured more wine for himself.
McGill took the first sip from his glass.
“Mira and I are friends,” the star said. “We share the same politics, we enjoy talking with one another, making plans to help the world, as we see things. Sometimes our ideas are practical, other times they’re fanciful. Occasionally, they’re hilarious. We make each other laugh.”
“But you don’t think of making your relationship formal?” McGill asked.
“You mean getting married? No. Neither of us even brought up the subject.”
McGill declined to comment.
The star offered him a famous smile. “I know you’ve been married twice, and you do look like Rory Calhoun, so I’m sure you’ve had other opportunities to form, shall we say, lasting relationships. But you probably haven’t had the weight on you of knowing there are millions of women in the world who think they’d like to spend their lives with you simply because of what they’ve seen on movie screens.”
“No,” McGill said. “Sounds scary.”
“It is. Definitely makes you cautious. One of the things I like about Mira is she never pushed herself at me. We met at a political fundraiser, ate dinner at the same table, had a great conversation and said good night with a simple handshake.”
“Must’ve been a relief for you,” McGill said.
“A breath of fresh air. Our mutual political interests led our paths to cross again on a number of occasions, and one night I invited her back here. The moment I did, I began to regret it, thinking my motives might be misinterpreted. Mira behaved like a perfect lady.”
“Didn’t assault you?” McGill asked with a grin.
The star laughed. “To tell you the truth, I was a bit insulted. Wondered if I was losing my looks and would be reduced to playing character roles in the future. Anyway, I was the one who brought up the idea of what a child with the two of us as parents would be like.”
“But you didn’t think of just doing things the usual way,” McGill said.
“Not just then. I think it was a pe
rverse effect of being exposed to so many stunning women in the course of my work. I just didn’t feel stimulated that way with Mira at the time. I mean, she’s quite a nice looking woman, but … Well, how do you view other women after being married to Patricia Grant?”
McGill blinked. He’d never really thought of things that way.
“You mean there are other women?” he asked.
“Exactly. I’ve read you get along famously with your ex-wife, but whatever feelings you may still hold for her, I imagine they’re not the same as the ones you have for the president.”
McGill said, “No, they’re not.”
“Well, that’s how I felt about Mira. Only I could see having a child with her. She’s a wonderful person.”
“But you did impregnate her the old-fashioned way.”
“Yes, I did. That was … timing, I guess. It was unplanned, but everything just felt right that particular night.”
McGill took another sip of wine. His next few questions were not going to be easy to ask. His host anticipated him, relieving him of the burden.
“If you’re wondering whether Mira wants any child support, she hasn’t. She’s never asked for or even hinted at requiring any kind of material offering. That’s been quite pleasant, too. When she told me she was pregnant, she said I could play any role I wanted in the child’s life: starring, bit part or none at all.”
“She told me the same thing. Have you made up your mind?”
“I’ve thought of little else recently but, no, I haven’t decided. May I ask how you felt when your wife told you that she was pregnant?”
McGill smiled. “The first time? I swept her up into my arms and …” He paused to remember. “That was probably the most memorable kiss of my marriage to Carolyn.”
His host frowned and sighed. “I kissed Mira’s cheek. I should have done better.”
McGill didn’t comment on that. Instead, he asked, “Has Mira’s pregnancy had any effect on how you feel about the embryo the two of you created?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is it more or less valuable to you with one child already on the way?”
“You know, I actually did think about that. I thought if the first kid turns out great, it would be foolish not to do another.”
Just like a movie sequel, McGill thought, but didn’t say so.
“You have three children,” the star said, “what’s your experience been?”
“Each one is more challenging, but you also have more experience to see you through. For me, maybe I’ve been lucky, but each of my children has further enriched my life.”
“I can see that,” the star said with a nod. “I can definitely see that.”
McGill decided he had seen and heard all he needed. Mira Kersten had conducted as subtle a seduction as he’d ever known. She’d landed one of the biggest names in show business and the guy still didn’t have a clue that he’d been hooked. She hadn’t asked for a dime, but McGill would bet she’d be compensated to the tune of millions. For the kids’ needs, of course, but also for being the mother of the star’s children.
He and Mira might never marry. Neither of them might ever want that. But they’d always be the best of friends. Oh, well, McGill thought. Who was he to judge? He and Carolyn thought they’d always be together, and that didn’t happen. They both found new mates to whom they were better suited.
They’d both taken good care of their children.
And they were still very good friends.
For the star’s part of their bargain, he wanted McGill to consider being the set-up man for a cop show the star was considering doing on a premium cable TV channel. McGill would appear at the beginning of each episode and explain how a particular crime normally occurred and synopsize how the investigation might go. Then at the end he would summarize how things could fool even the savviest of detectives.
“So, really, you wouldn’t have to do any acting,” the star told McGill. “You’d just have to be yourself and narrate some fact-based exposition. I’ve seen you speak on television and I’m sure you’re more than up to the job. Do you have any plans for when you and the president leave the White House?”
“I’m thinking of expanding my private investigations business,” McGill admitted. “Might even open an office out here.”
The star beamed, “That’d be perfect. You could do each job without neglecting the other.”
In the fashion of show biz, McGill’s host wanted to discuss monetary terms, but McGill held up a hand. “Before we get into any of that, I think I’d like to look at a script or two and see what the writing is like. Might help to know who you have in mind for the cast, too.”
The star laughed in good humor and gave McGill a three-clap round of applause.
“You’re sounding like a producer already. You’ll probably be talking about an equity position next.”
Before they could talk about anything else, Deke reappeared.
He had Sweetie with him.
One look told McGill something big had happened.
Santa Monica, California
John Tall Wolf did what would be unimaginable for most Angelenos: He took public transit from downtown L.A. to Santa Monica. He made the trip on the Rapid 10 Express Big Blue Bus. A light rail line linking the two points was due to open next year, but just then the bus was the way to go if you didn’t want to drive. Not driving was an aberrant idea for most Southern Californians. With the ever growing crush of traffic and the expansion of public transit, though, attitudes were beginning to shift.
For two dollars, Tall Wolf thought it was a bargain to let someone else fight traffic.
The view from the bus window also gave him a better vantage point to survey his surroundings. He’d been to Los Angeles before on business, but he’d never really gotten a feel for the place. Riding the bus, looking things over, he came to a new understanding.
Los Angeles, he decided, was the victim of its own natural beauty. The landscape was gorgeous: mountains, hills, and a desert turned verdant by imported water. The air was warm, soft and dry. The smog could be problematic, but on that particular day a steady breeze was pushing exhaust emissions elsewhere.
The main drawback was too many people wanted to take advantage of what looked like, at first, easy living. Overcrowding brought its own hardships. Competition for homes and apartments pushed housing costs to surreal levels. Providing public services to the largest state population in the country demanded high taxes. At the most fundamental level, the city, like the rest of California, was running short of water.
There were work-arounds for a lot of problems.
Insufficient water, though, was one that seemed insurmountable.
Tall Wolf got off the bus at 2nd Street and stopped for an ice cream cone at a shop on Ocean Avenue. He took his treat across the street to Palisades Park and sat on a bench looking out at the Pacific. Maybe, he thought, desalination was the answer to the water shortage. He didn’t know enough about the technological challenges of that to say for sure.
If purifying sea water did prove to be the solution, he could see the state becoming even more crowded and expensive. Ultimately, the advantages of living in a desirable place would cross lines with the frustrations brought on by congestion and the population would recede. That or the long overdue arrival of The Big One, the monster earthquake that had been predicted for decades, would kill thousands, send even more packing and scare off an unguessable number of people from ever coming.
In the meantime, Tall Wolf had to concede, the place did have its appeal.
He took out his phone and called Jeremy Macklin, the online publisher of The Scandal Sheet, who was currently hiding out on the Northern Apache reservation in New Mexico.
“Let me call you right back,” Macklin said. He did so in a matter of seconds. “I’m using a burner phone now.” One that couldn’t be traced to him. He gave Tall Wolf its number.
“Everything okay?” Tall Wolf asked.
“Y
eah, no storm troopers kicking down my door, and the cabin I’m using is surprisingly comfortable. Looking at the bigger picture, I’m impressed by the resources available to the community at large out here. L.A. should do so well.”
Tall Wolf told him, “The rez has some signed contracts in place with Big Energy to tap their natural gas resources. Some friends and I made sure that they got a good deal and the environmental impact will be kept to a minimum.”
“What’re you saying,” Macklin asked, “the bad guys didn’t come out on top? I’m out of business if that shit keeps up.”
Tall Wolf laughed. “Maybe you can find a teaching job out there.”
“You joke, but let me tell you, I’ve already found two kids working on the school paper who are natural writers, a boy and a girl. I’m having a hell of time trying to encourage their talents, though, when I know there are fewer people reading newspapers every day.”
“Just go easy on the cynicism and let them fight their own battles.”
“Yeah, I suppose. But being the skeptic I am, my guess is you didn’t call just to say hello. So what do you want?”
“You still keeping in touch with your sources here in L.A.?”
“Yeah, your cousin Arnoldo has been investing in communications. There’s good cell service here, satellite TV and computer connectivity, too. Let me guess, you’re looking for anything that might have Mira Kersten’s name attached.”
“You must’ve been a pretty good reporter,” Tall Wolf said.
“Still am. Okay, I suppose I owe you something for finding me a place to hide. Here’s something I just learned. Might not seem like much to most people, but in L.A. terms it is. Ms. Kersten has left her old talent agency, a respectable but middle-tier place, for one the biggest, hottest shops in the country.”
Macklin provided a company name that even Tall Wolf recognized.
The BIA Co-director drew the proper inference. “Something big is in the wind for the lady?”
“You got it. Thing is, there’s no apparent reason for why Mira Kersten was taken on as a client. That means it’s a case of know-who. Somebody with a lot of juice is behind her good fortune. I believe we discussed that possibility back in Santa Monica.”