The President's Henchman (16 page)

Kira followed his gaze to the Civic as she pulled out of her parking space.

“If you’re lucky, someone will steal it, and you’ll get the insurance money.”

Welborn frowned, but he was jerked back into his seat by the sportster’s acceleration before he could reply. He decided to move past his pique and get straight to the point.

“How did you find me?”

“You noted your dinner with the Quinns on your appointment calendar. Mr. Quinn told me you’d left without eating and suggested a place where I might look for you.
Voilà!”

Welborn thought that even for a beautiful, affluent, supremely well connected girl, Kira Fahey was far too pleased with herself.

“All right.
Why
did you find me?”

“Colonel Linberg called the White House and asked for you.”

“She did? What did she want?”

“Well, I’m not up on all your military jargon, but she spelled it out for me. She wanted you to know she intends to ask for a RILO. That’s all uppercase, I was told.”

There was silence in the little German coupe as Kira took the on-ramp onto Route 50 West and merged smoothly into the rain-snarled traffic heading toward Washington. Making sure no one was about to cut her off in the next second or two, she spared a glance at Welborn, who wore a look of disbelief.

“Since I came all this way to fetch you, would you care to enlighten me as to just what that means?”

“RILO means resignation in lieu of.”

“In lieu of what?”

“Court-martial. Colonel Linberg wants to give up the fight.”

“Maybe she doesn’t like the odds.”

Welborn nodded, more to himself than Kira.

“Maybe the other side’s fighting dirty,” she said.

“You think?”

“It’s possible. Look what they’re doing to you.”

Welborn said, “You mean the newspaper story?”

“That and the fact that somebody’s following us. Has been since we left that bar.”

Welborn wanted to look. At least flip down the passenger-side visor and use the vanity mirror. But he didn’t want to give himself away.

“Can you describe him?” he asked “It is a him, right?”

“Yes.” Kira checked her mirror. “The visibility’s only so-so, but I’d say he’s … a black man, medium dark, solid … maybe angry, if I’m seeing him right. Could be military. No uniform, but he has that severely groomed look, you know.”

Welborn could think of only one angry black military man who’d have any interest in him. Major Clarence Seymour. General Altman’s aide.

Kira asked, “Want me to lose him? I took a high-performance driving course.”

So had Joe Eddy, Welborn remembered. And it hadn’t been raining in Las Vegas.

He told Kira, “Stay in your lane. Drive defensively.”

The president was working late in the Oval Office when Special Agent Eb Jenkins, Celsus Crogher’s right-hand night-shift man, opened the door.

“Mr. McGill, ma’am,” he said.

The president looked up from the document she was reading.

“You’re sure it’s not Rory Calhoun?”

Special Agent Jenkins, no movie buff, offered a blank look.

“Probably not,” the president said. “I believe Mr. Calhoun left us some time ago.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He let McGill into the room.

He took a seat opposite his wife.

“You’re working all by yourself?”

“Me and the guys.” The Secret Service and the Marines guarding all interior and exterior approaches. Patti saw the tense look on McGill’s face.

“You have news,” she said. “Something you think shouldn’t wait. Please tell me it’s not the kids.”

McGill shook his head. Liked the way Patti had said
the
kids, not
your
kids. He hoped someday she’d feel comfortable saying our kids. He’d bet Lars referred to them that way.

“The kids are fine, but there are a couple of other things. One I think maybe I was a little impetuous about. The other ties into the first … but I’d have to violate a confidence to tell you.”

“A dilemma.” Patti pushed away the paper she’d been reading, sat back, and opened her arms wide. She’d listen, but only if McGill felt he could talk.

He told her about the secret Aggie Wu had shared with him and his little chat with Monty Kipp at the firing range. The ghost of a smile flitted across Patti’s face.

“I wish I had seen you shoot,” she said. “Will you show me sometime?”

McGill nodded. “You’re not upset? You don’t think I went too far?”

“From what you told me you were just cleaning your gun. You didn’t point it at Mr. Kipp or make any direct threat.”

“No, I didn’t. You’re not bothered by what he had in mind for you?”

Patti laughed. “I don’t sunbathe topless. Never have. And I don’t think anyone’s about to sneak up on me in my shower.”

“Just the thought then.”

“Some people think that way. I got used to it a long time ago. But it’s still new to you.”

“New and unwelcome.”

Patti came around her desk and sat next to her husband. Took his hand.

“I think you handled matters very well.”

“Maybe.”

She studied McGill as he wrestled with the other matter that had brought him to the Oval Office. “Jim, I’m pretty good at keeping secrets. It’s part of my job. I haven’t blabbed anything in my sleep, have I?”

“One or two things.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. We’ll have to sleep in separate bedrooms from now on.”

“Or I could wear earplugs.”

She smiled and gave him a quick kiss.

“Okay, let me start,” Patti said. “You’ve told me about Monty Kipp, you’ve said the other thing on your mind ties into that, and you’re concerned about violating a confidence. Your only client, as far as I know, is Chana Lochlan. So she’s the one who’s confidence you don’t want to violate. And she works for Kipp. Who talked about getting some illicit cheesecake shots of yours truly. So … you’re worried Kipp and Ms. Lochlan might be conniving to embarrass you, or me, in some other way?”

“I am.”

“Why? Despite the editorial slant of her employer, I believe Ms. Lochlan is a serious reporter.”

“You do?”

Patti nodded.

“And what I tell you stays between us?” McGill asked.

“We’re husband and wife. You know what that means.”

So McGill told her what Chana Lochlan’s problem was. Allegedly.

“That’s terrible.”

“You never had any stalkers while you were modeling or acting?”

“Nothing like that,” Patti said.

“Maybe Ms. Lochlan doesn’t either.”

“What do you mean?”

McGill told her about the appearance of the mysterious thong.

“It had no label, but I tracked it down to Bloomingdale’s. The general manager there was very helpful. From what she told me, I concluded that it was more likely a woman bought the thong than a man. A man, I was told, would have spent more on lingerie for his lady.”

“How much was the thong?”

“Fourteen ninety-nine.”

Patti nodded. “I think you’re right. A woman. And so?”

“So this afternoon I did a little data mining.”

“Private individuals can do that?”

“There are services on the Internet,” McGill told her. “Anytime you pay for something with a credit card, whether it’s groceries or thongs, a record is created of your purchase, and it becomes available to other merchants who want to pitch you their merchandise.”

“You’re not a merchant.”

“It’s also available to spouses or parents who want to know how spouses or offspring are spending somebody’s hard-earned money.”

“You’re not a spouse or a parent, in this case, either.”

“I lied. It’s why I go to confession every week.”

Patti knew where else McGill was going.

“Chana Lochlan bought the thong herself. The one she claims appeared so mysteriously.”

“Her Bloomingdale’s credit card did,” McGill said.

“Did she mention having lost the card?”

“No.”

“Then?”

“Then I wonder if this whole case isn’t a Monty Kipp production.”

“Me, too,” Patti said, “I’m glad you told me.”

The phone on the president’s desk rang. She picked it up.

“Yes … please escort her to the residence.” She hung up and looked at McGill. “Sweetie’s here to see you. Say hello for me, will you?”

Chana was in her home office working when the doorbell rang. She wasn’t expecting anyone. People from work didn’t drop in unannounced. Nobody did. Looking out the window, she saw it was raining harder than ever. Not likely to be a kid selling band candy out there.

She waited.

The doorbell rang again. She thought to call the cops … and tell them what?

McGill. She had his private number at the White House. He could get there fast.

But fast enough?

And what if it
was
some innocuous visitor? She’d feel like a fool.

She put her eye to the peephole in the front door just as the bell sounded a third time. She saw a familiar face standing outside, getting drenched, not seeming to mind at all. But she didn’t move until he realized she was there on the other side of the door.

And he said, “Hey, Gracie, it’s me!”

She opened the door, and Damon Todd stepped in. He picked her up in his arms, swung her around, and gave her a big kiss. He kicked the door shut.

Her heart was racing; her head was spinning. She couldn’t work out whether she was scared of this man or thrilled to see him again. She even had a hard time remembering just who she was.

Todd saw the confusion and anxiety in her eyes. He felt a momentary flicker of annoyance. A strobe flash across the brain. But it passed quickly. He smiled at her.

“Oh, Gracie, it’s only me. Sorry to show up half-naked and soaking wet, but I couldn’t wait to see you again. Don’t worry, I know just what you need to feel right again.”

He led her to her office. He knew the way. He put an arm around her shoulders, felt the firm muscle there.

“You’ve been working out, Gracie. Getting ready for me?”

“Yes.”

“You buy a new thong?”

And now she remembered.
She
had bought the thong. She always bought one before he came. This year it was time to buy a green one.

“Well, I certainly hope you’ll model it for me,” he said.

She nodded her acquiescence, but her face clouded.

“What’s wrong?” Todd asked.

Maybe she shouldn’t have gone to see McGill, she thought.

“Gracie?”

No, she
definitely
shouldn’t have gone to him. She knew that now.

She looked at Todd like a penitent little girl.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” she said.

“Patti says hello,” McGill told Sweetie.

“Back at her. How’s she doing? Holding up okay?”

“Pretty well. I wouldn’t want the job, but she seems to like it.”

They had settled themselves in McGill’s Hideaway. Every First Family was afforded the privilege of furnishing and decorating the residence to their own tastes. Patti had asked McGill for his input on the matter during the run-up to her inauguration.

He’d said, “I’m a man of simple needs. All I want is a comfortable chair, a sofa where we can snuggle, and plenty of reading light.” A genie couldn’t have done a better job of wish fulfillment.

McGill sat in his huge dark brown leather chair. It was so sensuously comfortable the nuns from his parochial school days would have considered it sinful. Sweetie sat on the equally luxurious sofa where McGill and Patti liked to hold each other close, but the fireplace they spent hours gazing at was cold. The lighting was fine for either reading or conversation.

The president had given McGill’s Hideaway its name. McGill liked the room so much he thought he might come back someday as a ghost and take up permanent residence.

There was a soft knock at the door, and Gawayne Blessing, the White House head butler, one of the six butlers the place had, entered carrying a silver tray bearing two tall frosted glasses of ice tea. Best ice tea in the world, as far as McGill was concerned.

He’d called the order in barely two minutes ago.

“Ms. Sweeney,” Blessing said, serving her, “how nice to see you again.”

“Thanks, Gawayne. I spoke to Bishop Dempsey. He’s saying a novena for your sister.”

Sweetie’s words almost pierced the butler’s professional demeanor. His eyes flickered with anxiety, but the moment of personal feeling was so brief McGill wondered if he hadn’t imagined it. He also wondered how Sweetie had learned anything of Blessing’s family and why the butler’s sister needed the prayers of a bishop.

“Thank you, Ms. Sweeney.” He turned to McGill. “Your ice tea, sir.”

“Thank you, Blessing.” McGill always had to be careful when addressing the head butler that he didn’t lapse into a faux-British accent. His life and times had prepared him for many things, but properly relating to one’s butler wasn’t one of them.

“Will there be anything else, sir?”

“Sweetie?”

“I’m fine.”

“Me, too.”

“Very well, sir.” Blessing took his leave.

And McGill gave Sweetie a questioning look.

“Gawayne’s sister is undergoing a kidney transplant soon. His younger brother is the donor. He’s torn up that it can’t be him, but his blood and tissue are incompatible.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“You already have.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, Bishop D’s a good guy, and he likes me well enough, but adding your name to the request for the novena put it over the top.”

McGill grinned and shook his head.

“Gawayne and his family are all Baptists, but he said anyone asking Jesus to lend a hand would be fine with him.”

“And just when did you meet?” McGill wanted to know.

“That first time you and Patti had me over to dinner. I got here early. Gawayne made me feel welcome, and we got to talking.”

McGill nodded, unsurprised. He sipped his ice tea. It was flavored with a hint of strawberry that night. The elves in the kitchen always managed to surprise him in some pleasant way. Fighting the battle against being spoiled under the White House roof was an uphill proposition.

“How did things go in Gambier, Ohio?” he asked.

“Eamon Lochlan was out of town. I didn’t miss him by much. He’s due back on Monday. I can go back if you want me to.”

“Tell me what you learned.”

“You mean, do I have you sponsoring a novena for anyone else?”

“Exactly.”

“No, but I did talk to a neighbor.” Sweetie sipped her ice tea and smiled. “They ought to bottle this stuff.”

“I suggested that. I got a polite note back from the kitchen, basically said thanks for the idea but don’t hold your breath. So what did the neighbor have to say?”

“Her name is Harriet Greenlea. She’s eighty-four years old. Reads without glasses. Can hear her cat walking across her carpet. Very little escapes her notice.”

McGill grinned. “Does she keep dossiers?”

“Yeah. All in her head.”

“Let’s start with the missing mom.”

“Marianne. Like dad, a full professor at the university. Onetime professor, anyway. Left the school, the town, and her family when she was passed over for the chair of the Women’s Studies Department. She’d taught a course called Theories on the Construction of the Liberated Woman.”

“How old was Chana when Mom left?”

“Nineteen. Just back from her freshman year at UCLA. A choice of schools that didn’t sit well with Mom. Marianne wanted her daughter to go to the Ivy League. Or better yet, the Sorbonne. Somewhere she could be on the ramparts of the feminist struggle. Instead, she went to L.A. and played softball.”

“Sounds liberated to me. Like she had her own theory.”

Sweetie grinned.

“How about Dad?” McGill asked.

“The good guy, Harriet said. Tolerated his wife’s ‘foolishness’ for far too long. The class he teaches falls under the rubric of World Literature. He wrote a book called
The Pen and the Hangman: The Voices of Oppressed Peoples.
It’s a collection of short biographies, writers from around the world who risked their freedom and sometimes their lives to tell their stories.”

McGill connected a couple of dots, which Sweetie took for looking thoughtful.

“What?” she asked.

“Chana Lochlan told me she wants to be another Bill Moyers someday. Said she has a list of projects she wants to do. I bet one of them is bringing her father’s book to television. Maybe even have him narrate. I’d also bet Chana was Daddy’s girl right from the start. Which would have made it easier for Mom to leave.”

Sweetie nodded.

“What about her sister?” McGill asked. “What’s she doing?”

“She died at age three, childhood leukemia, before Chana was born.”

McGill winced. Stories like that always hit him hard. They conjured fears of some god-awful fate overtaking one of his kids. The same beseeching prayer always leaped to mind:
Me first, Lord. Take me and spare my children. Please.

“How soon afterward was Chana born?” he asked.

“Ten months.”

“Replacement child.” A thought occurred to McGill. “What was the sister’s first name?”

“Nanette.”

“I’ll have to look that up.”

“I already did,” Sweetie told him. “It means grace.”

“Nan and Chana. Grace and graceful. Full of grace. I wonder if Chana’s parents were aware of what they were doing.”

“Harriet didn’t have that information.”

The direction the conversation had taken led McGill to a subject far closer to home. “How are
my
kids?” he asked Sweetie.

“Kenny’s writing a TV show featuring himself as the youngest Secret Service agent ever; Caitie’s still pretty sure the sun rises as her personal spotlight; Abbie … Abbie could use a visit.”

“Yeah,” McGill nodded. “Carolyn and the gun?”

“Your peacenik ex is a natural deadeye.”

“Could she pull the trigger?”

“To save your kids? No doubt.”

“The security’s good?”

“Yeah. Some of it’s intentionally visible to scare off anybody with a brain. Some of it is very subtle. Everybody’s totally committed, playing well with others, and armed to the teeth.”

“Good,” McGill said.

“You still want to be there, don’t you?”

“I will be. Just as soon as I can.”

Kira Fahey lived in a fifteen-story condo building just off Connecticut Avenue. She’d wanted the penthouse apartment, but her mother had insisted that she live no higher than the fifth floor, she told Welborn with a bit of a pout.

“So the fire department can reach you with their ladders,” he said.

“Yes.”

He turned back to look out the window at which he was standing.

“You still have a nice view of Rock Creek Park.”

She came over to stand next to him.

“Not as nice as it could be.”

He looked at her. “Have you always been spoiled?”

She looked back, and said, “Not as much as I’d like to be.”

Kira left him to sit on a nearby love seat. A mimosa waited for her on an end table. “My father died in a hotel fire when I was six.”

A flute of champagne without the citrus awaited Welborn should he care to join her. He did. “Can’t blame your mother for being worried.”

“I can’t, but I do anyway. Something you should know about me, I’m not a very nice person at all.”

“I saw that right away,” Welborn said.

Then he smiled, probably saving himself from getting a mimosa in the kisser.

Kira didn’t return the smile, but she kept talking. “Once I understood that my father wasn’t coming back, I begged my mother to get me a new daddy. She said not just anyone could take my father’s place, and I agreed wholeheartedly. I wanted someone just as good as my old daddy. Better if possible. My mother promised if she ever found anyone that good, she’d bring him right home.” She drained her drink. “Mother’s never remarried.”

Kira got up, went to the kitchen, and made herself another mimosa. She brought the bottle back with her and topped off the millimeter Welborn had sipped from his glass.

“What about you?” she asked. “What’s your story?”

Welborn felt sure someone like Kira would have learned of his friends’ deaths by then. So what she was asking for, he assumed, was more in the way of an overall biography. Much to his surprise, he found that he didn’t mind talking about himself in a way he’d revealed to few others.

“My mother never married,” he said.

“You bastard.”

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

“Is there some lurid Southern Gothic tale behind all this?” Kira asked.

“More of an English mystery. My mother was an early female Rhodes Scholar. Came back from Oxford with a fancy education and me in the oven.”

“That’s even more delicious.” Kira snuggled up against him. “You’re the illegitimate heir of some prestigious don.”

Welborn sighed. “Think a little higher.”

Kira blinked, didn’t come up with the answer immediately.

“Blue blood,” he hinted.

She slapped his arm. “You’re making this up.”

“Okay,” he said. He drank his champagne and refilled his glass.

“You’re not?”

“All my mother will tell me is that my father is a lovely gentleman with other obligations. But my aunt, mother’s elder sister, has dropped a hint or two over the years.”

Kira studied his face. Shook her head. “I don’t see the resemblance.”

“Not that crowd around the throne,” he said. “A cousin several rungs down the succession ladder is what I’ve been told.”

She stared at him some more. Searching for any sign of deceit.

“Could all be an elaborate joke,” he said. “Then again, Mother could have named me Bob.”

“And not
Welborn,”
Kira said, completing the thought. “You’re getting me excited, even if this is all a game.”

He kissed her. Chastely on the forehead. Saw she’d clearly expected more.

“We better switch to milk and cookies,” he said. “I think Major Seymour has probably grown tired of waiting for me by now.”

Welborn gently disengaged himself and stood up.

“Still going to let me borrow your other car?” he asked. Just in case the major was still lurking, Kira had said he could borrow her “work” car, a Jeep Cherokee.

“Are you falling in love with Colonel Linberg?” she asked.

Kira’s question came out of the blue. Or maybe out of the misapprehension that she was about to lose out on a bastard Americanized military-gumshoe royal to another woman. Welborn had the grace to keep a straight face. And to give her a straight answer. “I was infatuated, maybe. Until I started to think better of it. Now I just want to make sure she gets a fair shake.”

“But if she’s going to resign …”

“That request hasn’t been granted yet.”

“Well, how do things look for her?”

Discussing an investigation with unauthorized personnel was taboo; that had been drummed into him time and again at Glynco. On the other hand, the president herself had said Kira was his liaison. And Kira was lending him her car, aiding him in his work.

His classroom training hadn’t anticipated such situations.

He told her, “This morning and afternoon, I interviewed eight military officers and two civilians who worked with both Colonel Linberg and Captain Cowan. All ten of them told me they knew the captain was married and separated, not divorced. None of them could specifically remember sharing that information with Colonel Linberg.”