The Echo of the Whip (15 page)

White House Chief of Staff Galia Mindel’s house sat in one of the capital’s highest-end neighborhoods, and had what was sometimes known in real estate parlance as a media room: a place where even the largest of flat screen televisions wouldn’t seem out of scale. The space had been constructed for the children of the original owner as a small theater, complete with a stage.

The stage had made way for HD productions of ever denser arrays of pixels. The old plush velvet seats had yielded to sleek leather designs. As before, though, there were parking spaces for sixty derrieres.

Galia stood at a lectern up front as her guests filed into the room. Her deputy chief of staff greeted the arrivals. He’d also overseen the security arrangements. Galia had reached into the private sector to keep the guests and her property safe that evening. No government cops would be on hand, and the only people in the room would be the parties directly involved.

Herself and the forty-six senators who would decide the president’s political fate.

James J. McGill had asked her if she had a plan to save Patricia Grant from her political enemies. With just a look, she’d assured him she did. In a matter of moments, she was about to execute a part of the strategy she had in mind.

Until that morning, she had two unresolved questions in mind concerning the meeting that was about to take place. Should she invite only the fourteen Democratic senators who would be up for reelection in 2016 or the whole caucus? And what time of day should she hold the meeting?

She chose to invite every Democratic senator, thinking it would be better for all of them to see how ruthless a discipline was about to be enforced from above. She was pleased that not a single one of the senators had tried to beg off. They were already anxious about what they might hear.

She also decided on an after-office-hours time for the gathering so nobody would have the press of business as a convenient excuse for not coming. Beyond that, she wanted them to carry her words fresh in their minds as they lay down in bed that night. She hoped to inspire more than a few nightmares. The truly awful ones that would conjure images of the ends of political careers and the beginnings of prison sentences.

Galia’s deputy, who’d been keeping a running head count even as Galia watched the seats fill, gave her a thumbs-up, stepped out and closed the door behind him. Nobody was left standing at the back of the room. The senators had heeded Galia’s instructions, and nobody had tried to slip a senior staffer or two in with him or her. They’d been told that what she had to say was for their ears only.

Galia wasted no time with small talk.

“You are the people who will decide how Patricia Grant’s presidency will be remembered. I’m one of the two people who will decide, in no small measure, how each of you will be remembered. The other person will be Jean Morrissey, our vice president.”

At the back of the room, the junior senator from Georgia, Randall Pennyman, got to his feet and called out, “Bullshit. To hell with you, Galia, if you think you’re going to scare me into doing what you say.”

Galia had anticipated someone might take an immediate stance of confrontation.

In fact, she was counting on it.

In a monotone freighted with menace, Galia said, “It’s been nice knowing you, Senator.”

Already on his way to the door, Pennyman’s step faltered. He stopped and saw Galia staring daggers at him. Every eye in the room focused on him. He leaned back slightly in the direction of his seat. Then he realized how bad it would look for him to sit back down. He would literally have been put in his place. He’d brand himself as a man who could be cowed.

Problem was, Pennyman had remembered too late how it was he had sneaked into office as a Democrat in a deep red state. On the eve of the election, the news broke that his opponent, a married man, would soon become an out-of-wedlock father, with a first cousin, and had tried to get her to end the pregnancy. When he got to Washington, Pennyman had quietly joked with Galia that she must have arranged that.

Galia had nothing to do with the illicit romance, but she had found out about a closely held secret and let the news leak at just the right time. Looking at Galia now, he realized that she was the person most responsible for his being elected. He started to skulk back to his seat.

Before he could get there, though, Galia said, “Too late.”

Pennyman realized he’d just been made an example. There was nothing left for him to do but leave the room. He mustered the grit to do that without trying to plead for mercy.

Once he was gone and Galia’s deputy had re-closed the door, she looked at her remaining guests. “I guess my reputation for being a scary broad has some merit. But if you want to know where your real political danger lies, look to Vice President Jean Morrissey. She told me, and asked me to pass the word along to all of you, that she considers the House’s impeachment to be a declaration of war against the president.

“This will be two Democratic presidents in a row the other side has impeached. It’s not hard to imagine voters coming to think there’s no point in voting for a progressive politician to be president if the other side controls Congress because he or she will be impeached. The vice president is not going to stand for that. She’s going to fight back hard. The members of the armed services committees in both the House and the Senate are going to be investigated back to their moments of conception. Indictments are anticipated.

“You’ve probably already suspected as much, but here’s what all of you should keep in mind. The vice president has told me to inform you that she feels we can’t have a viable two-party system if progressive members run for cover at the first perceived threat to their own seats. You are, of course, free to vote your consciences, but if you vote against the president for political self-interest … well, let’s hope
you
haven’t stepped across any legal lines.

“Because, if you have, the chances are you’ll also be hearing from the Department of Justice. And while the FBI may not know everyone’s dirty little secrets in this town, I pretty much do. You and Senator Pennyman have just seen how ruthless I can be.

“If anyone here tonight votes to convict President Grant, I won’t be happy, and neither will you.”

Midnight approached and the secure wing of the hospital was quiet.

Joan Renshaw was alone in her private room. The nurse on duty had checked on her only moments earlier. Her vitals were stable and she appeared to be resting as comfortably as … any other piece of furniture in the room.

Only the slight rise and fall of respiration differentiated her.

Until Joan opened her eyes. There was no scheme behind the timing of that, no secret plan for an escape about to be launched. Her lids simply opened. She looked straight ahead, to her right and left and then back to center. Then her lids closed again.

The whole sequence was over in seconds.

It would have been the easiest thing in the world to miss.

Only there were video cameras focused on this patient 24/7.

They caught the event and were programmed to alert the staff.

L.A. was the kind of place, most times, where only the tourists ever thought to pester the celebrities with inane requests for autographs and photos. The locals, people who’d been around a couple years or more, were too cool for such nonsense. People who’d actually been
born
in town kept hoping for the arrival of some new sort of natural disaster that would displace every immigrant who hadn’t been in the city at least as long as the Dodgers had — since 1958.

None of the local folkways, however, kept almost every patron in the diner on Sunset Boulevard from peering at the large group having breakfast at the shoved-together tables in the back corner of the joint, a few feet from the swinging doors to the kitchen. The public attention became so persistent and obvious that management brought out folding screens that formed a visual barrier and helped to muffle voices.

Special Agent Deke Ky stood watch to discourage anyone from creeping too close to eavesdrop or commit a more nefarious act.

“Probably should have ordered room service,” McGill said. “I thought people were more sophisticated around here.”

“They are,” Detective Zapata said, “if all they have to deal with is movie or music stars.”

“But a retired cop turned PI gives them goosebumps?” McGill asked.

“You know better than that,” Detective MacDuff said.

McGill did. People fixated on him that morning because he was married to the president, and she was fighting for her political life and legacy. Add in the fact that he was sitting among a group of people who all looked like they were carrying guns — and they were — and it would have been suspicious if someone wasn’t looking their way.

The two LAPD cops were enjoying McGill’s discomfort. They were both Angelenos by birth. Would be happy to see McGill climb aboard the first plane leaving LAX.

He wasn’t about to indulge them.

McGill told the detectives, “I thought it would only be good manners to introduce the new visitors to town to the local cops working the fertility clinic robbery investigation. I guess from now on I’ll just email you any updates.”

“You know our email addresses?” Zapata asked, a note of suspicion in his voice, as if McGill had been snooping on them.

He shook his head. “I’ll just send any bulletins in care of the chief of police.”

Reminding them of the pull he had.

As if the arrival of the two new women, a Secret Service big shot and McGill’s PI partner, hadn’t made it clear they weren’t going to be able to muscle him. They’d been wracking their brains trying to find some angle that would let them do just that. Now, it looked hopeless.

The best they could do now was try to ignore McGill.

Find the asshole who had burgled the fertility clinic before he did. Only they were coming to think McGill’s resources were probably a lot greater than theirs. The guy probably had half the federal government behind him. He’d get the answers first and they’d look like mopes to everyone in the LAPD.

Neither of the detectives liked the situation confronting them.

But they couldn’t do dick about it.

Except not let the SOB pretend he was a good guy who wanted to be their friend. They’d declined his offer to buy them breakfast, accepting only a cup of coffee each. Which they hadn’t touched.

The new Secret Service broad, Kendry, was giving them the evil eye. It was a pretty good one, too, they’d later come to agree. She looked like she had some foreign blood, maybe Middle Eastern, and would happily slit their throats if they tried to get up in McGill’s face.

The other woman, the big, good-looking blonde, Sweeney, looked like she’d be a handful, too, if they tried to enforce their role as the primary investigators in this damn case. If all that wasn’t bad enough, and it was, Zapata and MacDuff had done their due diligence on McGill himself.

The bastard knew how to take care of himself in a fight. They’d watched the YouTube videos of him kicking that militia dimwit’s ass on the National Mall. Walking right up to the guy and his armed rabble and planting the SOB in the grass like he was some snot-nosed kid.

Zapata got to his feet and MacDuff followed.

“Thanks for the introductions,” Zapata said. “We’ll await any future news on further troop movements. You know, when we’re not trying to solve the crime that interests all of us.”

“I’d be perfectly happy if you did,” McGill told him. “I’m not looking to take any credit here.”

Both of the LAPD detectives offered smirks of disbelief. Headed out without saying goodbye. Elspeth Kendry stood and said, “I’ll walk the gentlemen out, have a word with them.”

McGill thought to object, but decided not to.

He looked at Sweetie and John Tall Wolf, both of whom had remained silent throughout the meeting. Tall Wolf told McGill, “I don’t think they believed your message of good will.”

McGill sighed. “Me either. How about you, Margaret?”

“I used to think we’d cornered the market on cynics in Washington, but apparently not.”

Tall Wolf got to his feet and extended a hand to Sweetie. “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Shady. I think I’ll go make sure SAC Kendry isn’t terrifying the locals.”

Zapata and MacDuff weren’t quaking in their Prada loafers, but they were on the receiving end of a blunt message from Elspeth. “You guys are assholes.”

Before Zapata could reply, Elspeth shook her head.

“Just shut up and listen or you’ll find out how miserable I can make your lives. My only job in this town is to make sure Mr. McGill stays alive and well. He tried to be a nice guy with you just now. He honestly doesn’t care about claiming any credit here. If you’d just been polite, and he was the one to solve this case, he would have handed all the credit to you two jackasses. He still won’t look for the limelight. But none of that matters to me. What does matter is if by some misbegotten chance he and you get into a shooting situation with some bad guys, you two will
not
draw your weapons. If I see you attempt to do so —”

That was too much for Zapata. “What? You think —”

“I
know
you don’t like the man. So what I’m saying is, if things get hairy, you two pricks don’t do anything but duck and cover.”

“Bullshit,” MacDuff said. “This is our town. You don’t tell us —”

“I’ll tell you this right now. You fire your weapons and, say, Mr. McGill
accidentally
gets hit by friendly fire, Special Agent Ky and I will make sure you bastards don’t leave the scene alive. You got that?”

“I know I’d take it as gospel,” John Tall Wolf said.

Nobody had noticed his arrival. His imposing size and affirmation of Elspeth’s position told both cops further argument would not be a good idea. They looked at each other and all but growled.

“Fucking feds,” Zapata said. He stomped off as noisily as you can in $800 loafers.

MacDuff followed, shoulders hunched, both hands clenched.

Tall Wolf glanced at Elspeth. “I wouldn’t want your job.”

“I’m beginning to have my own doubts,” she said.

“I’d vote for you,” McGill told Sweetie. He’d picked up the tab for the meals that had been ordered and had left a substantial tip. At the moment, he and Sweetie were finishing their breakfasts and Deke was enforcing their privacy. “Only I’m going to do my damnedest to get Patti to move far from Washington.”

When Sweetie had arrived that morning with Elspeth, McGill had been surprised to see her. Elspeth, too, to a lesser degree. It had been easy for him to infer that Patti had sent the chief of her own security detail because she trusted Elspeth to do a better job than anyone else, save Deke. McGill wasn’t surprised, though, to hear that his long-time friend and colleague in police and investigative work was leaving that part of her life behind. He knew Sweetie still held herself responsible for Erna Godfrey’s death. He’d tried to disabuse her of taking the rap for that, but he knew, in the end, she was the one who’d have to make peace with herself.

The idea, though, that she wanted to go into politics, that did catch him off guard.

Until Sweetie explained that she saw it as a move into public service.

With anyone else, save Patti, he’d have seen public service as a euphemism. For Margaret Mary Sweeney Shady, he saw it as a vow. She would work for the well-being of the people she represented. She probably hadn’t realized it yet but most of the people living in her neighborhood were already pretty well set up, i.e. monied and connected.

Well, it wasn’t his place to burst any bubbles. Sweetie would likely soon understand that she’d need to cast a wider net to help the less fortunate. Become mayor of DC? McGill could picture that.

Sweetie had her own speculative thoughts.

“Have you thought about where you and Patti might live next?” she asked.

McGill raised his hands and let them fall. “Don’t know. Abbie’s going to graduate from Georgetown in a couple months. Kenny, God love him, just heard from Stanford saying he’s been admitted.”

Sweetie beamed and slapped McGill’s shoulder. “That’s great. That was an amazing essay he wrote about getting a second chance at life. Brought tears to my eyes.”

McGill nodded. “Mine, too. So did the way he raised his grades and test scores. Anyway, that’s two out of three kids who’ll be well launched.”

“And Caitie? She’s still intent on conquering show biz?”

“Yeah, but not in the way we all thought.”

“What’s new?”

“You ever hear of
La Fémis?
”

“No.”

“It’s also known as
L’École Nationale Supérieure des Métiers de l’Image et du Son.
”

“Okay, I caught the national school part, and I’m thinking it must be in Paris.”

McGill nodded. “Right on both parts. Caitie decided an actress’s career is too short. So she thought directing would be the way to go. Learning the craft from the French would be the pluperfect way to go. I’ve put a call in to Yves Pruet to see what she’d need to do to qualify.”

Sweetie laughed. “Just be Caitie, that’s all she’ll need to do.”

“Yeah, well. I’m insisting on great schoolwork in this country until she’s ready to apply, a demonstrated ability to manage her money and mastery of the basics of Dark Alley. We’ll see how much she really wants it.”

“You’d better get Patti to teach you French so you can see Caitie’s movies without the subtitles.”

McGill grinned. “Yeah, I guess so. But I still don’t know where Patti and I will live next.”

“You’ll figure it out. Until then, you’re stuck with me.”

“While I’m still in Washington?”

“Right here, right now. This’ll be our last case working together.”

McGill gave Sweetie a look. “Who cooked up that idea, you or Patti?”

“We both just knew it was the right thing to do, but Patti told me to tell you it’s either me or a brigade of Elspeth’s people.”

“You,” McGill said.

Sweetie smiled. “That wasn’t hard, now was it?”