The President's Henchman (27 page)

“I’m also going to remarry. I’ve met a wonderful woman who will be traveling and working with me.”

“Does Chana know about all this?”

“She knows the book project looked promising. And I’ve talked to her about Imogene. But I haven’t told her that either development has had a happy ending. Happy for me, anyway.”

Both men could see how a mature child, even one with her feet firmly planted on the ground, might have different feelings. McGill had been very lucky that his kids had fallen in love with Patti. It didn’t hurt that their stepmom was soon elected president, either.

“I’d better start packing,” Professor Lochlan said. “I’ll take you up on that offer of a trip to Washington. It seems I do have a reason to visit. Tell Chana of my plans. See how she feels about them. Ask if there’s anything I can do for her.”

The two of them got to their feet.

“I won’t mention our talk to Chana,” Eamon Lochlan said.

“Thank you.”

“You will do your best to look out for her?” the professor asked.

“Everything I can,” McGill told him.

Welborn Yates had spent a tense, draining night checking the hospitals in D.C. and the surrounding suburbs in Maryland and Virginia, looking for Cheryl Altman. He didn’t find her until, with nowhere else left to go, he tried the city morgue.

From there, he went to the Metro police headquarters and identified himself to the cop working the door. He was asked to have a seat, but it wasn’t long before a tall strong-looking black woman in a nicely cut gray business suit came out to see him. Welborn stood as she drew near.

“Lieutenant Yates, I’m Lieutenant Rockelle Bullard. Homicide.”

Welborn winced. “Mrs. Altman has been murdered?”

“There’s a slight chance her death was an accident, but I don’t think so.”

“How did she die?”

“She was struck by a hit-and-run driver.”

Welborn’s head began to spin. He felt Lieutenant Bullard place her hands upon his shoulders to steady him “You okay?”

He regained his faculties and his balance. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

Lieutenant Bullard gave him a look before letting go.

He told her. “I was a victim of a hit-and-run myself. Some friends of mine died. I was laid up quite a while.”

She nodded. “My sympathies. Let’s go take a look at the crime scene.”

Cheryl Altman had died in the parking lot of The Shops at Georgetown Park. She’d just had her hair done. She’d told her stylist that she was going to a very important lunch date. So Lieutenant Bullard informed Welborn as they stood at spot where Mrs. Altman had been struck. She’d landed sixty feet away atop a Lexus SUV.

“Now, more people get hurt and killed in parking lots than you’d ever believe,” she told Welborn. “But the offending driver is usually a woman in hysterics who’s right there waiting when the uniforms and paramedics roll in. In fact, she’s the one who called 911.”

“But not this time,” Welborn said.

“No. Now, bad guys go shopping, or shoplifting, too. No way they stick around to talk with the cops. But strangely enough about half of them still call in the accident anonymously.”

“That didn’t happen either.”

“No, it didn’t,” Lieutenant Bullard agreed.

Welborn looked at the pavement near the spot where Mrs. Altman was struck.

“No sign that the driver attempted to hit the brakes.”

“I was getting to that next. No brake marks at all. The medical examiner and the crime-scene team estimate the car that struck Mrs. Altman was doing about fifty miles per hour.”

Welborn’s eyes widened.

“Yeah, a lot of speed for a parking lot,” Rockelle Bullard said. “Now, it’s possible we got one blind-drunk sonofabitch behind the wheel here. There are restaurants nearby that serve alcohol, but my people can’t find any serving person who remembers someone that inebriated.”

Welborn wasn’t going to insult Lieutenant Bullard, ask her if her people could spot someone — a bartender or waiter — who was lying to cover his ass about overserving a drunk.

Mostly because he didn’t think that was the case.

“Of course, it’s possible we have someone who sat in his car in this parking lot drinking, then turned his ignition key,” Lieutenant Bullard said.

Welborn shook his head; he wasn’t buying that either.

“No, I don’t think so myself,” the Metro homicide cop said. “What this reminds me of is a variation on that killing down in Texas. The one where the woman kept running over her cheating husband. Crimes of passion, this one and that.”

“They sure are,” Welborn agreed.

“You wouldn’t know anything about that lunch Mrs. Altman was going to, would you, Lieutenant Yates?”

“It was with me,” he said.

A smile appeared on Rockelle Bullard’s face. “Progress. What can you tell me?”

Welborn had to think about that. “I’ll help you all I can, Lieutenant Bullard, but I have to talk with my superior first to find out just how far that will be.”

Rockelle Bullard said, “I think it’s going to be pretty far.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I’ve already talked with a Major Seymour. He identified Mrs. Altman. He told me he was the personal aide to General Warren Altman, the Air Force chief of staff. The general, according to the major, wants his wife’s killer caught right away.”

Welborn kept a straight face, said nothing.

“Isn’t the general about the highest superior you’ve got, Lieutenant?”

“I work directly for the president,” Welborn responded.

“Huh,” Rockelle Bullard said. Her expression said:
Why me, Lord?

“If the president can see me, I’ll get back to you today,” Welborn said. “That’s a promise. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

The Metro cop was more interested in what Welborn could tell her. But in the end she had no choice but to play along. Couldn’t strong-arm the president’s fair-haired boy, now could she?

“We know what kind of car it was that struck Mrs. Altman. We have three witnesses, and they all agree.”

Welborn gestured for the specifics.

“A Honda Civic. Tan. Four doors.”

Welborn said, “Sonofabitch.”

“Something wrong, Lieutenant Yates?”

“I had a car just like that. It was stolen last Friday. Or Saturday.”

Rockelle Bullard took a long look at him.

“Well,
that’s
interesting. Our witnesses, they all said the plates on the Honda were splattered with mud. Couldn’t make out the tag numbers. But two of them told said the plates were from South Carolina. That accent of yours, Lieutenant, you from down there, too?”

“Charleston,” he said.

Damon Todd’s friend and lover, the sports publicist, was only too happy to rent a car for him. She handled all sorts of travel arrangements for her clients. To the people at Hertz, she was a VIP client. They put her into a Cadillac for the price of a midsize. The car was billed to Starburst Publicity, Laurel Rembert, CEO.

Laurel would vouch for Todd in the unlikely event the police questioned his possession of the vehicle; otherwise, she would have no conscious memory of the favor she’d done for him. Her crafted personality was holding up perfectly.

He’d also checked his four other people who lived in D.C., and they were psychologically intact, too. Even Congressman Brun Fleming, who’d unintentionally inflicted a fatal heart attack on his aged colleague from Florida. Todd had had to help poor Brun, but only one session had been necessary to help him sleep peacefully, deal calmly with the investigators, and, most important, repress all conscious memory that he’d ever known anyone named Damon Todd.

So, generally speaking, if his work was valid and productive, what had happened to Chana? Why should the subject closest to his heart be the one to experience deconstruction of her assumed persona? It was a question he had to answer for both personal and professional reasons.

Which was why he was motoring through western Maryland by midmorning. He’d slice through a strip of West Virginia and drive on to Ohio and Gambier. It was an easy one-day drive from Washington.

When he got to Gambier, he’d visit Professor Lochlan. Chana’s father had always been grateful to him, recognizing that he’d been the one who brought Chana back from the brink of death. He’d be surprised if the professor didn’t insist Todd spend the night at his house.

They’d talk at length. He’d learn if there were any extraordinary forces at play in Chana’s life — and he felt sure there must be. Then armed with the knowledge he needed, he would return to his beloved and create whatever new personality she desired.

As he glided past the town of Cumberland, Maryland, he decided he would leave himself no posthypnotic access to Chana’s life. Or her body. From now on, his love for her would be pure, a memory to be cherished.

Crossing into West Virginia minutes later, he wondered if he could really do that.

Eamon Lochlan had told McGill everything he’d thought significant about his daughter’s life. He’d even brought along two photo albums and pointed out snapshots of Chana before and after her breakdown. The narration had been an ordeal for Professor Lochlan, and McGill offered him the bed in the sleeping compartment at the rear of the Gulfstream. The exhausted man was only too glad to accept.

McGill reclined his seat and mulled over what he’d learned.

He’d thought Damon Todd, M.D., might have been a good choice for the harassing phone caller. Thought Todd had to be the “scary-looking” guy seen leaving Chana’s town house. Until Professor Lochlan had shown him a picture of Todd. Granted, the photo was over fourteen years old, but Todd had been a slight guy who wore glasses. A healer and an academic, Todd was someone who was likely to get less physical with age, not more. Besides, Eamon Lochlan had only good things to say about the man. Concerned. Caring. Effective. Wouldn’t take a penny for his efforts.

That left McGill wondering who the scary guy was. He sighed and decided to let his subconscious work on it. He had other worries he could address in a more direct way. He picked up the phone and called the White House.

Not to talk with Patti but Artemus Nicolaides, the White House physician.

“Doctor Nicolaides.”

“Nick, this is Jim McGill.”

“Still pale?”

“Maybe not. I’ve been out to California.”

“Don’t get too much sun,” the doctor cautioned.

“Nick, I’d like to get my physical this afternoon, if you’ve got time.”

The physician said, “I might be able to squeeze you in. Bring your insurance card.”

McGill laughed. He broke the connection. He’d just taken the first step in dealing with Senator Roger Michaelson and his plan to call into question the confession of Lindell Ricker, the conviction of Erna Godfrey, and whether McGill and Sweetie had railroaded an innocent man for the murder of Andy Grant.

Nick was going to help by making sure McGill wouldn’t have a heart attack when he swung into action.

The president sat in the Oval Office with her eyes closed. Galia Mindel, sitting on the sofa next to her, could tell from the regular, softly audible rhythm of her breathing that the president was asleep. The maternal side of Galia, a thin sliver of her personality, wanted to clear the president’s calendar for the day. Let her sleep. Disturb her only if there was no other choice.

Possibly, make a tough decision or two in the president’s name, if necessary. The ambitious side of Galia’s personality was of a far more generous dimension.

Edwina Byington buzzed the intercom on the president’s desk. Galia touched Patricia Grant’s forearm. “They’re here, Madam President.”

Patti’s eyes opened. A moment later the cobwebs of sleep had been cleared away.

“Show them in, please, Galia.”

The chief of staff rose to admit the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Army General Joseph Fabin, and director of Central Intelligence Thomas Van Owen. In the current scheme of things, the director of national intelligence normally would have been the civilian official to deal with the matter at hand. But Patti’s nominee for DNI, Aaron Phelps, had suffered a fatal heart attack before he could be confirmed. While the search for a replacement continued, Patti was relying on the CIA director. By the time the two men had entered the room, the president was on her feet and extended her hand in greeting.

When everyone was seated, she asked simply, “Well?”

Patti’d come up with an idea that morning on how to deal with the situation in Cuba. She thought it would be both simple and effective, balancing both military and political considerations. But she knew she was very tired when the notion occurred to her, and to be sure she wasn’t deceiving herself, she’d had Edwina transcribe her thoughts and had them hand-delivered to the Pentagon and Langley.

The general and the director had come to give her their opinions.

“Militarily,” General Fabin said, “it’s quite simple. The element of risk is low. As low as you can get when shots are fired.”