The President's Henchman (33 page)

“Camp David,” McGill said.

Sweetie had in fact said a rosary. She asked not only that McGill’s battered body heal quickly, but also implored the Blessed Mother to turn Senator Michaelson’s enmity against the president — and now McGill — into tolerance if not love. She also asked that the joy she’d felt in seeing Michaelson get so badly bruised be turned into compassion for the man.

That was a lot of heavy lifting to ask even for the Mother of God.

Especially the last part. Sweetie had overheard McGill, on any number of occasions, liken her to St. Michael, and she relished the comparison. Nothing pleased her more than doing God’s work, but she most enjoyed doing it with muscle. Smiting the ungodly was her thing.

The phone rang. Sweetie was at the office of McGill Investigations, Inc. She thought somebody ought to drop by from time to time. Just in case a would-be client had slipped a message under the door. She answered on the second ring.

“McGill Investigations,” she said.

“Is that my favorite tenant?” Putnam Shady asked.

Sweetie rolled her eyes. That was what she got for thinking of herself as angelic. A call from her lawyer-lecher-landlord. God’s justice was swift indeed.

“I’m your only tenant, Putnam,” she said, “but the rent’s not due.”

“You wound me, Margaret.”

“I’m a terrible person. Something for you to keep in mind.”

“Oh, I do. Believe me, I do.”

She’d tried to warn him, and all she’d done was stoke his fantasies. Truly, she was being punished for her sins. Still, she liked her apartment.

“There’s a reason for this call?” she asked.

“I belong to a gym,” he replied.

“Good for you. Try hitting the weights a little harder.”

“I have. I’m sore all over. I could use some relief.”

“Putnam …” She was about to say she could really make him hurt, but that would be exactly what he wanted to hear. “… get to the point.”

“I was in the locker room after my lunchtime workout and happened to hear the Merriman brothers spewing venom about the senior partner of your firm.”

“Wait a minute. Do you work out at Political Muscle?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“And who are the Merriman brothers?”

Her landlord chuckled. “You really need to learn who’s who in this town. I’d be happy to teach you.”

“Maybe later. Who are they?” Sweetie grabbed a pen to make notes.

“Anson Merriman is a fellow advocate. He’s number one on the staff representing the interests of American Aviation to Congress.”

“He’s a big-shot lobbyist.”

“Correct. Much bigger than me.”

“And his company does what, make airplanes?”

“Fighter planes, cargo planes, tanker planes, missiles, guidance systems, radar, sundry electronics. Multimultibillions of dollars of government contracts. All secured by the efforts of a battalion of lawyers and a like number of retired generals.”

Sweetie got all that down in her neat parochial school penmanship.

“Okay, what about the other Merriman?”

“That would be the Big Billy Goat Gruff, Robert Merriman. He’s the true source of power in the family. Bob is Senator Roger Michaelson’s chief of staff. He’s in quite the rage over the beating your friend administered to his boss. He’s vowing vengeance.”

Then as if he could read Sweetie’s mind, Putnam added, “If you’re writing this down, you might want to underline that last point.”

With his boss in the hospital, Robert Merriman received the Reverend Burke Godfrey in Senator Michaelson’s office. The better to impress the self-important preacher from down I-95 in Virginia. It didn’t keep the televangelist from being snotty, though.

“It rains a lot out there in Oregon, doesn’t it?” Godfrey asked.

“Except when there’s a drought,” Merriman answered.

Godfrey’s eyes brightened. “Droughts? I never heard of that, not in the Northwest.”

“It happens.”

“Maybe that’s God telling you people something.”

“Or maybe it’s part of a naturally recurring weather pattern.”

“The weather does what God tells it to do,” Godfrey asserted.

“You’d know better than me,” Merriman replied.

The preacher pointed a finger at the chief of staff.

“I get enough of my people praying hard enough, maybe we can get God to
flood
that state of yours. Visit it with plagues and torments.”

“And that would be your idea of winning friends and influencing people?”

“I don’t see any friends! Not around this office. I was told Senator Michaelson is going to lead an effort — a crusade — to free my poor wife from that abomination of a death sentence the government obscenely imposed on her, but wait a minute, brother! The senator gets into a basketball game —
a basketball game!
— with that corrupt former cop who lives in the White House. Senator Michaelson takes a few elbows, and now Erna will just have to suck it up and keep on waitin’ to die. That ain’t right! Not right at all!”

Robert Merriman prided himself on his ability to deal calmly with whatever jackass stepped into the senator’s office. He was sure his equanimity was one of the qualities that would allow him to pluck for himself the next open Senate seat from the great state of Oregon.

“First of all, Reverend,” he began, “Senator Michaelson has an abiding love of basketball, starting when he was an all-state player in high school, continuing to when he was an honorable mention all-American in college, and extending to this very day.”

Godfrey started to interrupt, but Merriman forestalled him with a raised hand.

“Secondly, if you believe the senator suffered only minor physical insults today, you’re seriously mistaken. I won’t go into his exact medical condition, but I’d be happy to see if I could arrange a game for
you
and Mr. McGill. See how well you’d fare.”

“If that man is doing grievous injury to important people, he ought to be the one in prison, not Erna,” Godfrey proclaimed.

“Thirdly,” Merriman continued, ignoring the preacher’s point, “while Senator Michaelson has reconsidered his view on seeking hearings concerning the confession of Lindell Ricker, he does not intend to forget about the precarious position in which Mrs. Godfrey finds herself.”

“He doesn’t?” the preacher asked suspiciously. “Well, what’s he got in mind?”

“All in good time, Reverend. All in good time.”

“Erna doesn’t have that much time!”

“She has enough. The president has stayed admirably aloof from the process. Nobody’s hurrying things.”

“There’s nothing admirable about that Hollywood harlot! She’s a sinner!”

“And who among us isn’t?” If Merriman had to choose whom he’d spend the rest of his life with on a desert island, Godfrey or the president, it would be a no-brainer. “If you’re not content to wait for Senator Michaelson to find a productive way to change Mrs. Godfrey’s fortunes, you’re always free to seek help from your friends, Senator Hurlbert and Representative Langdon. Perhaps they’d be willing to take up Lindell Ricker’s cause and challenge the legitimacy of his confession. That, or you could raise you own voice in protest on the issue.”

Godfrey had already been to see both Hurlbert and Langdon. They’d told him that they’d be perfectly willing to support Michaelson’s effort, but no way could they lead the charge. The president, after all, was a fellow Republican. They had to have Michaelson to give them the cover of a bipartisan effort. One to which all God-fearing Americans could rally.

As for Godfrey raising the issue himself, people would see that as nothing less than self-interest. But what other choice did he have?

“I guess I’ll have to keep raisin’ my voice that killin’ Erna would be just plain wrong,” he said with a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Shout it from the mountaintops,” Merriman suggested.

Celsus Crogher was on duty, watching Chana Lochlan’s house from his car this time, but he was on probation. The president had finally caught up with him and he’d had to admit that he’d choked that CIA dweeb, Cheveyo. He hadn’t known, though, that he’d seriously hurt the guy. He hadn’t intended that. Geez, did the guy have brittle bones, or what? He remembered reading somewhere that people weren’t drinking enough milk, getting enough calcium.

Or maybe he’d gotten a little carried away. Squeezed too hard.

If he’d been capable of admitting to human weakness, maybe he’d have taken advantage of the situation. Used his probationary status to request stress leave. Relax for a while. Except he hated the very idea of relaxation. Taking things easy was one step above being in a vegetative state. Step and a half above being dead.

And there was only one way Celsus Crogher wanted to die: in the line of duty.

So there he was, still on duty, but on a short leash.

He had that asshole McGill to thank for the former. The president, he was pretty sure, had intended to confine his activities to the White House. But McGill wanted him out on the street. Watching for that other son of a bitch, Todd, to come looking for Chana Lochlan.

McGill had considered it a Secret Service job since Todd had been messing with Chana Lochlan’s head. And who knew if he hadn’t been doing the same thing to someone else who had access to the president. He had to give McGill credit for that. He’d cut right through any potential jurisdictional dispute over who ought to grab this Todd creep.

Problem was, McGill hadn’t been sure what the guy looked like. Some pencil-necked academic. Or the musclehead freak that SAC and Cheveyo had seen the other night.

But unless Todd was one helluva cross-dresser, Celsus was pretty sure he didn’t look anything like the thirtysomething babe with the ash-blonde hair and tight bod who was climbing Chana Lochlan’s front steps … and peeking in her window.

That was suspicious enough for him.

Celsus got out of his car and reached the woman just as she dropped something into the mail slot. When he touched her on the shoulder she jumped and spun around.

“Secret Service, ma’am.” He showed her his ID and his best frown. “Please identify yourself and state your business at this domicile.”

No cross-dresser, this one, he saw. So not Todd. But who?

The woman swallowed hard and began to speak. Still looking at his ID.

“My name is Laurel Rembert.”

She sounded like a kid reciting a line from a school play. He pocketed his ID.

“And the reason you’re here?” Crogher said.

“I’m a publicist. I’m the CEO of Starburst Publicity.” Still sounded like she was reading from a script. But she mentioned the names of several big-time DC pro jocks as being her clients. Her clothes and jewelry said she had the money to play in that league.

“This is how you solicit clients, Ms. Rembert, going door to door?”

She blinked as if taking a moment to remember her next line.

“A friend told me Ms. Lochlan might want new representation. I … I dropped by to see if we might chat. I left a business card when no one answered the door.”

“You work nearby?” Celsus asked.

“What?”

“You arrived on foot. Do you work nearby?”

“Oh. Yes, I do. Not far at all.”

Crogher spoke into the microphone at his wrist. He had four cars of agents within two blocks. One car pulled up seconds later. A special agent got out and opened the door to the backseat. Crogher gestured to Ms. Rembert to descend the stairs and get into the car.

She blinked again.

“Am I under arrest? Did I do something wrong?”

She looked genuinely puzzled.

“Not at all. These agents will take you back to your office. You can tell them about your business. That’s all.”

“Oh. Well, thank you for the ride.”

“You’re welcome. Do you have a business card you can spare for me?”

“Why, of course.” She fished one out of her purse. Then she frowned. “How can you need publicity if you’re in the
Secret Service?”

“Just a memento, that’s all. And sign your name on the back of the card.”

Laurel Rembert complied and was driven away by Crogher’s agents. When she was gone, and after Crogher scanned the street to make sure nobody else was taking an interest, he let himself into Chana Lochlan’s town house with the key McGill had passed on to him. He found the card Ms. Rembert had left for Chana Lochlan.

A note on the back was addressed to someone named Nan. Said:
I’ll call.

And the handwriting wasn’t Laurel Rembert’s.

Carina Linberg had graduated in the top third of her class at the academy. Entirely respectable. Portending a solid military career, barring some personal or political misfortune. But by no means would she have been assured a general’s star by the end of her ride. Except she’d been on track to nail one faster than any other woman in Air Force history.