The President's Henchman (36 page)

McGill looked at Crogher. “You think maybe he practiced on people like Laurel Rembert. Tinkered inside her head so she isn’t afraid of taking a polygraph test.”

“The idea occurred to me. And if Todd had anything to do with Ms. Lochlan … I don’t like to think how many times she got close to Holly G.”

“Nor do I. You’re checking to see if any other members of the White House press corps might also have known Todd?”

“Very quietly.”

McGill nodded. “Don’t forget everyone else,” he said.

“What do you mean everyone else?”

“Everyone who works in the White House or has regular access to the president.”

McGill could see the calculation going on behind Crogher’s eyes. Literally hundreds of people worked in the White House every day. From the most famous political appointee — Galia Mindel — to the most obscure custodial engineer — whoever that might be.

All of them had been thoroughly investigated already, but heretofore none of the investigators had known that a connection to a Dr. Damon Todd would be a red flag.

McGill took things one step further. “As long as you’ll be looking into political types, check out Nina Barkley, chief legislative aide to the House Minority Leader.”

Crogher drew a blank on that name.

McGill told him, “Remember when Lady Godiva galloped on the Mall recently?”

Crogher nodded.

McGill said, “Deke Ky identified her as Nina Barkley. But the very next day Ms. Barkley passed a polygraph test claiming it wasn’t her. And that congressman who sang opera, what was his name again?”

The SAC needed a second to plumb his memory. “Brun Fleming.”

“Yeah, him. He had no recall of giving the performance that left that old gent dead. That’s curious, too, don’t you think?”

Crogher did … and he had a new respect for McGill’s investigative abilities. Maybe the guy deserved the code name Holmes. Not that he’d ever tell him so. He changed the subject.

“So, are you going to be staying here a while?” Crogher wanted to know.

“No.” The Secret Service boss had helped McGill to make up his mind. “I’ll be going back to D.C. with my younger daughter, Caitie.”

Crogher wasn’t happy to hear that.

“I’d asked because Special Agent Ky, being your only protection, doesn’t get much time off. He could use some rest.”

McGill had never thought of that. He should have. He’d have to find another agent or two he could work with, set up a rotation that wouldn’t leave any one agent overly tired. But that would have to wait.

“I need Deke for a very special job,” McGill told Crogher.

He was going to entrust him with his daughter’s life. If Deke’s mother had told him to take a bullet for the President’s henchman, he was sure she would want her son to do the same for little Caitlin Rose McGill.

“He can have time off after that,” McGill told Crogher.

McGill dropped in at Rosebud, the guest cabin where the Lochlans and Imogene Lyle were staying. Chana was asleep in one bedroom; Imogene was in the other. Eamon Lochlan was in the sitting room with Artemus Nicolaides, the White House physician. The two men had been talking in quiet voices when McGill made his entrance.

He took a seat, and Nick caught him up on the situation.

“Ms. Lochlan is in good physical health, robust even.”

“Her
anorexia athletica
hasn’t progressed too far then?” McGill asked.

The physician looked at Eamon Lochlan, who nodded.

“No. I saw no acne, overdevelopment of the jaw, or acquisition of secondary male sex characteristics to indicate the use of steroids or testosterone supplements.”

McGill shook his head. “Couldn’t have any of that, not when you’re billed as the most fabulous face on television. She had to do it the old-fashioned way: gut-busting effort.”

Eamon Lochlan sighed deeply.

Nick said, “We were just discussing how this obligatory-exercise compulsion is another manifestation of Chana’s need to achieve what she sees as perfection. Another aspect of her quest to become her late sister, Nanette, who, in Chana’s mind, embodies perfection.”

McGill looked at Eamon. He was on the edge emotionally, but McGill needed to make a point that couldn’t be avoided if Chana was to recover. “You’re going to tell Chana why Nan wasn’t perfect, aren’t you, Professor?”

He nodded slowly. “Because she died … much too young. Her own body betrayed her. Her mother and father couldn’t save her.” Eamon Lochlan’s words were as despairing as the look on his face.

“Yeah, it’s too late for Nan.” McGill turned back to Nick. “But not for Chana, right?”

“Psychiatry isn’t my specialty, but I believe her prognosis is good. Patients with dissociative disorders usually respond well to psychotherapy. Treatment is likely to be lengthy, of course, and many unpleasant memories will inevitably surface, but the eventual outcome should be quite positive.”

“With the support of her loved ones, naturally,” McGill said.

Eamon looked up.

“Of course,” Nick replied. “Family first and foremost. Friends who are significant also.”

“And work will help?”

“Meaningful
work is always therapeutic.”

“Did you have something in mind for Chana, Mr. McGill?” Eamon asked. “Other than having her continue with her current job.”

“I do. I have to talk to someone first, then I’ll let you know. You’ll be referring Ms. Lochlan to a specialist, Nick?”

“I’ve give Professor Lochlan three names. All very good people.”

McGill nodded. “I’m sorry for your daughter’s troubles, Professor. Your troubles, too.”

“Thank you, Mr. McGill. Thank you for everything.”

McGill bid the two men good night. His own day was not yet over.

He looked in on all of his children. Caitie and Kenny were already asleep. He kissed Caitie’s cheek and Kenny’s forehead. Abbie was reading in bed when he went to see her.
The Secret Life of Bees.
She bookmarked her page as McGill sat on the edge of the bed.

“Good book?” he asked.

“I like it so far. Mom gave it to me.”

“Your mother has always had good taste in reading material.”

“Mom’s going to be safe, isn’t she? Lars, too.”

McGill nodded. “A lot of Evanston coppers are watching out for them.”

“I wish they were here. I feel safe here.”

“We’re going to take care of things, Abbie. Make it safe everywhere for you guys.”

“You mean as safe as anyone can be. The world’s still dangerous for normal people.”

“Yeah. I’m reconsidering about Dark Alley lessons.”

“It’d be a good idea to teach us, Dad.”

“But I don’t want you to beat up people who only annoy you.”

“As if.”

McGill grinned and so did Abbie.

“Do you ever miss Mom?” his daughter asked McGill.

He sighed. “I did a lot, at first. I still regret that the two of us couldn’t make it work for you, your brother, and your sister.”

“But you don’t miss her too much now because you have Patti.”

McGill nodded.

“I like Patti; she’s great,” Abbie said. “But I’m sorry, too, that you and Mom couldn’t make it work out.”

“We still care about each other. We’re happy for each other when something good happens. And nothing makes us feel better than seeing things go right for you guys.”

“I know. For two divorced people … well, it seems like you shouldn’t be divorced. And I know things can be a lot worse. Pam Donovan’s mom and dad are still married, and I’ll be surprised if they don’t kill each other someday.”

McGill raised an eyebrow.

“Believe me,” Abbie said, “the police know all about them. Pam knows half the force by name they come to her house so often.”

“I’m sorry for her,” McGill said.

“Yeah, me, too.” Sorry enough to change the subject. “Kenny was out walking around with the some of the security people. He said he saw Chana Lochlan, the TV reporter. Is she really here?”

McGill nodded.

“Is she the one who you told me about before? Your client?”

“Yes, but that’s still confidential.”

“Did you get the man who was bothering her?”

“We know who he is. We’ll get him soon.”

Abbie took her father’s hand. “It won’t be dangerous, will it?”

“Everyone will be careful.”

McGill leaned over and gave his daughter a hug.

“Good night, honey. Don’t read too late.”

“I won’t.” She paused, then told McGill, “Dad, I think I’m going to be a writer. The way things are going, I’ll have a lot of stories to tell.”

McGill smiled. “That’s great.”

In Abbie’s memoirs, he was sure he’d get a fair shake.

McGill seated himself in the living room of Aspen Lodge. The Navy house staff was discreetly absent. The windows were open to the cool night air. Stars filled the sky above the treetops. The cicadas had turned up the volume. The phone on the end table next to McGill rang, and he picked it up. Waited for the caller to announcer herself.

“I placed my own call tonight,” Patti told him. “I just heard about the note that was found in Abbie’s locker. I’m very sorry about all this, Jim. It shouldn’t be affecting your children.”

“Can’t argue with that,” McGill said, “but it’s certainly not your fault or mine.”

“Director Haskins assures me the FBI will find whoever’s responsible.”

“We’re going to be a little more proactive than that.”

“What do you mean?”

McGill could hear it in her voice. His wife — the president — was worried he was going to take hostile action against Burke Godfrey. So he told her about Sweetie’s plan to engage the reverend in spiritual debate in front of his followers. Patti approved of that. Civil discourse. What could be more American?

In fact, she said, “You have to record it. Video.”

McGill hadn’t thought of that.

“Create a record, just as you did with Lindell Ricker’s confession,” Patti said. “That way there won’t be competing versions of what happened. No chance of revisionism.”

McGill agreed with what Patti had to say; he’d also heard what she hadn’t said.

“And if by some chance,” he told her, “Sweetie gets Godfrey to blurt out that he was part of the conspiracy that took Andy’s life, why we’ve got his confession on camera.”

Patti didn’t deny it. “You’ve said Sweetie is very good at this sort of thing.”

“She is.”

“Then by all means we’ll have people with cameras in the crowd.”

Visualizing that gave McGill a measure of comfort when it came to the idea of using Caitie. Maybe one of the videographers should be right out front. Because people were much less likely to act criminally when they saw a camera focused on them. He told his idea to Patti.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, Jim, that can’t be my call. Only you and Carolyn can decide that, but I have to tell you the idea scares me. I don’t know if I could say yes.”

“Deke will be there just for her. He won’t let anything bad happen. And if she’s exposed to public view for only a few seconds, then whisked away?” McGill heard what he was saying and grimaced. “The best-laid plans, huh?”

“Exactly.” But by then Patti, with her acting background, had been caught up in the idea. “As a piece of theater, though, the revelation of Caitie’s presence in the midst of the crowd would be very powerful. Especially if, as you say, her appearance was almost ephemeral. It would be as if the consciences of those present had conjured her. You’d probably get the effect you hope for if it was done right.”

There was a brief silence before Patti added, “But you couldn’t do it without Carolyn’s approval.”

“I know,” McGill said.

McGill had no sooner said good-bye to Patti than the chief petty officer who kept the lodge functioning smoothly at night brought McGill an oversized FedEx envelope. The air bill noted the return address of the Honolulu Police Department, Office of Chief of Police Patrick Manuala.

“The Marines brought it with the change of shift, sir,” the chief told McGill. “Somebody at the White House thought you’d want to see it.”

“Thanks, Chief,” McGill said, “I appreciate it.”

“Anything else you’d like, sir?”

“No, Chief, that’ll be all. Thanks again.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

Left alone again, McGill opened the envelope. He removed a copy of the police report on the death of Chana Lochlan’s ex-husband, Michael Raleigh. On the date in question, Michael Raleigh had rented a hang glider from a recreational outfitting shop called Diamond Head Danny’s. The day was windy with swirling gusts buffeting the slopes of the famous extinct volcano. Conditions were such that no other flier had launched a glider that morning. But the deceased had persuaded the business owner, Daniel Akapa, that he was a very experienced flier who could handle the high winds. It was also the last day of Raleigh’s honeymoon; his plane was leaving for the mainland that evening. He insisted he had to get in one ride before he went home.