The Echo of the Whip (30 page)

The president closed the lid of the iBook and she and McGill turned their heads to look at Galia, an unspoken question in their eyes.

“What?” the chief of staff asked. “You think I have the kind of pull with the chief justice of the United States to get him to do what he just said?”

McGill replied, “There’s no doubt in my mind you’d do whatever was necessary. The only question is whether you have the leverage.”

The president remained silent.

“I don’t,” Galia said. “Craig MacLaren is a widower. He was faithful to his late wife throughout their marriage as far as I know. Some people, after they lose a spouse, are afraid to take the risk of engaging with another person. They don’t ever want to go through that pain again.”

Galia might have been speaking of herself.

Patti Grant had also lost her first husband, but had taken the chance.

She squeezed Galia’s hand in sympathy.

McGill stayed on point. “So you had nothing to do with MacLaren’s bold move?”

The chief of staff shook her head.

“How do you think his move will play with the other side?” the president asked. “How will our adversaries in the House and Senate respond?”

A smile lit Galia’s face. “They’ll huff and puff and maybe even pass gas in public, but there’s not a damn thing they can do. The job of presiding over the impeachment trial of a president is articulated in the Constitution. If they try to force MacLaren out simply because he says he’s going to use his First Amendment rights to analyze the proceedings, they’ll be roasted alive by public opinion. Besides, even if they succeeded, Jean Morrissey would be the next in line to preside, and that would be something to see. If they tried to get rid of her, too, well, it might be time for a new revolution.”

McGill looked at his wife. “Thank God, we’ve got the commander-in-chief on our side.”

Patti Grant held up a hand. “Let’s not get too melodramatic. There’s not going to be any
coup d’état
in the United States. My view is Craig MacLaren just streamlined things for my legal team and me. Whatever questions the prosecution has will be factually oriented. Did I have any prior agreement with Joan Renshaw to kill Erna Godfrey, and if so is there any proof of the conspiracy? Political posturing and theorizing will have to take place outside the Senate.”

McGill nodded. “I think that’s right. Inside the Capitol, things are going to move at a snappy pace. The votes on the GOP-True South side are fixed. The only question is, can we hold enough Democratic votes to avoid the two-thirds requirement to convict?”

Patti and McGill looked at each other.

Then both of them turned their eyes to Galia.

Joan Renshaw woke up in her hospital room. It took a long moment to orient herself. She felt so damn weak that separating her eyelids had taken a conscious effort. Still, that simple task was easier this time than the previous one. The next chore was getting her eyes to focus. Blinking helped in the way windshield wipers cleared a driver’s view of the road.

Christ, she wondered if she’d ever be healthy again.

She also asked herself whether the investigator from the House prosecution committee would come back for another statement. Basically, all she’d done last time was answer one question in the affirmative.

The woman in her off-the-rack business suit had identified herself as Janine Bosworth and asked: “Did the president, Patricia Grant, arrange for you to be put in a prison cell with Erna Godfrey for the purpose of having you kill Mrs. Godfrey?”

Thinking about that now, Joan realized it was what lawyers called a leading question. The point was to paint a bull’s-eye on the person whose life you wished to ruin. That had worked just fine for Joan. She hated Patti Grant.

She’d croaked out, “Yes.”

One syllable was the extent of her testimony.

That was good enough for Janine Bosworth. She said, “I may or may not be back with other questions. Or someone else might come and talk with you.”

A real bleeding heart that Janine. Hadn’t asked Joan if she was feeling better, what her outlook was, hadn’t even said goodbye. More important than any lack of social graces, the bitch hadn’t talked about offering any consideration in return for Joan’s testimony when it came time to testify under oath. Leniency at the least, a walk in the best case.

Joan knew that freedom in the short term would be a real reach. She had conspired to kill the president of the United States, and she’d actually choked a woman to death. But she planned to swear to God and on her mother’s grave that she could not remember doing either of those things. That way maybe she could get out of prison in, say, five years. After Patti Grant had been out of office a good long time and nobody much gave a damn about her anymore.

Of course, it would be tricky trying to convince people she was sincere in saying she couldn’t remember her own guilt in two crimes while being crystal clear on the president arranging the death of that awful bible-thumper Erna Godfrey. God but she still hated that woman, would strangle her again, only more slowly, if she got a second chance.

Of course, she’d have to mask her enmity for that damn Godfrey woman if she was called to testify against Patti Grant. She’d have to make it clear she’d choked her out only because the president had promised to offer her a pardon. Hah, wasn’t that a laugh?

Doing so much heavy thinking was wearying Joan.

Only she was scared spitless about going back to sleep. How could she know she would wake up after four, six or eight hours? Maybe she’d never regain consciousness again. Of course, if she was sentenced to life in prison, maybe that wouldn’t be a bad way to go.

In the end, though, it wasn’t her choice whether she would lapse into sleep. She was so damn tired it was inevitable. Just as she was about drift off, Joan noticed something that struck her as more than a bit strange. Someone had left a vase of flowers on the tray next her bed, and there was a card with the bouquet.

“No way, no damn way,” Joan muttered.

She wasn’t at The Betty Ford Center drying out. She had to be in a prison ward. Who the hell got flowers in prison?

Straining hard, she reached out and plucked the card from the flowers. Opening the envelope and positioning the card so the light hit it straight on was yet another chore. Lastly, she had to interpret the cursive handwriting.

After she managed all that, she saw:
The truth may or may not set you free, but a lie will guarantee you a very bad time.

Understanding the nature of the threat that had been delivered to her — lie about the president at your own peril — Joan reached another milestone of recovery. She screamed at the top of her lungs.

“What’s the little guy’s name?”

Lieutenant Silvina Reyes of the Uruguayan National Police looked up from changing the diaper on Santiago Calvo, the infant son of her superior Captain Antonio Calvo.

“Momentito,”
she replied to the American who was pretending to be a Canadian and calling himself Bruce Mallory. Her mind whirled with the question of why the man had approached her. His motive did not seem to be lechery, at least not so far.

She finished cleaning Santiago’s bottom, fastening a fresh diaper on him and putting the soiled one in a carry bag.

“¿Cómo está, Señor?”
Silvina asked.

“Bueno, y usted?”
Good, and you?

“Bueno tambien.”
Good also.

To Silvina’s ear, the American’s confident tone told her he spoke more than a little Spanish, possibly might be fluent, but she couldn’t place his accent. It wasn’t from New York, St. Louis, Austin or any other place she’d visited in the U.S. Still, she would know better than to speak her native language and think he wouldn’t understand her.

She said in English, “The
niño,
he is called Santiago.”

“Named in honor of Saint James, is he?”

That tidbit of knowledge surprised Silvina, and she let the emotion show on her face.

“Names and their meaning are a hobby of mine,” the man said.

No doubt because you use more than the one your mother gave you, she thought.

Still, she played the innocent.

“Do you and your wife need a nanny, Señor? I have a friend who —”

He waved his hand. “Thank you but no. I am not married and I have no children. What I’d like to know is if perhaps you know a policeman.”

“Señor?”

“I saw a new neighbor move in across the street from me. I believe he’s someone I’ve seen before, in the United States.”

“¿Sí?”

“If I’m not mistaken, he is a very famous man.”

“From the cinema?”

The man calling himself Mallory shook his head. “No, this man is famous for the crime he tried to commit.”

Silvina tried her best to make her body shrivel in fear. Even so, she tilted her head forward attentively and said,
“¿Qué?”
What?

“He tried to kill the president of the United States.”

Silvina covered her mouth and let her eyes go wide in horror.

Thinking to herself
mierda santa
— holy shit — is this guy for real?

“Who is this man?” she asked trying her best to make her voice tremulous.

“I don’t know what he’s calling himself here, but his real name is Tyler Busby.”

“Why do you tell me this, Señor?”

“Well, I can’t say for sure, but my guess is the American government has put a bounty on his head, a reward, yes?”

Silvina played dumb, pretending not to understand.

“Una recompensa. ¿Comprende?”

Silvina’s impression that Bruce Mallory spoke more than a little Spanish was just confirmed.

“Why don’t you take this money for yourself?” she asked.

He looked all around before telling her, “I’m hiding out.”

That admission genuinely caught Silvina off guard. She pulled Santiago’s pram back a step, ready to shove the child out of harm’s way if she had to defend herself. But Mallory only held up his hands to reassure her.

“I have two brothers. Each of them is trying to take over our father’s company in Vancouver. I’m the one who can cast the deciding vote, but I don’t want to do that. I want my brothers to settle things between themselves. Do you see?”

Silvina felt sure Mallory was lying, but she had to admire the plausibility of his story.

So she nodded.

He went on, “If you have family or a friend in the police, you could arrest this man and claim the reward. You’d all be heroes.”

“Busby?” she said to be sure.
“¿Dónde está?”
Where is he?

“Tyler Busby. He lives with his wife and their baby in the big house on the right hand corner of the next block. You see it?”

Silvina looked and nodded.

“Do you know any police officers?” Mallory asked.

“Oh, yes. The husband of my sister.”

“Is he is up to handling something like this?”

Silvina made a show of thinking before shaking her head. “I do not think so, but
his
brother is. He is …” She searched for the word. Then she smiled, “The detective, yes?”

She wanted to see how Mallory reacted to that and was pleased by the result.

Apprehension flashed in his eyes. The involvement of an investigator was more than he’d counted on. Still, he tried to cover his discomfort with a smile.

“That’s great. So he’ll do it?”

“Oh, yes, I am sure.”

“Great. Well, don’t waste any time, and please don’t mention me to anyone.”

Silvina smiled innocently. “As you prefer, Señor.”

Upon returning to his hotel the prior evening, John Tall Wolf had been presented with a message from Jim McGill. The note was prompted by events on the far coast. It made Tall Wolf wonder what was going on. He was almost tempted to call Marlene Flower Moon to see what she might know. Almost.

McGill said:
Had to hurry back to Washington. Client has located missing property. Sorry to leave you behind. Fly to destination of your choice first class; McGill Investigations will reimburse. If you want to remain in L.A. a day or two, please use my suite on my tab. JMcG.

Tall Wolf had to admire the man’s style. He’d accepted McGill’s invitation and moved into his suite, intending to stay just the one night. He didn’t want to spoil himself. Not that he was so worried about debasing his character that he declined to have room service send up a hearty breakfast.

Despite the plush surroundings and creature comforts, though, he felt less than satisfied with the outcome of the case. Having the bad guy tell you where he’d stashed the stolen goods preempted the satisfaction of finding them yourself. Also, you couldn’t count on that happening more than once in a lifetime. So it was best to work things out on your own.

He decided to go see Mira Kersten and get her take on things.

After all, the bad guy was still out there awaiting capture. You didn’t get to commit a crime and then say, “Oops, sorry. All better now.” Far preferable, the thief should reflect on his moral shortcomings while doing a substantial stretch of prison time.

Tall Wolf hoped he wouldn’t have to explain his reasoning to Mira.

Some people, after an unpleasant experience, just didn’t want to be bothered any further.

Mira Kersten, it turned out, wasn’t one of them. She opened the door to her home with anger burning brightly in her eyes. She asked Tall Wolf immediately, “You know what that sonofabitch did?”

“You have any particular SOB in mind?” Tall Wolf inquired.

The response brought Mira up short. Made her stop and think. She walked away from Tall Wolf but left the door open. He took that as an invitation to come on in. He followed her into the living room. She plopped down on the sofa, still lost in thought.

When she looked up and realized Tall Wolf was still with her, she said, “It could be either of them, I suppose, that freaking thief or my bastard ex, Ed Whelan.”

“If you’re speaking of your embryos,” Tall Wolf said, “I thought they were returned. Or at least you know where they are.”

“I know where they are, all right,
except
for the one I want the most.”

“The embryos are still on ice and you already have a favorite future child?” Tall Wolf asked.

Mira looked at him as if she were about to snap out a rebuke, but she took a moment to consider the question and had the honesty to bob her head. “Sounds harsh, doesn’t it?”

“Leaves room for criticism,” Tall Wolf said. “Might even be the topic of some future nursery rhyme. Something dark and full of snark.”

She laughed. “Yeah, well, unless Shel Silverstein comes back from the dead, I won’t worry about that.”

Tall Wolf grinned and took a seat without asking first.

“How’d you find out an embryo was missing?” he asked.

“The new place where I’m keeping them is meticulous. I told them how many I thought I was entrusting to them. They did a count, called me and said I was off by one.”

Tall Wolf only nodded.

“You’re not going to ask me who the father is?” she said.

“My guess: the same fellow whose seed you’re bearing right now.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s pretty logical.”

Tall Wolf let a second moment of silence go by.

Mira read between the unspoken lines; she was no dumb bunny.

She told Tall Wolf, “You not only know who the father of my preferred child is, you know the hunt is still on. I want you to find that particular embryo. You and Mr. McGill. His friend, Ms. Sweeney, too. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men, if that’s what it takes. Well, damnit, now you’ve got me talking in nursery rhymes.”

“They’re infectious,” Tall Wolf said, “but Mr. McGill is likely to be busy in the coming days. I can’t speak for Ms. Sweeney but —”

“But we didn’t part on the best of terms whether she has the time or not. She wanted me to call the cops while she had a gun on the thief. I said no.”

The grimace on Mira’s face told Tall Wolf there was no need for her guest to criticize the decision. “What about you?” she asked. “Will you find the embryo for me?”

“I’m an employee of the federal government. Somewhat highly placed, too. My presence is an unofficial favor to Mr. McGill.”

“Well, hell.”

Never much of a weeper, Mira nonetheless looked as if she might cry.

“Lucky for you,” Tall Wolf added, “I don’t like to leave jobs unfinished.”

“You’ll keep going?”

“I want to find the original thief. If your ex-husband has a hand in the matter, too, he should be easier to locate. Can you describe the thief for me?”

“I can do better than that.” Mira took out her phone and pulled up a photo. “That’s a picture of a composite Ms. Sweeney made with her iPad. It’s a very good likeness.”

Tall Wolf gave her the number of his phone and she emailed the photo to him.

“Now, I want to ask you a question,” Tall Wolf said.

“What?”

“Do you know if your ex-husband is writing a book?”

“Ed? He’s all about secrecy, not …” A newly arrived thought silenced her.

“But?” Tall Wolf asked.

“He’s shaved his head, and I saw him drive off in some fancy new sports car.”

Tall Wolf raised an eyebrow. “Your ex came to see you?”

She nodded. “He still thought I had his masterpiece. He gave me the name of the same clinic the thief did. The place where I found my embryos. Ed was pleading that he’d only wanted a swap all along. I told him I really didn’t take the damn thing.”

Tall Wolf sat back, crossed his left ankle over his right knee and smiled.

“What?” Mira asked. “You’ve got something?”

Tall Wolf nodded. “Maybe you’ve just been away from Washington too long or you’d probably see it, too.”

Given that hint, Mira made the leap. “Ed’s going to publish his thesis commercially? That’s crazy. He’s been wrong as often as he’s been right. His schemes have backfired as many times as they’ve succeeded. He’d look foolish.”

Tall Wolf said, “Publishing houses still employ editors, don’t they?”

Mira nodded and then smiled. “Some of them do, I think, but knowing Ed and assuming you’re right, editing wouldn’t even be necessary. He’d cut out all the embarrassing miscalculations and failed schemes before he ever submitted the manuscript.”

“There you go,” Tall Wolf said. “He’s packaging himself for success.”

She thought about that and nodded. “I can see it. The audience for his book, movement conservatives, will lap it up like free booze. It would sell like sheet music to a church choir. He’d make a bundle. On top of that, it’d be a gigantic ego stroke for Ed. He’d probably be able to get the funding to set up his own think tank and have a solid-gold sinecure for the rest of his life.”

“Explaining why he had to come at you so hard when he thought you stole his original manuscript. It would reveal all his warts,” Tall Wolf said.

Mira nodded. “I told him who I think really took the damn thing.”

“Who’s that?”

She told him. “That’s another guy who’d be really embarrassed if the first edition of Ed Whelan’s big book of political bullshit ever gained wide attention.” She told Tall Wolf why it would ruin that SOB’s reputation.

He agreed with Mira’s thinking.

“There’s one more thing you should know,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“I told Ed that the thief was looking for him, and he was so scared he almost wet himself. I thought Ed might have stiffed the guy on his fee for grabbing the embryos. He was always a cheap bastard. But thinking about it a bit more, it could be something other than an overdue bill that has him in a sweat.”

“You have any idea what that might be?”

Mira shook her head. “Not specifically, but it has to be one of three things, doesn’t it? Ed is in fear he might lose his job, his reputation or his precious pink heinie.”

“Mortal jeopardy?” Tall Wolf asked.

“Ed was pretty damn scared. I wouldn’t rule it out.”

Tall Wolf got to his feet. “Okay, thanks.

Mira said, “So, if you catch the thief …”

“If he has the embryo and it’s viable, I’ll see that it’s safely returned.”

“Thank you.” She took a beat before asking, “You think in my own way I’m just as terrible as Ed, don’t you?”

He shrugged. “I try not to judge. When I can help it.”

“What would you do? You know, if you had, say, two embryos available to you that came from different women. Wouldn’t there be something that would make you choose one over the other?”

Tall Wolf said, “I’m all for advances in medical science, but I’d try to use it only to simplify my life not complicate it.”

John Tall Wolf went back to his hotel, got his bag and checked out. He was about to leave for LAX and catch a commercial flight to Washington when he had another idea. He called Jeremy Macklin on the Northern Apache reservation in New Mexico. Before he could do more than say hello Macklin jumped all over him.

“You know what your cousin wants me to do?” the online scandal sheet reporter asked.

“Become the dean of the school of communications at his new university?”

A long pause ensued before Macklin said, “Is this some kind of conspiracy the two of you have cooked up?”

“It is,” Tall Wolf admitted. “We’re plotting to make life better for as many underserved kids as we can. Sometimes innocent people like you just get roped in by circumstance.”

“Is this for real? Arnoldo Black Knife is going to pour a ton of energy-income money into starting a big-time university on an Indian reservation in New Mexico?”

“I mentioned to him that was what John D. Rockefeller did with the University of Chicago. Things are only at the discussion stage right now, but the fact that he’s mentioned it to you and apparently asked if you’d like to play a role —”

“Exactly the one you mentioned.”

“Sounds appropriate to me,” Tall Wolf said. “Arnoldo must be moving forward.”

“We didn’t get around to talking about his schedule, but would the school be just for Native American kids?”

“Maybe at first, but it will probably evolve into something like Berea College in Kentucky. You know, a diverse student body with no tuition for anyone who’s admitted. Given that family income falls beneath a certain ceiling.”

After a shorter pause, Macklin said, “You know, that sounds pretty damn cool.”

“Yeah, I think so, too, and if you worked on a school-year schedule, that’d leave you a fair amount of free time every summer to get back to the beach in Santa Monica.”

“Ha! That sounds great.”

They left plans for a brighter future right there. Tall Wolf asked if Macklin knew of any show biz moguls who might be heading back east that day in a company plane and wouldn’t mind a humble public servant bumming a ride. Macklin took a moment to check his sources, make some calls and then offered Tall Wolf a choice of three flights.

He took the one heading directly to DC. First class commercial air travel was all well and good, but for endless leg-room you couldn’t beat an executive jet. All Tall Wolf had to do to earn his cushy ride was tell the producer who owned the aircraft a little bit about the investigations he did for the BIA, and listen to the guy suggest that maybe he could develop a pay-cable TV series based on Tall Wolf’s exploits.

By the time they landed in Washington, Tall Wolf had to be honest with himself.

Maybe he was getting a little spoiled.