The Echo of the Whip (22 page)

Ellie Booker had a long track record of breaking big stories and a first-look deal with WorldWide News. She had not been pleased when network CEO Hugh Collier hired Didi DiMarco. Didi was thought of mostly as an on-air talent, a pretty face who didn’t trip over her own tongue.

Ellie knew better. Didi was smart and produced her own show. She hustled for the biggest and best stories she could find, and often came up with ideas no one else had even considered. Her hiring was meant to reduce any leverage Ellie might have over Hugh when it came to whom he’d depend on to deliver his networks next big scoop.

True, Ellie had only recently done an exclusive story with the president in the wake of her impeachment, but Didi quickly followed that with her own interview of Jean Morrissey, and right now the VP had more media heat than the president. Any way you looked at it, Patti Grant was a lame duck near the end of her run in the White House. Jean Morrissey might well be the next most powerful person in the world. In the meantime, it looked certain the VP intended to kick political ass.

Covering that kind of thing was always fun.

In terms of their respective stature in the media world, it was beginning to look like Ellie represented the past and Didi was the future. Maybe so, but Ellie was not going to exit quietly. She was going to do her best to —

Answer her own damn phone when it became apparent her secretary wasn’t at her desk.

Hell, maybe she’d defected to Didi.

“Booker Productions,” she snapped.

After a moment of silence, a heartbeat before Ellie would have slammed the phone down, a quiet, polished male voice said, “May I speak with Ms. Booker, please?”

In addition to all her other news-gathering faculties, Ellie had a keen ear. If she heard a prominent person speak more than once, the mental recording got neatly filed for instant recall. She said, “Mr. Chief Justice, is that you?”

Craig MacLaren said, “I’m afraid it is.”

Taking a risk, she joked, “Is this about my unpaid parking tickets, sir?”

MacLaren laughed. “I’m afraid you’ll have to take those up with the attorney general.”

“Yes, sir,” Ellie said with a smile. “How may I help you?”

“First, let me say I’ve long admired your work.”

“Thank you.” Ellie was honestly flattered, but whenever someone buttered her up it always made her leery about what might come next. She was not a trusting soul. Life had taught her better.

MacLaren continued, “I was wondering whether you’d think a limited series of commentaries from me might be of public interest.”

“That would depend, sir. If you’re thinking about speaking on biographical matters, that might be better addressed with a book. I could recommend a good collaborator or two to work with you. On the other hand, if you wish to address issues of law in a televised forum, I’d be honored to work with you.”

“At WWN, you mean?”

A thought flashed through Ellie’s mind. It was time to fire a shot across Hugh Collier’s bow, that Aussie prick.

“We could do it at WWN or if you’d be more comfortable at PBS, I have friends there who I’m sure would be happy to work with us.”

“Yes, it might be better to work with a non-profit.”

“What is it you have in mind, sir?”

When the chief justice told Ellie, she had to restrain herself from jumping up and down and shrieking with joy. Making sure she had her emotions under control, she replied, “That would be very interesting, sir, and completely unprecedented. Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I’ve given the matter serious consideration. I feel
obligated
to do it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m also certain there will be countervailing voices.”

“You can bet on that, Mr. Chief Justice. The blowback will be considerable.”

“If you think it might damage your career, Ms. Booker, I’ll understand if you wish to decline my offer.”

Ellie laughed. “Don’t worry about me, sir. I think one of the reasons you called me is I have something of a reputation as a street fighter.”

MacLaren said, “I am counting on that.”

Calling the White House from his hotel suite, using the cell phone he’d been assured would defeat the best efforts of any hacker, foreign or domestic, McGill told Patti, “I was right, Mira Kersten is pregnant.”

Not to be outdone, the president told McGill who the child’s father was.

To his surprise the dad was an actor whose name he actually knew. Him and most of the rest of the English-speaking world. He even liked the guy’s movies.

“I won’t ask you for your sources,” he told Patti, “but I have a strong hunch.”

“Hunches are allowed. Keeping them to yourself is highly advisable. You’re not chafing under the weight of two Secret Service agents, are you, Jim?”

“I can manage. Elspeth’s okay with me; Deke’s my kid brother by now. Having Sweetie along to work one last case with me, well, that’s kind of bittersweet. Can you believe she’s thinking of going into politics?”

“Yes, without any difficulty. Margaret lives to serve.”

“And kick some backside when necessary.”

“An integral part of public service.”

“Anyway, I’m doing fine, working the case and not feeling threatened.”

“Good. We’ve winnowed out the name of a man who might be the instrument of the threat against you: Eugene Beck. He’s ex-military and came within a few musical notes of becoming a special forces operator.”

Patti explained what she meant by that.

McGill was amazed. “They didn’t take the guy because he likes to whistle? Hell,
I
do that sometimes.”

“I’ve noticed,” Patti said. “You do it when you practice your Dark Alley choreography.”

McGill said, “Never heard my workouts described in dance terms before, but with my personally provided soundtrack, I guess it’s apt.”

“The Secret Service is looking for Mr. Beck. If he’s found on the far side of the world, then we’ll know it’s someone else who means you harm.”

Sounded better than “wants to kill you,” McGill thought.

“If it is him,” he said, “I’d like to know what he looks like, in advance.”

“Elspeth has photos. I’ll send word that you can see them.”

“Thank you. It would also be a good thing to know who sicced Beck on me. The name Edmond Whelan comes to mind.”

“Yes, it does. It’s no coincidence that this threat occurred just after you started a new investigation. The Secret Service went to talk with Mr. Whelan, but so far they’ve been unable to locate him.”

“Making it all the more probable he’s behind it, and I’d bet Eugene Beck isn’t off climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. Even so, it seems to me we have a lot of bad guys hiding out on us lately.”

Patti chuckled.

“What’s funny?” McGill asked.

“I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but what the hell can anyone do to me? I’ve already been impeached. I’m about to be tried in the Senate. If they can’t take a joke, fuck ’em.”

It wasn’t often McGill heard that vulgarity from his wife, even in private conversation, but he felt exactly the same way.

He said, “Right. Especially if you have good news. I’d love to hear it.”

Patti told him about Special Agent Abra Benjamin’s strategy for finding Tyler Busby.

“That’s really smart,” he said.

“Yes, well, we just got word through informal channels that several of Busby’s favorite shady ladies are on their way to Buenos Aires. Now, if we were talking just one or two courtesans, some other dirty old man might have the same tastes, but we’re talking six of them here, and two others begged off.”

McGill thought about that for a moment.

“No witty observation?” Patti asked.

“Seems like a bit much is all,” he said. “He could be mainlining those pick-me-up meds and not take care of a crew like that.”

“How romantically put.”

“Not much romance involved when you’re paying for it.”

“Point well made, but you have something else in mind, don’t you?”

McGill said, “Having lived in the White House for some time now, I’ve noticed that underlings have a tendency to try to overdo when it comes to pleasing the boss.”

“You think someone working for Busby ordered a full menu for him?”

“Could be. Try to cover everything he might like. That person could be the buffer between him and the women. If the intermediary spots anything that doesn’t look right, word is passed to Busby and he disappears again. Or …”

McGill took a moment to develop his thought.

Patti, knowing just what he was doing, waited patiently.

“Or someone who’s just as smart as Special Agent Benjamin is using this shipment of prostitutes as a test. Waiting to see if they draw the attention of law enforcement. If they do, the getaway plan is already in place. If they don’t, well, Busby gets to have his idea of a good time.”

“So your suggestion would be?” Patti asked.

What McGill had to say made the president pause to think.

“I’ll have to consult with the FBI on that. I’m not sure I should issue an order on something like that.”

“Just an idea.”

Patti said, “One more thing, Jim.”

Anticipating his wife, he said, “Be careful with Beck out there?”

“Let Elspeth and Deke do the heavy lifting.”

The nurse in Joan Renshaw’s hospital room, just about to leave after recording the patient’s vital signs, jumped as if somebody had yelled, “Boo!”

Returning to earth, she turned and looked at the patient.

Her eyes were open. Not just for a blink but steadily. Attempting to focus.

And Renshaw raspingly repeated the word that had startled the nurse.

“Water.”

“I’m not screwing the bastard,” Special Agent Abra Benjamin said. “I don’t care if the order came straight from the White House.”

She sat opposite FBI Deputy Director Byron DeWitt in his office.

The Andy Warhol serigraph on the wall of Chairman Mao gazed down on them.

Before DeWitt could respond, Benjamin asked, “You’re taking that portrait with you when you go, aren’t you?”

“Who says I’m going?” DeWitt replied.

“It’s an open secret.”

“My least favorite kind.”

“Everyone knows about you and Vice President Morrissey.”

“What do they know?”

“That you’re more than just casual friends.”

DeWitt knew that Benjamin, his former lover and the mother of the child they’d given up for adoption, was trying to play him. She was seeking confirmation of what he was sure remained only speculation at that point.

He said, “Well, I hope you’ll keep this to yourself but …” He maintained a straight face as Benjamin leaned forward. “But next year, at a date that remains to be determined …”

DeWitt paused as if he’d just thought better of revealing a confidence.

“What?” Benjamin asked, expecting to hear a wedding announcement.

DeWitt said, “Vice President Morrissey and I will be …” he dragged it out for one last delicious second. “We’ll be competing on ‘Dancing with the Stars.’”

Benjamin sat back and grimaced. Wanted to call DeWitt a bastard. But her all-consuming sense of ambition prevented that so she returned to a variation of her original question.

“How much do you want for your Mao portrait?”

DeWitt grinned. “Hard to say. The price of Andy’s work can go up faster than Apple stock on the eve of a new iPhone introduction. Last year, a dealer in Manhattan offered me an even million dollars for it.”

Benjamin hadn’t been expecting a figure like that.

She blinked and said, “Jesus.”

“Yeah, but she said that was because it had a double cachet: the artist’s, of course, and a little bit of me because of where I’ve had it hanging these past several years.”

“Why do you have it here instead of at your home?”

“I like to see the effect it has on people.”

“Me, too,” Benjamin admitted.

“Also, my insurance premium here is only 10% of what it would be at my place. After all, who’s going to burgle the office of the deputy director of the FBI?”

The look on Benjamin’s face said she might take a run at it.

DeWitt steered her toward a more productive direction.

“No one is asking you to screw Tyler Busby, only set yourself up to make his arrest. Think of what it would do for your career. Capturing someone who had to be a big player in a presidential assassination attempt. Why, if Jean and I win that dance competition, you just might inherit this office and be able to hang your own piece of subversive art.”

Benjamin had been considering that possibility, but at the moment she picked up on the hint DeWitt had just dropped. By using the vice president’s first name with such casual ease he was admitting his intimacy with her. Even if they had no wedding plans, yet, they were spending time between the sheets.

Hearing that made Benjamin’s heart sink a bit. She’d gotten together with DeWitt as a career move, but she’d come to appreciate, even care for, him as a man. He’d been a considerate and generous lover. God knew he was good looking, too. There were times, fleeting though they were, that she thought she should have taken a maternity leave from her job and kept their baby. Married him and …

There was no point going too far down that road.

She’d only make herself crazy.

“Give me the briefing again,” she told DeWitt, “what you got from the White House.”

He nodded and said, “It came from the Oval Office, but my guess is James J. McGill was its author. He’s playing off your handiwork and what it set in motion. If you’ll remember, two of the six ladies requested to service Tyler Busby’s carnal needs declined the opportunity. Their names are Aubine Fortier and Gila Klein.”

Benjamin nodded and said, “Making what’s not a great big intuitive leap here, you don’t think I could fill in for a French woman —”

“Who’s also a blonde.”

“But you do think I might take the place of a, what, Israeli
frecha?
”

“I’m sorry, what?” DeWitt asked, not understanding. “A hooker?”

“Close enough.
Frecha
is slang borrowed from Arabic. Literally, a chick, as in poultry. Colloquially, a bimbo.”

DeWitt smiled, happy to expand his linguistic horizons.

“Well. You got the nationality right,” he said. “Ms. Klein is Israeli, but she was born and raised in Manhattan.”

As was Benjamin. She sighed. Almost anything to get ahead, she thought.

“I hope you’re thinking I should let the procurer approach me,” Benjamin said.

DeWitt nodded. “That’s the only way it would work. We know the hotel where the girls will be staying in Buenos Aires.”

“Thanks to me,” Benjamin said.

“Exactly. It’s top-end. You could be visiting wealthy extended family in B.A. Stop in to the hotel bar for a drink looking like a million dollars and —”

“Wait for a pimp to sweet-talk me into peddling my body.”

“Well, don’t settle for just any life of vice. Try to make sure Tyler Busby is waiting on the other end.”

Benjamin rolled her eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

DeWitt said, “Hey, come on. You have to think it’d be pretty cool to have Busby invite you over for what he thinks is going to be a good time and you bust his ass.”

Benjamin could imagine that scenario and smiled.

“Yeah, it would.”

“You can’t have my Warhol,” DeWitt said, “but I’ll help you find something good to hang on the wall when you take over this office.”

Benjamin said, “Deal.”