“Stick with it,” Rogers said. That had been a lot to absorb, and in truth she hadn’t absorbed it yet. But she pressed on. “Anything else, Mig?”
“Yeah,” he said, and turned to Reeder and said, “Your instincts were right about our friendly neighborhood would-be assassin, Thomas Stanton.”
“How so?”
“Stanton’s sons have Cayman Islands trust funds—each with one hundred K in them. Opened two days ago.”
“By whom?”
“That’s still murky,” Miggie said. “These people clearly don’t want to be found out. Let’s face it, they were paying for an assassination.”
“Keep an eye on those accounts,” Reeder said. “Since Stanton failed, maybe whoever paid him will try to renege. Might provide a path.”
Rogers said, “How about the body Joe and I hauled out of that building? Any luck with facial recognition?”
“Yes!” He summoned a front-on mug shot–type photo on his tablet screen of a man Roger immediately recognized as their half-charred, all-dead rescue. “Our latest double-tap is one Lester Blake.”
Leaning in for a look, Reeder asked, “Did he work for Barmore? Or whatever the business in those buildings was calling itself?”
“No, surprisingly. Actually, Lester Blake was employed in the maintenance department at the Capitol.”
“The US Capitol?”
“The one and only.”
“Maintenance,” Rogers said, frowning. “A janitor?”
“Limited information on that so far. But I’d say, probably, yes.”
Reeder said, “Jay Akers’s last words weren’t limited to ‘Senk’—he also said ‘Capitol.’ And now a Capitol Hill maintenance man winds up dead in a building that exploded after he was killed? A building that may have been a site of manufacture for a highly dangerous, impossible-to-find plastic explosive?”
Rogers said, “Sounds like we better get over to the Capitol and find somebody to talk to.”
Reeder was already on his feet.
She said to Miggie, “While we’re gone, we need you to run a discreet background check on Detective Woods.”
“Oh, that’s already done,” Miggie said. “You have to multitask when you’re running these searches, or you’ll go gonzo waiting.”
“What do you have?”
“Detective Peter Arthur Woods,” Miggie read. “BS in criminal justice from Virginia Commonwealth, high marks, spotless record, citations, youngest on DC PD to make detective in twenty-five years. Seems like a really good guy.”
“So,” Reeder reminded him, “did Thomas Stanton.”
Miggie shrugged. “I’ll dig deeper.”
Rogers said, “Incredible job all around, Miggie. Uh, did Lester Blake have a family?”
“Wife and three kids.”
She sighed. “I’ll have Hardesy and Nichols make the survivor visit. While Reeder and I go over to the Hill, make the same level search on Blake that you gave Stanton—okay?”
“No problem.”
“But, Miggie—when did you sleep last?”
“. . . Day or two ago?”
“Go take a nap on that nice couch in your office. That’s an order.”
Miggie’s expression was just a little mocking. “Technically, I’m just helping out here. You’re not my boss, you know.”
“Then it’s not an order. It’s an earnest request from a caring friend.”
“Now you’re making me sick.”
“Then maybe you better lie down.”
In the hallway, Rogers and Reeder ran into AD Fisk, still in yesterday’s apparel, meaning she’d been here all night as well, though she looked typically perfect. The AD had been on her way to the Special Situations bullpen, having been alerted that Rogers was back in the building.
After a quick update from Rogers, Fisk said, “I’ll call ahead and set up a meeting for you and Joe with the chief of the Capitol police. I’m going to make it for this afternoon, so the two of you can go catch some sleep. But first, there’s something I need Joe to do.”
Reeder frowned a little. “What would that be?”
“I’ve been dealing directly with the media, under the guidance of our top PR officer, of course.”
“Okay.”
“But here’s the thing—I can protect our agents, to some extent, but you’re a consultant, Joe—not technically an employee—and there’s only so much I can do to keep the press away from you.”
He chuckled. “Thanks, but I can handle myself.”
“I know you can. But the reporters did not get the chance to quiz you after the Constitution Hall incident. I spoke to a large group outside the building, not long ago, and they’re already asking questions about Charlottesville—the local police there seem competent enough, but haven’t exactly been discreet.”
“We drove in the building,” Reeder said, “we’ll drive out the building.”
“I prefer you wouldn’t. That same group is waiting now in the press room. I indicated I’d ask you if you were willing to talk to them.”
Reeder’s eyes and nostrils flared like a rearing horse’s. “A press conference?”
“That sounds more formal than I mean it to.”
“Director Fisk,” he said, “as a dollar-a-year man, I reserve the right to pick and choose my assignments.”
“Joe, you and Special Agent Rogers are running our most important current FBI investigation. The media’s going to dog your heels and impede that investigation at every turn, unless you get out ahead of it.”
He turned to Rogers, who said, “You’re on your own. I can’t talk to the media before I deal with a shooting board. Two shooting boards, now.”
Fisk said, “She’s correct, Joe.”
“Okay,” he sighed. “I don’t suppose you could find me a shaver, safety or electric, and somewhere I can throw some water on my face? Unless you enjoy having somebody who looks like a homeless guy representing the Bureau.”
“Give me your sizes,” Fisk said with a smile, “and I’ll get you fresh clothes as well.”
“You’re a full-service operation, I’ll give you that.”
All of that was done, and quickly. Rogers took advantage of freshening up, too, and she had extra clothes in her office closet. As she’d pointedly told Reeder, she would not be taking questions, but would have eyes and cameras on her.
Soon she, Reeder, and Fisk were in a room the size of the task force bullpen, filled with chairs, all taken by reporters who looked as harried and sleep-deprived as Rogers felt, with TV cameras along the side walls and in back.
The AD introduced Reeder, then joined Rogers behind him at his podium. When Reeder stepped to the microphone, Rogers half expected the press to leap to their feet and frantically pelt him with questions. They leapt to their feet, all right, but what they gave him was applause.
“Thank you,” he said, looking surprised and frankly humbled, and said, “I’ll take a few questions.”
Rogers smiled. He knew how to silence their applause. They resumed their seats and hands shot up.
Reeder pointed.
“Mr. Reeder,” a Fox News reporter asked, “some years ago you took a bullet for your president. Last year, you saved the life of the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. Now you’ve prevented the assassination of a possible candidate for the presidency. That’s an impressive trifecta.”
Some laughter.
“Would you care to comment?”
Reeder said, “I prefer to call it a hat trick. It depresses me to think I made a trifecta and didn’t put any money down.”
More laughter.
“Frankly,” Reeder said, in the affable yet unreadable manner he reserved for the media, “I didn’t prevent an assassination last night. I played a secondary role, but my friend and associate, Special Agent Patti Rogers, really prevented the tragedy through her quick-thinking action. And, no, you can’t talk to her, because there are internal FBI procedures that must be addressed first.”
No laughter
at all.
“In the case of President Bennett, I was doing my job. As for the Chief Justice, I was working at the time as a consultant with the FBI . . . hired through my ABC Security, if I might inject a brief commercial message . . . so that was doing my job as well. Last night, I was attending a political rally as a private citizen, and I also did my job, as any citizen would—I saw someone in trouble and tried to help. And really, that’s all I’d like to say about it at this time. I’ve been up for some hours and, in fact, I’m pretty sure I’m hallucinating this press conference. Thank you.”
He began to step away from the podium and a woman from MSNBC called out: “Mr. Reeder, is it true you’re working with the FBI on another case?”
He returned to the mic. “I’m working with the FBI as a consultant on a matter, yes.”
“Could you elaborate?”
“No.”
Another reporter asked, “Were you in Charlottesville at the site of an industrial explosion last night?”
“Yes.”
“Is that part of the FBI investigation you’re attached to as a consultant?”
“I was at the scene in my consultant role. Now if you don’t mind—”
A voice called out, “Are you a supporter of Adam Benjamin’s assumed bid for the presidency?”
“My politics are private. I made the mistake of going public with political opinions, once, and decided never again.”
That got a few laughs, particularly from older members of the press.
Another shouted question: “Mr. Reeder, you were right there, on that stage—anyone watching could easily take that as support for Mr. Benjamin.”
“I was there because I was invited. I was interested in hearing what Adam Benjamin had to say. But it’s not my practice to endorse candidates for office.”
From the back came: “Do you think your implied support played a role in Benjamin’s surge in the presidential polls?”
“I wasn’t aware of any such surge. I was busy last night.”
Rogers was also unaware of that. Of course, she’d been busy, too . . .
“Yes,” the reporter said. “Polls have Benjamin pulling even with all the major potential Republican candidates and only a few percentage points behind President Harrison.”
“Meaning no disrespect,” Reeder said, “these political matters are not of much interest to me right now. My friend Jay Akers, a former Secret Service agent, a good man, was killed last night. My thoughts, like my prayers, are with his family during this terrible loss.”
Apparently unmoved, another reporter called out: “Do you think Mr. Benjamin will announce his candidacy at his press conference?”
“I didn’t even know he was holding a press conference.”
“Yes, on the Capitol steps this afternoon.”
Finally Fisk stepped in, Reeder stepped back, and the Assistant Director said, “Thank you, everyone. That’s all for today.”
Reeder gave the reporters a nod and went out. Rogers followed.
As they walked quickly down the corridor, Rogers said, “You did fine. What’s the idea of making me out a hero?”
“You are one. Anyway, maybe it’ll get some of the heat off me.”
They went their separate ways, to go home and get a few hours sleep.
Looked like date night with Joe Reeder was finally over. With more fun soon to begin.
“Those who expect to reap the blessings of freedom must, like men, undergo the fatigue of supporting it.”
Thomas Paine
FIFTEEN
Walking with Rogers along First Street SE, the Capitol on their left, their breaths sending smoke signals, Joe Reeder looked up at the dome and wondered how much longer the scaffolding would be part of the view. The dome was cast iron, so fixes didn’t happen overnight, and of course cosmetic work would follow. The 2014 renovation had run over schedule and he assumed—relentless as the winter had been—this one would, too.
“What are you thinking, Joe?”
“That we finally have a connection between victims, though it’s goddamn vague.”
“A maintenance man from the Capitol and a congressional aide.”
“Right. Murdered months apart, in what seems to be the same series of crimes.”
Rogers nodded. She was in her gray peacoat. “No mistaking it for serial killing now, not with attempted political assassination and arson in the mix.”
Reeder gestured to the imposing building they were approaching. “But these two victims are tied to the Capitol, where our others—librarian, accountant, transvestite—aren’t.”
“Don’t forget our factory supervisor.”
Reeder’s gloved hands were in his Burberry pockets. “I haven’t. William Robertson. He provides a possible tie to the exploded buildings where our maintenance guy was dumped. An operation like that can always use a good factory supervisor.”
“Joe, Robertson already worked at a manufacturing plant in Bowie, Maryland. And he was hardly moonlighting at a shop almost three hours away.”
“Rough commute,” Reeder admitted.
Rogers, thinking, mused, “Of course that plant in Bowie might be related somehow to the Charlottesville shops . . .”
They made the turn onto the wide sidewalk that led up to the Capitol’s east front. Coming toward him was a very pleasant sight: his daughter Amy, in a navy-blue parka in keeping with her Georgetown school colors, walking head down, in conversation with a distinguished-looking fifty-something blonde, Senator Diane Trempe Hackbarth. Reeder had never met the attractive congresswoman, but she was a familiar face from TV.
His daughter glanced up, beamed upon seeing him, and came over quickly and gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. She gave Rogers a hug, too—they weren’t close but had become friendly after the dramatic events of last year.
Amy introduced them both to Senator Hackbarth.
“An honor to meet you, Mr. Reeder,” the senator said, smiling warmly, shaking his hand. “I admit to being a fan . . . although I assure you that your daughter has never played upon that weakness.”
“An honor here, too, Senator. Amy seems to really enjoy working with you.”
Another warm smile from the senator, whose cheeks were probably rosy even when the wind chill wasn’t below freezing. “Amy’s been fairly successful in not bragging you up too much . . . until just recently. You’re making a noticeable habit out of this hero business.”
“Not my intention, I assure you. Anyway, this Benjamin thing, my partner Special Agent Rogers was the real hero.”
Rogers suddenly had rosy cheeks, too.
Amy said to her, “Partner? Are you and Dad working together again?”
“Yes, he’s consulting with my task force.”
Amy knew not to ask anything further, saying, “Sounds like you’re the boss. Good luck getting him to do what you want.”
“Tell me about it.”
His daughter turned to him. “Have you heard from Mom?”
“Not for a few days.”
Her smile was gently mocking. “Well, she’s probably trying to figure out what to say to you.”
“Oh?”
“She’s very proud. And truly furious . . . Sorry to air our mildly dirty laundry in front of you, Senator.”
Hackbarth said, “I can understand your mother’s mixed emotions.” She turned a faintly amused smile on him. “If you were my husband . . . even my ex-husband . . . we’d be discussing your propensity to jump in front of bullets.”
Reeder grinned. “Amy’s mother and I have had that discussion.”
“But speaking not as a hypothetical wife, ex or otherwise, rather as United States Senator . . . I am grateful for your bravery, Mr. Reeder.”
“Make it Joe, please. And thanks.”
“Dad,” Amy said, uncharacteristically bubbly, “Senator Hackbarth just invited me to be her guest at the State of the Union speech—did you ever hear anything more cool?”
“Short of this weather we’re crazily out
talking in? No. Thank you, Senator, that’s generous.”
“You have a very intelligent daughter, Joe, who works hard.”
“Great to hear,” Reeder said. “But credit her mother.”
Amy gave him an amused smile. “If you’re expecting me to report that remark back to Mom . . . I will.”
He smiled back at her, then said to the senator, “You’re on your way somewhere and so are we. We’d better get going before we all freeze into just so many more DC statues.”
Everybody laughed a little—politely, he thought—and they made their good-byes, he and Rogers repeating their gloved handshakes with the senator, then going their separate ways.
Reeder and the FBI agent took the stairs down to the lower entrance where all visitors passed through security, beyond which a dark-blue-uniformed Capitol Police officer waited to walk them through the labyrinth of corridors to the chief’s office. Wordlessly the officer led them through a small reception area with a currently unmanned reception desk and a handful of empty chairs, and right up to the frosted-glass door, where he knocked twice.
This was a modest satellite office of the chief’s—the main HQ of Capitol PD was over on D Street NE—reserved for meetings like the one AD Fisk had scheduled for them.
“Come,” a voice within said, and the officer opened the door for them, giving them a nod as crisp as his dark-blue tie; when Reeder and Rogers were inside, their escort pulled the door shut behind him.
“Chief Ackley,” Rogers said with her own crisp nod. “Special Agent Rogers. This is—”
But the big man at the desk in the small, nondescript inner office was already on his feet and coming around. “How the hell are you, Peep?”
“Old and hurting, Bob,” Reeder said with a grin, as the two men shook hands. “But then you know the feeling.”
Chief Robert Ackley, in uniform from badge to dark-blue tie, the pepper of his black hair heavily salted, was around Reeder’s age but looked older, the price of decades of tough, challenging police work.
The chief got behind his desk again, and Reeder and Rogers took two of a trio of waiting visitor chairs.
Before they got to it, Reeder asked about Ackley’s wife, Margie, who’d been fighting breast cancer. Ackley said everything was fine now.
Fate of the Union Page 18