by Brian Haig
George was neither faintly embarrassed nor even interested in this accusation of rotten behavior. He said, "Look, I know it was her."
I yawned. "Busy day, George… bodies piling up. We through?"
George was obviously acting on an angry impulse, and it took a moment for his wits to catch up with his mouth. He offered me a chummy smile. "Look, Sean, I know you and I have a… a complicated relationship."
"What's complicated, George? We don't like each other."
"I like you."
I stared at him.
Even he laughed. "All right. But I admire you. I actually envy your sixth sense, and your understanding of the criminal mind"
"Should I say thank you?"
"You should consider it. You owe me a big one. I requested your assignment to this task force."
"How very generous of you."
My sarcasm hit the mark, because he replied, "It was, believe it or not. You'll get good exposure if you do well."
"I'll bet. Last time, I got you promoted, as I recall."
"There'll be plenty of credit to go around this time. Don't worry about it."
In fact, I wasn't worried about it. I thought of June Lacy, missing her wedding and her life; about the bodies on the beltway; about the newly deceased Supreme Court justice; and it struck me that the point where anybody should get credit was long past, regardless of how this turned out.
George, however, thought differently and informed me, "She wants my job. She's scheming… she's deliberately undermining me."
"Why would I give a shit?"
"Well, that's the spirit. You shouldn't. In fact, that's what I'm warning you. Back me up, and I'll back you up. You're a smart guy, right? Smart guys don't end up on the losing team."
"Warning me?"
He sort of smiled." I wouldn't want you to get confused or to misconstrue my meaning."
"Or what?"
The smile evaporated. "Get your head out of your ass, Drummond. I'm offering you good advice, and a good deal. Help me out, and I'll help you out. I'd just like an early heads-up on what she's up to-any discoveries. I don't need surprises."
I don't really like threats. And I definitely didn't like George. Also I doubt it escaped him-it certainly didn't escape me-that this was the second time a woman had come between us, so to speak.
Maybe if I watched more soap operas I'd have a better idea how to handle these things. Maybe not.
I said to George, "Thanks for the lecture… advice… whatever." In other words, fuck you.
He started to say something, but apparently thought better of it, spun around, and left.
I walked back to the conference room, where I saw Jennie speaking quietly into her cell phone. She saw me and punched off, but I must've looked guilty or something, because she asked, "Was that about me?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You're a lousy liar."
"That really hurts Jennie. I'm a lawyer."
She laughed. "Cut it out."
"All right, truth-George wanted to know if I thought you liked him. I think he's… you know… a little infatuated with you."
She poked my shoulder. "He told you I'm a scheming bitch. He warned you to watch your ass around me. Right?"
I suppose I looked a little surprised.
She laughed. "I told you-I'm smart."
"But I-"
"Look, it's not the first time. Meany began playing this twisted game the day I started working for him."
"Why?"
She considered my question. She said, "How well do you know George?"
"I never drop the soap when we shower together."
She laughed.
She took my arm, an intimate gesture that surprised me, and began leading me down the hall. For some reason, my thoughts drifted to Janet up in Boston, and I felt a twinge of guilt I clearly did not deserve. I mean, this was perfectly innocent-just two professional colleagues who coincidentally had a few different glands, having an innocuous conversation in the hallway of a government building. Her attractiveness aside, our relationship was entirely professional, we both had enough on our agendas, and any thought of sex was trouble.
Agent Margold, incidentally, smelled great, no longer lemony, more lavenderish, which is actually a big turn-on. I mean, there's something about flowers and sex, like chocolate syrup and ice cream. Why else do guys bring flowers to dates? Right. Jennie remarked, "George has a reputation in the Bureau. He's a great agent, resourceful, diligent, and clever. He's broken some big cases, and it's been noticed by the powers that be"
I sensed that she didn't expect me to comment, and I didn't. She continued, "It's gone to George's head. He's become… obsessed with his own success. Driven."
"Go on."
She said, "When the SAC job opened a few months ago, it was between me and a more senior agent. The other agent was already assigned to the D.C office, was popular with the rank and file, and he knew the local ropes. Through the grapevine I heard he badly wanted the job." After a moment she added, "I let it be known I wasn't interested."
"Why?"
"The other man was a great agent, I thought he deserved it, and I thought he'd do a great job. Of course, George was the real reason."
"Again, why?"
"Wrong chemistry… it wouldn't work."
"Again-why?"
"Let me finish. John Fisk got the job. About a month later he died."
"Natural causes or line of duty?"
"What's natural for our business? He walked into a sniper's crosshairs."
"I don't recall hearing about it."
"You wouldn't. He was at a conference in San Francisco. Big news out there, page four in the Post here."
"Oh."
"Here's the irony-the conference topic concerned policing techniques to handle the recent spate of sniper killings. He walked out of his hotel for breakfast, and somebody with a long-range rifle put two shots through his forehead."
"I'll bet that livened up the conference."
"Not really. John was supposed to give the keynote that morning."
"Big hole in the agenda"
"And in John."
"Right, and in John. But to whack a cop at a cop convention… that's- Did they get the guy?"
"Still, at large" She added, "But we have a strong suspicion who was behind it."
"I have an alibi for that weekend."
She punched my shoulder again. "Prior to John's assignment to D.C., he led a Long Island unit that specialized in mob cases. He broke some big ones that really hurt them."
"I thought offing feds and cops was sort of taboo with the goombahs. Isn't it supposed to be bad for business or something?"
She nodded. "Yes, we make it very bad for their business. But they make exceptions. What we think was something John did, somebody perceived as personal." She shrugged. "Anyway, we'll find them-and we'll get them. Murdering one of us is something we take personally."
It struck me that the mob and FBI are in some ways similar, like yin and yang, both being sort of fraternal organizations with distinct cultures, and a taste for what the mob calls revenge and the Bureau calls justice. It's interesting. Back to the subject, I said, "So you ended up with the job after all?"
"And with George." She smiled faintly "You don't say no to Director Townsend if you want a future in the Bureau."
"I'll bet. What happened?"
"What happened?" She paused as though this was awkward. "Coming from the Behavioral Science Unit, I'm regarded as an outsider. I'm out of the mold. They're mostly lawyers, former cops, and accountants. I'm neither fish nor fowl, and there've been some transference issues."
"Meaning what?"
"Well… I got this job because John Fisk was murdered."
"They can't hold that against you,"
"Consciously, they don't. But subconsciously, it's a factor and a fact." She added, "I don't blame them."
"Sure you do. They're assholes."
She laughed. "I'm a sh
rink, Sean. I've been trained to view people and situations with clinical detachment. It's a perfectly natural response, really-a common form of grief, actually." After a moment she added, "And yes, they're all assholes."
But in retrospect, a few disconnected pieces and loose threads fell into place. Like the pair of agents at Belknap's house that morning twiddling their thumbs. Or the peculiar reticence of the agent who refused to give Jennie a full and comprehensive explanation about Fineberg's murder. It was reassuring to learn they weren't just idiots and incompetents. It was disturbing to learn they were sandbagging Jennie Margold, my putative partner. This was a little scary. I asked her, "What's Meany's role in this?"
"He perceives me as a competitor."
"I see."
"Do you?" she asked. "I'm now one of the five highest-ranking women in the Bureau. At thirty-five, I'm the youngest. There are only three female SACs, the Bureau has an awful reputation with feminists, a clique of females on the Hill are pressuring for reform… and, by the way, two high-level assistant directorships are scheduled to open next year."
I said, "And George is undermining you?"
"Destroying me."
"Like… how?"
"Every trick in the book-isolation, cutting off my information flow, spreading rumors, stealing credit for my work. He's very clever." After a moment she confided, "He's making my life hell."
In fact, George had made my life very difficult for a few weeks and I hadn't even been working under him. But basically, set aside his vanity, ambition, and penchant for treachery, and George wasn't such a bad guy.
We had passed through the exit and were now outside in the parking lot, standing beside Jennie's shiny black government sedan. Somewhere nearby, a helicopter was waiting to whisk us off to Richmond and Mrs. Calhoun Barnes. It was an ideal night for flying-a beautiful evening, not a cloud in the sky, lots of glittery stars, the air still and humid. Also nearby, somebody, perhaps named Jason Barnes, was plotting another murder.
We stopped walking, and she continued to hold my arm, and it became, well… a little distracting. Between this case and her diabolical boss, Jennifer Margold was under crushing pressure. She looked nonplussed, but I wondered if it was getting under her skin. The sexes tend to handle these things differently. Men get grouchy, and/or they drink a lot, or they climb up on a watch-tower with a sniper rifle. Women feel compelled to be nurtured, they need physical contact, reassurance. It all goes back to the womb, I think. I'm not really good at reading women. I said, "You're smarter than him."
"Perhaps."
"Outthink him."
"In this game, the fox sometimes beats the owl."
She pulled my arm and turned my body, and we ended up facing each other, about a foot apart, maybe less. Her breath smelled cinnamony, and a cool breeze blew the hair off her forehead. She smelled and looked yummy The woman was in distress and was vulnerable, which surely accounted for the spasm of protective machoism I was feeling. We looked into each other's eyes and I realized I was attracted, a little infatuated, and curious to see where this was going. But I was already involved, and of course, mixing office politics and sex is a recipe for getting doubly screwed.
I recalled a woman friend once informing me that what makes men different from women is simple: A woman wants one man to satisfy her every need, where a man wants every woman to satisfy his one need. Not true-simply not true. But true enough.
She said, "This is my problem… not yours. I'm telling you because… because, I don't want you getting cut down in the crossfire."
"I can take care of myself."
She smiled. "Still… watch your back."
"No problem. I've handled George with one arm tied behind my back."
I had the sense that my mucho-machoness wasn't selling, but she said, "Oh yeah. Over a woman… right?" When I failed to reply, she said, "Is it… I mean, are you… still involved?"
"Are you?"
"Well… call ahead for Saturday nights."
"I meant, anybody special?"
"Me? You know, the occasional billionaire bachelor… a few Nobel prizewinners. The problem with D.C. is you never meet anyone interesting." I think she was kidding and maybe replying in kind to my maladroit evasiveness. She squeezed my arm. "What about your
"Oh… me? Well, it's a little complicated."
"Complicated?"
After a moment I said, "She's not exclusive." I added, "So… I guess, I don't have to be. Right?"
"I don't know your arrangement."
"Well… neither do I."
Which raised the ever-evocative question-was it a good thing? Actually, Janet's career, my career, and the time and distance between Washington and Boston were in the middle, we both knew it, and neither of us had taken a single constructive step to rectify it. That said something, I think. Ours was a sometimes thing, leaving me too much free time, too much freedom, and we all know idle hands become playful hands.
Of course, I'm Catholic, and coital loyalty and that till-death-do-you-part thing are big with us. So is the obvious corollary, the get-it-all-out-of-your-system-first thing. I said, "Don't worry about it."
"Why would I be worried about it?"
"Oh." Had I misread a signal here?
She smiled. "We're partners. Partners should know a little about each other, right?"
"Right. So… are you a cream and sugar in your coffee person?"
"Tea person, Earl Grey preferably. No additives."
"Blood type?"
"A pos. Yours?"
"Ice water."
She laughed.
Anyway, a mass murderer was running around Washington, her boss was cutting her throat, mine wanted to throttle me, and there I stood, lightheaded and giddy, making an idiot of myself.
Time to change the subject, and I said, "Richmond"
"Right. Judge Calhoun Barnes, what do you know about him?"
"As your boss said, he was on the short list for the next Supreme Court opening."
"Why is that past tense?"
"He died."
"Oh. Well, he must've been a good judge."
"Judges are always in the eye of the beholder. The profile I read on him described him as a law-and-order fanatic, ultra-conservative, a strict constructionist, brutal on criminals. Great guy, if you're a prosecutor. A monster, if you're the accused, or representing the accused."
She looked at me and asked, "Do you know how he died?"
"I do."
"Don't keep things from me."
I smiled. "Find out when we get there."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
As I said, it was one of those perfect nights to fly, clear skies in every direction, silvery moon, no wind or choppiness, and it was smooth sailing as we left Washington in our wake.
I was becoming very intrigued with the woman beside me, and as I knew virtually nothing about her, this was a little presumptuous and possibly premature. When somebody dissects criminal minds for a living, you have to wonder.
After we got comfortable, I said to her, "Tell me why you decided to become a shrink"
After a moment, she smiled. "As in all shrinks are nuts and what's a nice girl like me doing in a strange place like this? Isn't that what you're asking?"
"Exactly."
"Watch it, pal."
I smiled. "I would think it's very challenging to remain sane when you study the criminal mind. Doesn't it-" "Get to me?" After a moment she said, "You know the hardest part? Putting yourself in the frame of the victim. That comes with the job. You have to see and observe a crime from both angles."
Having prosecuted and defended, I also had experienced that part of the job, albeit with a bit more healthy detachment than allowed in her field. So I had an idea where she was coming from. It sucked.
She continued, "The easier part is understanding the criminal. I know this sounds… maybe a little abnormal… but for a trained psychiatrist the criminal mind is endlessly fascinating. The things they do, how they do it, why. Also you bear in
mind that it's for the greater good. If you don't answer those questions, you can't find them, you can't catch them, and you can't get them off the streets."
I said, "I knew a shrink in the Army. A little offbeat, but basically a good guy. Over a beer one night he told me that after sessions with the real nutsos, he thought of home, his wife, his kids, and that brought him back."
"A professor of mine called it the anchor that keeps the ship from drifting. Being single, I think about my parents, about my childhood in Ohio."
"Mom and Dad must be proud of you."
"Mom and Dad are dead. Car accident, when I was thirteen. They left one night to get some groceries, it was snowing, and they never came back."
"Brothers? Sisters?"
"None. But my parents were both wonderful. Dad was an executive at a food company, an up-and-comer. Mom, she was just Mom. He was tall, handsome, and brilliant, and she was beautiful and charming. Dad read to me every night, and Mom fixed my boo-boos."
"Good memories."
"The best." She smiled. "Now I'm going to sleep. Keep talking if you like. I'm going to stop listening."
I catnapped until the bounce of the machine setting down jarred me awake. Through the window, I could see that we were in a large, lit parking lot in the middle of Richmond proper and, more happily, that we hadn't crashed. I don't particularly trust things without wings that fly. I checked my watch. Nearly midnight.
Through the window, to our left, and about forty yards off in the distance, I noted the distinctive roof and columned portico of the Capitol Building of the Commonwealth of Virginia.
I recalled from some high school state history class that this building was regarded as an exemplar of neoclassical Roman architecture, planned by Thomas Jefferson, who had also designed the University of Virginia, erected Monticello, invented a bunch of furniture, drafted a constitution, was a Secretary of State, a President, ran a plantation, and raised a family, or possibly two. I can barely find time to do my laundry.
Jennie's head rested comfortably on my right shoulder, and I gently nudged her awake. Her eyes opened and I informed her, "We're here."
"Where's here?"
"Maybe where it all began."
"Do you really believe that?"