James “Jimmy” Doyle stared out over the rolling green lawn as if in a trance. He wasn’t a tall man, but what there was of him was built like a tree trunk. He had the slightly narrow eyes and Asiatic look of a Native American.
“You’ll find out soon enough…” Broad shoulders rose and fell with calculated breaths. “But she was starting to get really paranoid. I told her she was going to get fired… I guess it got her killed.”
Doyle had hung his jacket over the back of the white wicker chair exposing his sidearm, expandable baton, handcuffs, and radio. His shirttail had come untucked and his dark tie hung loose and cocked to one side, like a silk noose around his muscular neck.
Palmer had called ahead to Sonny Vindetti, the special agent in charge of the VP’s protection detail, to let him know one of his agents was about to get what might turn out to be devastating news. Nancy Hughes, the vice president’s wife, had been delivering a tray of cookies to the small cottage below the residence that acted as the Secret Service security office. She’d seen the look on Vindetti’s face when the call came in and demanded to know what was going on. It was a standing opinion with most detail agents that snowy-haired Mrs. Hughes was the best suited of anyone in the United States to run the country if anything ever happened to the president. She had the brains, the fortitude, and, coming from the old money of a father in the West Texas oil business, the family name to make her political royalty.
As Robert Hughes was happy to point out in the self-deprecating way that had served him so well, he was “no rocket surgeon, but he was, at least, smart enough to marry the right gal.” Nancy could be as unforgiving as a concrete wall if she felt she was being wronged, but she cared about her agents as if they were her own children. The VP’s code name was Pilot. Hers was Peregrine, but the Secret Service satellite detail that saw to her security referred to her as Mother Hen.
Quinn, Thibodaux, and Garcia had arrived at roughly the same time. Peregrine had met them at the driveway and ushered them up her steps, insisting Special Agent Doyle hear the news from the comfort of her front porch. She personally brought him a glass of lemonade and a box of tissues.
He hardly even blinked at the news. His angular jaw tensed; he stared a thousand-yard stare.
“Tell us about her theories,” Quinn said.
“That’s the thing. I don’t know. She was acting crazy, but I didn’t know why. She started sleeping with a gun under her pillow, said she didn’t know who to trust.” Doyle rubbed a hand over a thick head of black hair. “I told her she needed to get some help and she went off on me.”
Quinn’s eyes shot to Garcia, then back to the stoic young agent. “But you have no idea who might have wanted to kill her?”
They’d agreed before leaving Rockville he’d lead the discussion. An interview would work better than a dog-pile interrogation-and Nancy Hughes would likely peck the eyes out of anyone she thought was bullying one of her agents.
Doyle gazed out over the hedges and flower beds of the manicured lawn. “Nadia was an agent and all, but she just did intel… Paranoid or not, nobody should have wanted to hurt her.” A single tear, the first sign of real emotion, pooled in the corner of Doyle’s eye. He sniffed, using the back of his forearm to dab at his nose.
Quinn nodded to himself. One of the first rules of an interview was not to believe in tears unless the snot was flowing.
Garcia slid forward in her chair, leaning in slightly. “Do you remember what you talked about last?”
Doyle shrugged. “No…”
Good answer, Quinn thought. People who remembered too much were rehearsed-and lying.
“You know a man named Tom Haddad?”
“No,” Doyle said. “Do you think he killed her?”
“We can’t give you details at this point,” Quinn said. “But whoever killed her probably killed him as well.”
Doyle suddenly sat up and straightened his tie. “I need to get back to work. My boss wants to see me after this.”
Mrs. Hughes cleared her throat and peered over the top of gold reading glasses, a clear sign that the interview should wind down.
Quinn got to his feet and stuck out his hand. “I’m sorry for your loss, Agent Doyle.” He never carried business cards, so he handed his Moleskine notebook to Garcia so she could write down her contact numbers. When she was finished, she tore out the page and handed it to Doyle, who shuffled off toward the detached security office as if he was walking to the gallows.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A stone’s throw from the Secret Service motorcade that was always staged and ready to go in the event of an emergency, Ronnie Garcia leaned on the open door of her Impala. Thibodaux stood beside his motorcycle, fiddling with the strap on his helmet. Quinn had hung back to make a quick call from the Secret Service office landline.
“Can I ask you something?” Garcia said to Thibodaux, chin resting on the back of her hand.
The hulking Marine glanced up, nodding slightly before turning his attention back to the inside of his helmet. A robin hopped in the grassy shadows behind him.
“Knock yourself out.”
“Director Ross told me you and Quinn haven’t been working together much more than a couple of months. Seems to me like you’ve been friends forever…”
“I assume you’ve never been in the military?”
“That’s true.” Ronnie felt a pang of regret for having to answer that way.
“Well, beb, you get a different sort of relationship with someone who you know you can count on-someone who’s spilled blood to save your life…”
Quinn came down the hill a moment later. Garcia found herself happy to see him, but disappointed that her conversation about him had come to a stop.
“Palmer wants us to get together in the morning and compare notes without the Bureau and Agency big dogs in the mix.” Quinn looked at Garcia. “He’d like you there as well.”
“Sounds good.” She looked at her watch. “Not much more to do this evening. You guys ever eat?”
Thibodaux slid into his black leather jacket and checked his watch. “Well, hell, but don’t a kidnap attempt and a double bloody murder make the day just zip by,” he said. “I got a Lamaze class with my child bride in an hour and a half…”
“Are you kidding me?” Quinn turned to Garcia, chuckling under his breath. “The guy’s got six sons and he still has to go to classes….”
“I know. Don’t rub it in.” Thibodaux hung his head like a dejected schoolboy. “I expect it’s her way of making sure I come home for more than just the fun part of the process.”
“Sounds like a smart girl,” Garcia said. “How about you, Agent Quinn?”
“I could eat,” he said. “But lose the Agent stuff. Plain old Quinn is just fine-or Jericho.”
“Bueno.” She smiled broadly, showing a mouthful of gorgeous teeth, startlingly white in contrast to her coffee-and-cream complexion. “If you like Cuban, I know a great place in Silver Springs. Best moros y cristianos this side of Havana. It’s not too far from here.”
“I suppose I’m game.” Quinn shrugged, remembering what Kim had told him: We’re divorced. Start acting like it.
Garcia nodded at his BMW. “I assume that’s got a GPS.”
Quinn tapped his helmet with an open palm. “I’ll keep up.”
“Cubano’s. Tucked in just off Georgia Ave.” She gave him the address. “I’ll go ahead and get us a table.” Apparently not one to futz around once a decision was made, Garcia shut her door and tore down the circle drive, leaving a whirlwind of fall leaves in the wake of her tires.
Thibodaux sauntered over to Quinn like an uncle bearing advice. He rested a broad hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. “You mind yourself now, bro,” he said as both men gazed down the road after the departing Veronica Garcia. “Take it from me-and I’m an expert on such things-that gal will suck a hickey on your soul before you can say batshit.”