"It was a hostile environment. They'll be lucky if she doesn't press charges," said Edwards, and D'Angelo shot him a concerned look.
"I've already heard," she said, and added, "I keep a pair of running shoes in my office. You can use those for now."
"That would be great, Agent D'Angelo. I can't thank you enough. My head is still swimming," Jess said, and walked across the hall to an empty office with her outfit.
Once the door to the spare office shut, D'Angelo turned to Edwards.
"What happened at the house? I get a call from Lieutenant Moody, and he's pissed. Pissed at you. Pissed at the FBI. Said you treated his officers like shit. Justin, I have to deal with these guys when you leave. Can you take it easy on them?"
"You should have seen what was going on over there. If we treated anyone like that, we'd have a lawsuit on our hands, and agents would be fired," said Edwards.
"Unfortunately, I wasn't there," she said, and paused, "Moody said she pulled a weapon on his men?"
"She had a spoon. I saw it on the floor next to her. That's the level of professionalism we're dealing with here. They're just looking to crack some skulls, and they're not about to let a spoon get in the way. I don't know how you deal with this level of incompetence on a daily basis," said Edwards.
"They're fine. I should have been there to run interference," she stated.
"They're not fine, but you're right. You should have been there. I think you should head over and make sure everyone is getting along with my agents," he said.
D'Angelo stared at him for a few seconds, and he couldn't get a read from her.
"Are you sure it's a good idea for me to leave the two of you alone here?"
"I can handle her…what are you saying, D'Angelo?"
"Nothing. I'm just not sure it's safe for the two of you. I'd feel more comfortable if you brought her to the police station across the street. I'll smooth things out for you," she said.
"No way. Her husband killed a cop in D.C. You didn't see the looks she was getting at the house. No way I'm marching her into that building," he said, pointing across the street at the Portland Police Department headquarters building.
"When did you learn this? This is the kind of thing I need to know," she said, irritated.
"I got a call from my task force ops center while we were in the house. Your local boys got the news right about the same time, and it started to get ugly," he said.
D'Angelo stood her ground, shaking her head and grimacing.
"You didn't see it," he insisted.
"That's the point. I wasn't there. I know you don't like dealing with the locals, me included, but this is the real world. These guys don't give a shit where you went to college, or what field offices you've been assigned to in the past. They judge you right on the spot, and you don't get many second chances to make an impression. I'll head over to the house to make sure things are running smoothly. I'd recommend staying here until I get back."
"We might step out to grab some dinner. She hasn't eaten since lunch," said Edwards.
"I'd order pizza. There are sodas in the fridge. You don't want her out on the streets if her husband is wrapped into whatever happened today. I still think you should be over in the other building," she said.
"We'll be fine here," he replied, and the door to the office slowly opened.
"I hope so. Let me get you those shoes," she said to Jessica, who appeared in the hallway from the spare office.
She wore a pair of dark jeans and an untucked, white patterned, long sleeve blouse. She had pulled her hair back tight into a ponytail. Edwards thought she looked incredible, and caught himself staring. If he could have seen D'Angelo's face, he would have known that she wasn't altogether worried about the security situation. But he had no idea that his reputation as a misogynistic womanizer preceded him everywhere in the FBI.
"Is everything alright?" said Jessica.
"Absolutely. Why don't you grab a seat at the table," said Edwards, leading her inside the small conference room.
D'Angelo returned a few minutes later with a pair of white running shoes and socks.
"These will look a little clunky with that outfit," she said.
"They'll be fine for getting around in here. I hate walking around in bare feet, especially in an office. At least this office is clean. You should see mine…junk all over the floors. It's really quite disgusting," said Jessica, and Edwards thought she sounded a little less shell-shocked.
"Sounds good. I'll be over at the house. Stay in touch," she said to Edwards.
"Make sure they don't tear the place apart. They did a lot of damage breaking in," said Edwards, figuring the place was already destroyed, but wanting to score points with Jessica.
"I'm sure they won't do any more damage," D’Angelo said, and left the office.
As soon as she was gone, Edwards walked back into the conference room with a legal pad and a few pens, which he tossed on the table in front of Jessica.
"Can we get something to eat? I don't know if I'll be able to concentrate. I could use a strong drink too, if that's allowed," she said, smiling demurely.
Edward couldn't have been happier. The whole evening was shaping up nicely. Jessica had no food in her stomach, and didn't appear to have any hang-ups about alcohol. He would delay her request long enough to plant the seed of fear and distrust about her husband in her, then loosen her up enough with alcohol to spill the information needed to track down her husband. A few more drinks after that, and he could offer her some kind of deal to help her husband, for a price. He'd administer a few chemicals at some point later in the evening to remove that memory, and leave her in a confused state of exhaustive guilt.
"Let's go over some basic questions, and we can take a walk down into the Old Port to grab a late dinner. My treat."
"Thank you. I know a nice Italian place that stays open late. It's not very far from here," she said.
"Sounds like a plan. So, tell me, did your husband come home later than usual last night, or run any last minute errands that seemed odd?" he said, hoping to catch her off guard with a direct question.
"I don't think…" she said, pausing, "he had soccer practice, but they practice all the time…last night was an extra practice. They haven't been winning many games lately, so it seemed normal, I guess. He was home by eight."
"Can you provide me with some contact information for his soccer team? I'll need to check into this," he said, and grabbed the yellow legal pad and a pen.
"Sure. His league plays at the big indoor field near Westbrook. I think it's the Portland Sports Complex. I can give you the numbers of some of the guys on his team when we get back to my house. Was the murder before eight?"
"I can't really disclose any of the details regarding the investigation, but the information you provide is critical to figuring it out," said Edwards.
"Danny wouldn't shoot anyone," she said.
"Mr. Ghani wasn't shot."
"What happened?" she asked.
"I suppose the details will become public knowledge soon enough," he said, leaning in a little for effect. "It was brutal and efficient. The work of a professional killer. Single stab wound through the neck and into the chest cavity. I've never seen that much blood before at a murder scene. I really hope it wasn't your husband. How familiar are you with Daniel's military background?" he said, and looked up into her terrified eyes.
"Danny's not capable of doing something like that. He barely touches knives in the kitchen. He's sort of clumsy with them…" she said, and her voice trailed off.
"What about his military training?" he pressed.
"He was in the Navy for eight years or so, but he wasn't like a SEAL or anything. He was on a ship. He'd been stationed in Europe for a few years before we met in business school at BU," she said.