“Anyway, it was about a quarter of twelve, like you said, Agent Savich, and I was ready to chew off my elbows I wanted a smoke so bad. So I tell my supervisor, that’s Mrs. Parks, and she tells me to step out and do the deed. I get my coat and gloves out of the locker—we’re down in the basement, you know?”
“Yes, we know.”
“And I went out from there, out the side door that’s next to the information desk. There’s lots of construction going on, and it looked like an unfinished Hollywood set out there, what with the piles of raw wood, the row of Porta Potties, temporary construction buildings, all covered with a sprinkling of white. It was pretty, but cold, real cold. Not much wind, which was good. I lit up. Ah—you can’t imagine how deep I sucked it in, the taste got me over my anger at Glyna.” He paused, and Savich imagined he was remembering the feeling of drawing that smoke deep into his lungs.
“I was standing there, leaning my shoulder against the wall, thinking about stuff, you know? My son is in law school, but he’s having some trouble with it, and the fight with Glyna—then I heard something, something I shouldn’t have heard. We’re trained, you know, to tell sounds apart, to know which ones are the usual sounds of the building or the wind, which ones shouldn’t be there, even the sound of someone or something brushing against all that marble. I swear I can hear someone running a finger over the marble, you get real sensitive to stuff like that. Anyway, I was reaching for my gun as I turned, and something crashed down on my head. I was gone, Agent Savich. Just gone. I don’t even remember hitting the ground. I woke up here with a nurse leaning over me.”
“That’s excellent, Officer Biggs. Now, relax and think back again. You’re smoking, thinking about your son. Then you hear something. What is it exactly?”
“Like someone was there, behind one of the temporary buildings, real close, not more than a half dozen feet away. I remember thinking, now what the hell is that? I even called out, ‘Who’s there?’ ”
“The sound was only six feet away?”
“Not more than ten feet, that’s for sure. You saw the construction there, right? Nearly right against the building. Yeah, real close.”
“How long was it after you heard the noise that you were struck on the head?”
“Not more than a couple of seconds. Like I said, I turned really fast when I heard it, came right to attention, you know? Drew my gun and everything. And just when I turned, I got smashed on the back of my head.”
Sherlock said, “Do you think there were two people there, Officer Biggs? One to distract you, make you turn toward the noise, the other person behind you?”
The man’s eyes closed again. Savich said, “That’s right, try to feel it again, try to remember exactly what you were thinking, hearing. Okay, you’re standing there, Officer Biggs, you’re alert, you’re listening. You’re at attention.”
In a defeated voice filled with despair, Officer Biggs whispered, “Now that I really concentrate on it, I think it was one guy, Agent Savich. Maybe he tossed something to make me look in one direction, to distract me.”
Sherlock stroked her fingers down to close them over his hand.
“I think I would have felt it if there’d been two of them—I’ve got real good instincts for stuff like that, real sharp senses. But he still got me, still laid me flat.”
“Thank you, Officer Biggs. We’ll be speaking to you again, but not until you’re feeling better. You rest. You’ve given us excellent information.”
“Did Marshal Halpern know anything? What does she think of all this?”
Sherlock said, “She hopes that you’re better soon. She asked us to tell you she’ll be coming to see you shortly. Special Agent Frank Halley is speaking with her now. She’ll let you know if she has any other ideas about this.”
“She’s been a good boss, doesn’t take grief from any of the guards. I hope she doesn’t fire my ass.”
Sherlock nodded to the guard stationed outside Officer Biggs’s room. She said as they walked down the quiet hospital corridor, “He’ll have to live with this for the rest of his life.”
“Yes. And I’ll bet you he’ll never smoke another cigarette.”
They passed Glyna Biggs in the waiting room, nodded to her, tried to look reassuring, and continued on their way.
“Now,” Savich said, “it’s back to headquarters. I have no doubt that Agent Frank Halley will be ready to take my head off for being assigned over him on this.”
They left the huge complex, heads down against the blowing snow, and walked to the parking lot. Once in his Porsche, Savich turned the heater on high. Sherlock said, as she pulled off her gloves, “Frank will get over it. It’s what Director Mueller wants.” She grinned, patted his arm. “I’ll tell him that we’re the best. Then you can invite him to the gym.”
Savich grinned at her, controlled a sudden skid in the snow that would have slid them into a fire hydrant. “The thing is, Frank is good. I’m counting on him for his input. But he’s old school, believes in rank and seniority, regardless.”
Sherlock eyed an SUV negotiating a corner some twenty feet ahead of them, and thought about the turf wars. Most of the old guard had retired in recent years. Under the leadership of Director Mueller, the FBI had reevaluated, reassigned, and refocused itself, placing anti-terrorism and homeland security squarely at the top of its priorities. All agencies had been ordered by the President to communicate, to work together and share information—a concept that was finally catching on. But there were egos and old rivalries at play, so the going could still be tough.
Director Mueller was overseeing this extraordinary case himself, with his second in command, Jimmy Maitland, who was Savich’s boss. Both would keep the waters calm, at least on the surface.
CHAPTER
10
HOOVER BUILDING
“I’ D LIKE TO KNOW why the hell you’re heading this investigation, Savich.”
Reassured by Frank’s show of consistency, Savich said easily, “I’m not. Director Mueller and DAD Jimmy Maitland are. I’m lower down on the chain.”
Neither Director Mueller nor Jimmy Maitland was there as yet, so Frank Halley could vent. Frank had collared Savich the moment he and Sherlock had walked into the large conference room on the fifth floor, blocked him off from the other fifty or so agents who stood around in groups. The large room was buzzing with conversation before the meeting, about the dozens of interviews that had already been conducted during the past nine hours, the newest available reports.
“Yeah, so you say, but not as low as the rest of us. You’re the one handing out interview assignments, speaking to Officer Biggs, coordinating the whole direction we take. Why have I been passed over?”
No, Sherlock thought, there was no shortage of egos and turf, not in any organization in the world. Given the sheer size and bureaucracy of the FBI, they weren’t doing so badly, really. She patted Frank’s arm. “Dillon’s doing the major interviews because he’s the best, Frank. If you’ve got a problem, take it up with the director. Otherwise, I’d suggest you get a grip and pull your nose back in joint, or I’ll have to haul you down to the gym and wipe up the mat with you.”
It was hard, even for a veteran of nearly twenty years, to be mad enough to want to tear a strip off Sherlock. He grinned down at her, this small faerie with her marvelous curling red hair, and he just couldn’t help himself. “You’re half my size. You really think you could take me?”
“Curious, are you? We’ll have to give it a try sometime.” She gave him her brightest smile. “Now, listen up. You really want to do all the paperwork, interface with the media? That’s nuts. You’re vital to this investigation, Frank. Get in the field, that’s where you’re best, that’s where the action is. It’s where we’re going to try to spend most of our time.”