The garage was neatly arranged — a workbench along the right side wall, hanging yard tools opposite, shelves of boxed belongings at the far end on either side of an aluminum door to the backyard; three bikes hanging from the rafters, one each for the parents and one for a grown son now in college.
Reeder knew the owner, and this space, very well. He and his friend had often sat at the workbench talking sports, shooting the shit, and sipping beers out of the mini-fridge in a nearby corner. Now it held only Cokes.
Balding, beefy Carl Bishop, detective with the Homicide Bureau that covered the entire DC area, stepped out of his Chevy and reared back a little.
“Jesus, Peep!” Bishop said, finding Reeder right in front of him. “You wanna give me a heart attack, maybe get yourself shot?”
Bishop, a friend for over two decades, had for all that time used the nickname bestowed upon Reeder by his peers at the Secret Service, due to the then-agent’s kinesics-schooled ability to read people. Reeder didn’t like the moniker much, but pointing that out to longtime friends who used it seemed less than gracious.
“Tell you the truth, Bish,” Reeder said, “getting shot is something I’m trying to avoid.”
The homicide cop stood there, hands on his hips, in an unmade bed of a suit, his tie a loose noose the hangman hadn’t tightened yet. The end, obviously, of another long day.
He said, “Skulking around dressed like a burglar, especially around an armed detective’s domicile, does not seem like the best way to stay un-shot, Peep.”
Reeder took off the watch cap and shrugged. “You call it ‘skulking.’ I call it waiting.”
“To get shot,” Bishop said, but he was already over his surprise and annoyance. “You want to come in and have a beer? I keep a few cans for my friends who aren’t on the wagon.” He shut the car door. “Stacy would love to see you.”
Reeder doubted that — it was Melanie who’d been tight with Bishop’s wife. The petite blonde was nice enough, but he hadn’t seen her since the divorce.
“Not a good idea, Bish. This isn’t a social call.”
Bishop frowned, nodded, and ushered his friend to the workbench, where high-backed stools awaited. They sat facing each other, swung sideways at the bench, Bishop leaning an elbow and folding his hands.
Almost shyly, Reeder said, “I probably shouldn’t even be here... but I needed to talk to you, away from your desk, and phones are out of the question right now.”
“Just tell me, Peep.”
“This is probably outside your sphere, but I need you to check up on a hit-and-run out at Arlington.”
The detective’s eyes widened and it didn’t take a kinesics expert to read them. “You’re shitting me.”
Shaking his head, Reeder said, “No, there really was a hit-and-run out there, and—”
Raising a traffic-cop hand, Bishop said, “Peep, I know. I know. It’s been all over the news.”
“It has?”
“The hit-and-run itself didn’t attract attention. But tourists got cell phone footage of FBI and Homeland agents at the site — two federal agencies send their people to a hit-and-run? That’s news. No one is saying who got killed but—”
“Len Chamberlain,” Reeder cut in.
The name meant nothing to Bishop. “You knew the guy?”
Nodding, Reeder said, “I saw it happen. He was CIA. The real deal, but lately just riding a desk. He was coming to Arlington to give me information about the slain US citizens in Azbekistan.”
“Hell you say.”
“Hell I say.”
Bishop’s expression would have seemed blank to most people, but not Reeder.
The detective said, “What can I do to help? You’re talking high intrigue. I’m just a simple DC gumshoe. You were there — what did you tell the cops?”
“Nothing. I left. What could I give them that a dozen witnesses couldn’t? And if Len was worth killing, then maybe I was a target, too.”
Bishop’s eyes were wide again. “Jesus, man. What about Melanie and Amy? These don’t sound like people who would stop at much.”
“They’re safe.”
“Good. Good.” He took some air in, then let it out. “So... we’re back to the beginning. What can I do to help?”
Reeder held Bishop’s gaze. “I’m curious as to what evidence the cops took from the scene.”
“And you want me to find out what that might be.”
“If they found anything,” Reeder said. “But be goddamn careful, Bish — the forces in play may already be responsible for the deaths of seven people.”
A deep sigh. “Consider your point made, Peep. Look — was this guy Chamberlain bringing you a package? Is that what you hope to find?”
Reeder shrugged. “I hope to find anything that gives me some small piece of daylight. We set up the meeting textbook careful, yet Chamberlain is still wearing tire tracks. Whether he had something to tell me, or to give me, I have no idea. But us setting up a meet got somebody’s attention enough to warrant killing Len.”
Bishop grunted a non-laugh. “Great. Any advice for me?”
“Yeah. Watch your ass.”
They just sat there for a moment.
Then Bishop said, “With the feds already on this, I may not be able to get you a damn thing, you know.”
Reeder shook his head dismissively. “Don’t sweat that. I’ve got people at the FBI who’ll help me on that end. But I want to know if the local cops got anything before the feds shut them out.”
Bishop was nodding. “I’ll take care of it, Peep... and I’ll watch my ass. Anything else I can do for you? We’re full service here at Bishop Motors.”
“Sure.” Reeder slid off the stool. “Lock the door behind me. I’ll go out the back and through the neighbors’ yards.”
As Reeder headed that way, Bishop followed, saying, “Fine, but be careful. The Smiths, three houses down, have a mouthy little blue heeler. It’s penned up, but you might soil yourself if you’re not expecting that kind of welcome.”
“Yeah, I heard him earlier. Sounded like a bigger dog.”
“No, just a little son of a bitch, but a big pain in the ass.”
Reeder shot his friend an over-the-shoulder grin, his first in many hours, and ducked out into darkness.
“History and experience tell us that moral progress comes not in comfortable and complacent times, but out of trial and confusion.”
Eight
Patti Rogers, in her favorite gray suit with a black silk blouse beneath, strode with purpose into the Special Situations bullpen at the J. Edgar Hoover Building. Though she’d barely slept, Rogers had been up early, ready to go — or anyway, ready after grabbing a tall coffee from the Starbucks in the lobby of her apartment building.
First order of business: talk to the team’s resident computer expert, Miggie Altuve, who was as good at his specialty as anybody the FBI had.
He was in the office next to hers, at the back, first in, the other desks empty. He was using his private tablet, not his work computer. The small space had windows onto the street, his door always open because he could focus in a hurricane, and anyway, he was always welcome for more input.
“Hey you,” she said, strolling in without knocking on the jamb.
“Hey you,” he said, not looking up.