She and Joe would be having dinner tonight. Since they had first been thrown together on the Supreme Court task force two years ago, the pair had become tight, and they had usually dined out every couple of weeks or so. In the last year, however, her social life had taken a decided upturn, so she and Reeder — there had never been anything romantic between them — were seeing less of each other.
When Rogers was shown into the Assistant Director’s office, Margery Fisk sat behind a desk the size of Rogers’ parking-garage space. The AD’s short, rigidly coiffed dark hair almost touched the collar of her impeccable, expensive business suit, a gray tweed offset nicely by a black silk blouse. Rogers, at five six, with her medium build and shortish brown hair, could not fill out a business suit the way Fisk could. Nor could she afford as smart a one.
As good as Fisk looked, the woman was even better at her job, a role model for, and occasional mentor to, Rogers, who saw in Fisk everything the young FBI agent aspired to become.
Right now Fisk’s unsmiling countenance betrayed not a trace of why Rogers had been called up here.
“Have a seat, Patti,” the AD said, without rising or even looking at Rogers, attention on her monitor, the dominant item on her almost too-neat desk.
Rogers sat, and waited, figuring there was nothing good coming.
Finally, without looking at her, Fisk said, “How do you like having Agent Altuve back on your team?”
“He’s a real boon to us. Nobody is better than Miggie when it comes to tech.”
Computer expert Miguel Altuve had been assigned to the Supreme Court task force Rogers and Reeder headed up two years ago. Miggie’s work on that case had earned him his own small but elite computer crime unit, which he’d been temporarily pulled off last year when Rogers (again with Reeder consulting) needed help in thwarting an attempted government overthrow.
“I’d like to say the change was made,” Fisk said, “for all the right reasons. But I assume you know how and why the reassignment went down.”
Rogers nodded — she didn’t need to say, Budget cuts, the reason for Miggie’s unit getting swallowed up by another one. And that quickly, Rogers understood why she’d been summoned.
“Things aren’t easing up either,” Fisk said unhappily. “We’re having to cut two more units, and yours could wind up on the chopping block, too.”
“I guess that’s always a possibility, ma’am,” Rogers said, unsure of what else to say.
“You’re not going to make a case for your team?”
“When that becomes necessary,” Rogers said, just a little tightly, “our record will be our best defense.”
Fisk nodded. “One might say that the Special Situations Task Force has virtually snatched this nation from the brink of disaster. Twice.”
But what have you done for me lately? Rogers thought, trying not to move a muscle.
“But lately,” Fisk said, “you’ve not been producing much.”
Working to keep defensiveness out of her voice, Rogers said, “We have closed over a half dozen cases since the Capitol matter.”
Again Fisk nodded. “You have. A kidnapping, two bank robberies, and a few other more minor matters... but nothing that gets us the media attention we need. Not like the two big cases, the second of which frankly remains necessarily unpublicized.”
Rogers sat forward. “They’re threatening to close us down because we aren’t providing enough publicity? Since when is law enforcement driven by how much press it generates?”
“Well, Agent Rogers, we’re in the J. Edgar Hoover Building. Doesn’t that say it all?”
Fisk did have a point.
The AD continued: “Your task force receives, agent-by-agent per capita, more funding than any other three units combined.”
“Well, our agents are at standard pay grade, and so far when Joe Reeder has consulted, he’s done so pro bono.”
“But your investigations generate considerable expense at a time when President Harrison is cutting the budget of every agency in DC. The only way I can keep arguing against the deep cuts other agencies are taking is to generate publicity, to close high-profile cases, the kind that make the public sit up, take notice, and write to their congressmen to keep the FBI fully funded.”
Rogers could not conceal her frustration. “You’re saying that if I want to keep my team together, I need to find a high-profile crime... and that we need to be the ones to bring it to a successful conclusion. How is that supposed to work? We don’t generate the crimes. And you assign the cases.”
Fisk took in a breath and let it out. “Patti, I like you and I admire you — you’ve done amazing things in your surprisingly short career. The Director himself has expressed how impressed he was with the Supreme Court and Capitol investigations...”
The former attracting considerable media attention, the latter a state secret.
“... but the fact remains: you are the least senior team leader we have. Right now you face the imminent possibility of being reassigned to another leader’s unit.”
“Director Fisk, how am I supposed to—”
“Agent Rogers,” Fisk interrupted, the “Patti” familiarity gone, “I’m not suggesting you do anything. If the right case comes along, I’ll send it your way. If you can again attach Joe Reeder as your consultant, that would be a big PR plus. But you needed to know where you stand.”
Rogers realized the nod that followed was the end of the meeting, and she quietly exited the AD’s inner sanctum.
Not what Rogers wanted to hear, but not completely unexpected either. She’d figured that budget cuts would become an issue at some point — the United States had nearly defaulted, just six months before — but had hoped her work with Reeder would keep her and her team afloat a while. Now her hopes rested on some minor case evolving into something major, or Fisk coming through for her with a barn burner.
Maybe Joe would have a thought.
Bob & Edith’s, a diner on Columbia Pike not far from Rogers’ condo, drew an eclectic crowd that, depending on the time of day or night, ran the gamut from families with kids to whores with habits. Even when the clientele overlapped, there was never any trouble — whatever people brought in the door, they left in the parking lot. The place was an island of biscuits-and-gravy-induced peace, a Switzerland of comfort food. The only change in about the last fifty years had been the addition of flat-screens riding high in the corners, 24/7: CNN, Fox News, MSNBC, ESPN.
In a back booth, Joe Reeder, in a black polo and matching jeans, his ABC Security windbreaker flung on the seat next to him, waved Rogers over. His short, prematurely white hair, contrasting with the tan of a recent Florida vacation, made him easily the most striking man in the place, not excluding guys with mohawks, transvestites, and a couple of ripped bodybuilders.
She plopped down across from him.
“Another rough day at the office, huh?” he said, not really a question. His craggy good looks, as usual, gave nothing away, except perhaps tiny smile lines around the brown eyes in their white-eyebrowed settings.
She shuddered. “Brutal.” Sometimes she hated that people-reading thing of his.
Reeder’s expertise in the field of kinesics — the science of facial expressions and body language — dated back to his Secret Service years. It remained a major selling point for his firm ABC Security, which consulted with law enforcement agencies nationwide.
They took time to order coffee while they surveyed the menu.
Then he said, “It’s the budget cuts, isn’t it?”
She gaped at him. “How the hell...?”
Her friend gave her half a smile. “Don’t worry, I wasn’t ‘reading’ you — it’s not like these cuts haven’t been in the news ad nauseam.”