“What?” he asked.
“Strikes me what we need here is a little interdepartmental assistance.”
“That might get you in, but what about me?”
Now Mona Lisa was smirking a little. “You’re a consultant to the Special Situations Task Force, remember? Don’t tell me you forgot to mention that to Detective Woods?”
He grinned at her. “Slipped my elderly mind.”
Getting her cell from a peacoat pocket, she silenced Reeder with a raised forefinger, then punched in a number and waited.
After a moment, she said, “Miggie? I need a couple of things... Yes, you can expect another bag of free-trade Sumatran, you pirate. What I need is the security footage from the Skyway Farer for Tuesday night... Right, that’s the motel where Chris Bryson died.”
She listened for the computer guru’s response, which was brief, then said, “The other thing is more immediate — run a plate for me: Kentucky, 440 RHW... I can wait.” She dropped cell-in-hand to her lap and asked Reeder, “Where’s the box of evidence Mrs. Bryson gave you? And the home computer?”
“All in my trunk.”
She gave him her keys. “Move it all to mine. I’ll take it to the lab.”
“Won’t that piss off your about-to-be-interdepartmental pal, Detective Woods?”
She shrugged. “Valuable life lesson for him — shouldn’t have jumped to a conclusion and jettisoned the evidence.”
Reeder wasn’t even out of the car before she got the return call. But he stayed on task, breath pluming as he went to the Prius and gathered from its trunk the box of bagged clothing and other effects, on top of which he piled the smallish computer tower. Then he lugged the box back to her Ford and put it in her trunk.
Again in the rider’s seat, shut in from the cold, he handed the keys back to Rogers, already off the cell.
“Make me happy,” he said.
“Well, of course retrieving that security footage is going to take some time.”
“Of course. And the Nissan?”
“A rental. Avis. Picked up at their Dulles location. Cash transaction, but Miggie’s got a photo ID and the rental form.”
She showed Reeder the photo on her phone: guy in his thirties, brown-haired, long-nosed, sharp-chinned, somewhat blurry for an official photo. Had the guy moved on purpose a little, in front of the DMV camera?
“Name?” Reeder prompted.
“Henry Patrick.”
He glanced at her. “As in, Patrick Henry backward?”
“As in.”
“Funny.” Reeder frowned at the photo on the phone. “This character even looks a little like Patrick Henry.”
“I guess it’s an honor, then.”
“What is?”
“Getting your ass kicked by a founding father.”
He smirked at her. “Well, he had the honor of getting kicked in the balls by a guy who saved a president. Still, let’s get Miggie on facial recognition.”
“Already in process.”
Down at Bryson’s office, the uniformed officer on guard was eyeballing them.
Reeder said, “How thrilled do you figure Woods will be with your offer of Uncle Sam’s help?”
“Not at all. He’ll know immediately you called me in. We’re the brave duo who saved the Chief Justice, remember?”
“Vaguely.”
She opened her door and cold blasted them. “You better just hang back and let me do the talking.”
“You’re the boss. I’m just a consultant.”
Reeder stayed in the car as she walked over to the Bryson Security storefront. She showed her ID to the cop on the door and Woods came out to see what was up.
With the engine running and the heat going, Reeder couldn’t make out anything they were saying. Rogers’s back was mostly to him. The young detective threw the occasional glare Reeder’s way, mostly listening to the FBI agent on his doorstep, his posture — lowered head, hunched shoulders, crossed arms — purely defensive. Reeder didn’t need to see the guy’s micro-expressions to know this wasn’t going well. Clusters of gestures came quickly, defensive, aggressive.
Not good indicators.
The longer Rogers spoke, however, her posture firm but casual, expression pleasantly businesslike when Reeder caught glimpses of it, the more the young detective seemed to settle down. Hands went to his waist, chin came up, a looseness came in. Then he would nod now and then. Gesture clusters slowed, became more amicable.
Whatever Rogers was saying was having a positive effect.
FBI agent and homicide cop spoke another few minutes, then shook hands. Reeder waited to be waved over, but instead Rogers came over to him, moving neither fast nor slow. Woods stayed behind and was speaking to the uniformed cop.
She got in, bringing another momentary burst of cold with her. But her small smile had warmth.
Reeder said, “You turned him around, didn’t you?”
“Somewhat. I wouldn’t expect him to ask you for a signed photo.”
“I can live with that, Patti. Where are we?”
“Well, Detective Woods knows he fumbled the ball, and at this point in his baby career, misreading the murder of an ex — Secret Service agent as suicide would hardly speed him on an upward path. If we — that’s me and my consultant — can help him save face, he’s up for some interdepartmental love.”
“Patti, I always said you were cute.”
“He didn’t ask for a date. And you’ll need to tread very lightly. You made him look incompetent. Save his bacon, though, and that all changes.”
“Can we get inside?”
“Yes.”
“Carte blanche?”
“Hardly. Now that this is a crime scene related to a murder, he’s called for a CSI crew. When they show, we go. Should have fifteen minutes.”
“We’ll make that work,” he said, and got out of the car.
So did Rogers.
As they walked over, he said, “Took a while selling him.”
“I had to remind Detective Woods that our lab is both better and faster than his. I also said the Bryson family had turned his evidence box over to you, and retrieving it without a stink would be... problematic.”
“We don’t have to give it back?”
“Not till the FBI lab has processed everything.”
At the door, a blank-faced Woods stopped them with a traffic-cop palm. But he tipped how pissed off he was by keeping his eyes on Rogers and never Reeder.
“Anything you find,” Woods reminded her, “we share.”
“I’m known for playing nice,” she said.
Reeder said, “We’re not looking for credit, Detective — we’re after a killer.”
Woods nodded at that, but still did not meet Reeder’s eyes.
Rogers handed Reeder latex gloves; she had a pair for herself, and they put them on before she led the way inside. As she paused in the outer office to get the layout, Reeder said to her, “Chris wouldn’t keep anything out here. Big window on the street, no computer, no filing cabinet or even closet.”
“Still,” she said, “I should check the receptionist’s desk.”
“Do that. See you inside.”
He entered the inner office. A chair was overturned from the fight, and papers were scattered on the floor — obviously the work of the intruder, not the cops. Everything else seemed undisturbed. Reeder must have surprised the guy early in his search.
Rogers came in. “Nothing but some office supplies in that desk and not much of that.”
“Receptionist worked a few half days a week,” Reeder said. “Mostly Chris operated by appointment.”
“Okay,” Rogers said, hands on her hips, peacoat hanging open. “Here’s the haystack. We looking for any needle in particular?”
“The needle that got him killed.”
“Thanks for narrowing it.”