Rogers frowned. “How do you figure that?”
“Well, if he’d known, he wouldn’t have gone back there this morning. No reason to.”
Getting it, she said, “Instead he did go back, finished his search, unsuccessfully, then burned the office, so that nobody could find whatever-it-was.”
“Exactly,” Reeder said. “Remember, if what we have is a serial killer, this would go on till we catch him. People would die, but eventually the killer would lead us to him. But a pro, killing names on a list? He stops when he gets to the bottom. And then he’s gone.”
Rogers said softly, “That could be at any moment.”
“Which means,” Reeder said, slowly scanning the faces at the table, “we need to catch him fast.”
Eleven
“’Tis the business of little minds to shrink, but he whose heart is firm, and whose conscience approves his conduct, will pursue his principles unto death.”
The Special Situations Task Force worked through the weekend, but their efforts produced no new leads. Plowing through security footage — from both the Skyway Farer motor hotel and various businesses in the Bryson Security strip mall — made for tedious, eye-strain-inducing work; but that had been Reeder’s assignment.
The task force boss, Patti Rogers, was doing the same shit duty herself, while Miguel Altuve had taken up a desk in the bullpen to work his computer magic (somewhat surprisingly, no goats were sacrificed). The two teams of agents — Lucas Hardesy and Anne Nichols, Jerry Bohannon and Reggie Wade — were out talking to friends, neighbors, and work associates of both Chris Bryson and DeShawn (aka Karma Sabich) Davis.
Behaviorist Trevor Ivanek had begged the day off, having worked the weekend before, and got it. With the serial killer theory pulled out from under him, Ivanek seemed to Reeder frankly a little lost.
So far, Monday morning had been taken up by another conference-room meeting where everybody reported in on what they’d found, which was the same thing: nothing. Or at least nothing that seemed to move them even one move ahead on this chessboard.
With his head in the investigation, Reeder had all but forgotten he’d agreed to join Adam Benjamin at the big “A Citizen’s State of the Union” event; and until his cell vibrated, Benjamin’s private number on caller ID, he’d lost track of how fast the speech was coming up.
Tomorrow night, in fact.
“Joe, Adam Benjamin. Sorry to interrupt if you’re working. I hoped we might chat briefly about tomorrow night.”
Benjamin, in good assume-the-sale salesman form, hadn’t asked if he was still coming.
Reeder was searching for a diplomatic way to decline an invitation he’d already accepted when the billionaire said, “Joe, your support is extremely important to me. Not to embarrass you, but you’re an American hero. Admiration for you crosses party lines, which is a perfect fit for the Common Sense Movement.”
“Not so long ago,” Reeder reminded him, “I was a pariah on the right.”
“Yes, because you had the balls to criticize the president you saved.”
“If by ‘balls’ you mean poor judgment, yes.”
Benjamin snorted a laugh. “That’s forgotten and forgiven by the American people. Your approval rating is 92 percent — do you know what any presidential candidate, hell, any president, would do for that level of public approval?”
“Who’s taking my approval rating, anyway?”
“Well, frankly... I am. Or my polling people, anyway. Look, your presence at the rally would be comforting to voters. Not necessarily seen as a seal of approval, but would lend me credibility.”
“You already have plenty of that, Mr. Benjamin.”
“None of that ‘Mr. Benjamin’ crap. Adam. Okay, Joe?”
“Okay.”
“Then I can count on you?”
“You switched up questions on me, Adam. You are a politician now.”
The chuckle lost none of its warmth over the phone. “Perhaps I am. But it’s a necessary evil. I know we think alike in the need to wrest this country out of the hands of special interests, and back to the hands of real people.”
“Are you reading that?” Reeder asked lightly. “If not, write it down. It’s pretty good.”
Another warm chuckle. “Joe. I’m counting on you.”
“Adam, I don’t view myself as someone who can... deliver votes.”
“It’s not how you view yourself, Joe — it’s how the people view you.”
“I’m just a guy who got hot for a couple of news cycles. Which I’m glad cooled down.”
“Don’t kid yourself, Joe. No cooling off, according to my pollsters. The vast majority of Americans respect you, and consider you the kind of old-fashioned hero we haven’t seen in a very long time.”
“Just doing my job.”
“Which is what every great hero says... but usually that job is something most people can’t, won’t, or wouldn’t do. I’m not asking for your endorsement, just your presence. Come listen to the speech, be seen there, and if the media sticks a mic in your face, and you want to say I’m a huckster or a fool or a fraud, well... that’s your privilege. At least they haven’t taken our freedom of speech away yet.”
Maybe he was reading some of this stuff...
“Joe, I’ve reserved good seats for you and a guest. Join us, please. This might... just might... put you on the ground floor of something historic.”
Of course Reeder didn’t need to attend this rally, or hear the speech, to know what Benjamin had to say. He’d read the man’s book, heard him give interviews. But Reeder remained curious to see how this Midwestern populist would play in front of a crowd in a frankly political setting. It was just possible this was history in the making.
Or maybe it was just another fart in the wind, like Ross Perot.
Either way, should make for good theater.
“Joe...?”
“Yes, Adam. You can count on me being there.”
“Well, that’s just wonderful. Call this number when you arrive at Constitution Hall. My man, Frank Elmore, will have this phone. He’ll make sure you get in and get to your seats. Thank you, Joe.”
Reeder paused, not sure whether to thank the man back, or say “You’re welcome”; but then Benjamin clicked off.
Rogers came over to Reeder’s desk, toward the back of the bullpen, and leaned in. “That seemed fairly intense. Breakthrough on the case?”
“No. Pull up a chair, though.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It isn’t.”
She pulled a chair over.
He said, “Whose turn is it to buy?”
“Mine. Unless you don’t count the barbecue the whole team went out for last night where you picked up the check.”
“No, that’s its own thing. Your turn to buy. But how would you like to get off cheap and yet have a unique evening of entertainment?”
“What, are we checking out Les Girls?”
He smiled. “No,” he said, and invited her to be his plus-one at the “Citizen’s State of the Union” rally.
She immediately said yes.
“Really?” he said. “I thought I’d have to twist your arm.”
“No, I’m a Benjamin fan. You may not realize it, but you and I don’t usually vote for the same side of the ticket.”
“Oh, I know you’re a Republican.”
That surprised her. “Really? More ‘people reading’?”
“Betting that an FBI agent is a Republican is not exactly long odds.”