“Shit,” Reeder said, aloud, something occurring to him, then turned to Rogers. “I have to call Amy and tell her I’m all right.”
“Did your daughter know you were going to be at the event tonight?”
He put a hand on his forehead as if he were taking his own temperature. “No, but this is going to hit the news and is probably already all over the net. Don’t you think those TV crews uploaded everything they caught right on the spot, before the cops could seize it?”
Rogers grinned. “Amy’s the least of your worries.”
“What do you mean?”
“Those cameras caught you throwing yourself on Adam Benjamin, ready to take another bullet for a great man. Joe Reeder, welcome back to the twenty-four-hour news cycle — you’re a hero again.”
“Shit,” he said.
Twelve
“All of us might wish at times that we lived in a more tranquil world, but we don’t.
And if our times are difficult and perplexing, so are they challenging and filled with opportunity.”
Patti Rogers had expected to be answering questions for hours either at Convention Hall or DC Homicide, but that changed in a hurry when — on the phone she’d just rescued from her bloody jacket — she got a call from the Director himself.
“Special Agent Rogers,” came the deep rasp of a man she’d rarely spoken to, much less seen, “you need to report here to Assistant Director Fisk as soon as possible.”
She swallowed. “Sir, at this juncture, this is not our investigation. Detective Peter Woods from DC Homicide is on the scene, as are several of his men.”
“Put him on the phone.”
She was still near the fallen Akers; Woods with Reeder and Bohannon were across the stage by the dead shooter. Uniformed men swarmed the hall, but right now the stage itself was limited to a handful of law enforcement officers — and Reeder, of course.
She summoned Woods with a flip of her fingers and he frowned but came over.
“What?”
“Not what,” Rogers said. “Who — the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
The young cop’s eyebrows went up and he took the cell and said, “Detective Peter Woods, sir.”
Soon Agents Wade and Bohannon were leading Woods, Reeder, and Rogers (backed up by several uniformed men) through the wings. No sign of Benjamin and his people, who by all rights should have stayed but essentially took advantage of the confusion to leave before anything official kicked in.
They were whisked past dressing rooms, stage gear, backstage crew (herded by two uniformed cops), and out a rear door into a waiting black SUV, which the Director had apparently dispatched before Rogers had even been called. The driver, a solemn male agent she didn’t recognize, gunned the vehicle and they sped away from Constitution Hall. The interior of the vehicle was almost as cold as outside — heater hadn’t even had the chance to warm up yet.
An incident like this, so close to the White House, meant the entire DC area was heading into lockdown. The chance that any media could follow them was fairly remote — those in attendance were being held at the hall — and, anyway, the driver was rocketing through city streets with blue and red lights flashing.
She shared the backseat with Reeder. Detective Woods was in the front passenger seat, her guys Bohannon and Wade remaining behind at the crime scene.
Rogers phoned Anne Nichols to assemble the team in their office, then called Miggie — not an official task force member — to join them. Both already knew what had gone down, the shooting all over TV and the net.
Woods, with just a little edge, craned to ask Reeder, “So you’ve saved another political figure from assassination. How does that happen three times?”
Reeder said flatly, “Just lucky I guess.”
Woods frowned but turned back around, as they slowed to pass security before entering the J. Edgar Hoover Building’s underground garage. Rogers was not surprised to see news vans lined up out front.
“Welcome to the media shitstorm,” she said to Reeder.
“And me without my umbrella.”
“I don’t envy you.”
Reeder gave her a sideways look as they speed-bumped into the concrete catacombs. “Are you kidding? You’re the one who took down a wannabe assassin. You’re the star here.”
Rogers said, with a shiver, “Hell, I hope not.”
She had enough to contend with just for discharging her weapon, however righteous the reason — there’d be a board of inquiry and almost certainly desk duty until a ruling confirmed a justified shoot. No worries about the decision, just the time it would take away from the Bryson investigation.
Though private-citizen Reeder hadn’t fired a shot, the Bureau — due to the inevitable media attention — would surely want to distance itself from him. In stopping this crime tonight, had she and Reeder lost their ability to solve a series of crimes already committed?
The SUV slowed and stopped twenty feet from a bank of elevators. Waiting there like a classy tour guide — her charcoal suit immaculate, her helmet of dark hair perfect, her mouth a thin straight line, arms folded — stood Assistant Director Margery Fisk.
They clearly rated. Not all condemned prisoners were met at the gate by their executioner.
“Fuck me,” Rogers muttered under her breath.
Reeder said, “Not on the first date.”
She managed a grunt of a laugh and he gave her a little supportive pat on the shoulder. After climbing out on the driver’s side, she took her time coming around the vehicle, composing herself.
Reeder and Detective Woods, having gotten out on the passenger side, were already approaching the AD. To Rogers’s surprise, Fisk smiled as she extended her hand to Reeder.
“Joe, good to see you,” the AD said, putting her left on top as they shook, a surprisingly warm gesture. “Mr. Benjamin is very lucky you were around.”
“You can take the man out of the Secret Service,” he said with a small smile, “but not the Secret Service... you know the rest.”
“I do,” Fisk said.
Rogers fell in at Reeder’s side, nodding to Fisk, saying, “Assistant Director.”
Fisk’s smile was tight but seemed genuine. “Well done, Special Agent Rogers.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
The AD turned a businesslike smile onto Woods, who was beside Reeder. “Detective Woods?” she asked, extending a hand. “Thank you for coming.”
Woods nodded, shook her hand and smiled back, obviously a little flattered by such attention from a high-ranking FBI official.
“Would you mind,” she said pleasantly, “giving us a few moments in private?”
The young detective shrugged, perhaps too intimidated to feel offended, and walked halfway down a row of mostly empty parking places, out of earshot.
Fisk returned her gaze to Rogers. “This is the first time you’ve taken a life?”
“It is,” Rogers said, somewhat surprised that Fisk seemed already to know that.
“How are you with it?”
“Necessary action, ma’am. I’m fine.”
“You’ll have to undergo counseling.”
“Understood.” That wasn’t optional.
“Of course,” Fisk said, “you’ll work that in and around your duties.”
That rated a Huh?
But Rogers just said, “Of course.”
“Good. There’ll be a board of inquiry, naturally, but with positive media reaction and social media trending so highly in your favor, the Director will encourage a prompt decision. After all, almost everyone in this country has seen, by now, what you did. You’re a hero. In my opinion, you made the only decision you could.”