“Thank you, ma’am.”
“My off the record opinion, that is. In the meantime, I need you to keep a low profile for a while.”
Rogers nodded dutifully. “If I’m to be temporarily reassigned to desk duty, might I request input into which task force member steps in for me?”
Fisk’s smile actually showed some teeth. “Special Agent Rogers, I think you’re quite capable of continuing to lead your task force. I would avoid fieldwork, when possible... but if that should prove necessary, avoid media contact. For now.”
“Uh, understood, ma’am.”
“Good.”
Fisk turned in the direction of Woods and called, voice echoing, “Detective, if you’d join us please?”
Woods clip-clopped over and resumed his place next to Reeder.
Fisk said, “Detective Woods, thank you again for coming. We have an unusual situation in that you were already working with Rogers and Reeder on a series of related murders that may include the faked suicide of a former Secret Service agent.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And you understand that we will be taking the lead in this attempted assassination of Adam Benjamin.”
His brow furrowed. “That would seem to be a DC police matter, ma’am.”
“Not when a major political figure, on the verge of running for president, is nearly killed within yards of the White House. And not when the assassination is prevented by the actions of an FBI agent and one of our consultants.”
“Excuse me,” Reeder said.
Everyone looked his way.
“There’s a possibility these investigations could converge. The assassination attempt and the string of murders might possibly be related.”
Fisk asked, “Why do you say that?”
“Start with a .45 automatic being the weapon of choice tonight as well. And while the attempt on Benjamin’s life was hardly execution-style, the use of a sound suppressor seems a professional’s touch.”
Fisk gave him a single, narrow-eyed nod.
He continued: “Who needs a silencer in a room that size? But a professional might have one handy and feel the silenced shot in the noisy hall could give him a few seconds before the realization of what happened kicks in.”
“Making an escape,” Rogers said softly, “more possible.”
Reeder nodded. “To pull it off, he had to get close — but still wanted a way out of the hall.”
“A possibility,” Fisk granted.
“There’s something that isn’t just a possibility — before he died, Jay Akers uttered the word ‘senk.’ And shortly before his death, Bryson told his wife that he was worried about what she thought was ‘sink.’ If this isn’t one case, I’m surprised.”
His irritation finally showing, Woods said, “I don’t care how many cases you think this is — these are DC Homicide’s jurisdiction.”
“No, Detective Woods,” Fisk said. “The Benjamin investigation is ours — we’ll keep you in the loop, work with you — but it’s ours.”
He frowned, a child fighting back a tantrum. “I need to interview your agent and Mr. Reeder.”
“We will conduct our own interviews with our agent and our consultant, and keep you apprised. Thank you for your cooperation. We’ll give you a ride back to the crime scene, where our agents Bohannon and Wade are now in charge.”
Woods flushed, and seemed about to say something he shouldn’t, when Rogers cut in.
“Director Fisk,” she said, “I don’t know how closely you’re following the task force’s investigation into the Bryson ‘suicide,’ and the murders that appear tied to it... but Detective Woods lost an officer when that security office got torched.”
“I am aware of that.”
“We thought it better to have him spearhead the segment of the investigation relating to the officer’s murder, while we concentrate on the other shootings.”
Fisk considered that, then nodded. “Makes sense to me. What do you say, Detective Woods? Does that sound reasonable?”
Woods was frowning, but he said, “It does, Director Fisk.”
“Good. Why don’t you head back to your crime scene and get to work with Special Agents Bohannon and Wade.”
He let out air, not quite a sigh. “I will, ma’am. Thank you.”
Fisk offered her hand again, and they shook.
When he was gone, Fisk said, “My apologies for conducting a meeting in a parking garage like this. But it’s a longstanding Washington tradition for matters best spoken of discreetly.”
The AD rode up in the elevator with them, saying only, “You’ll find your task force waiting,” and when they got out at that floor, Fisk stayed on — her office much higher up, in several senses.
They found the corridors as busy as if this were midday. Busier. Fire a shot anywhere near the White House, and the Washington law enforcement world scrambled.
Luke Hardesy and Anne Nichols were at their desks, drinking coffee, waiting for marching orders. But Miggie was already at work on his tablet with behaviorist Trevor Ivanek at his desk watching the computer god’s progress on the wall monitor. Everyone was rather casually dressed — no ties on the men, pretty Nichols in a silk blouse and slacks — having been called from home for this session.
Rogers and Reeder took positions by the monitor.
Nichols asked, “Can I assume Jerry and Reggie are at Constitution Hall?”
Rogers said, “You can. I’m sure you know the media’s version of what happened, although frankly Joe and I don’t — we’ve been in a law enforcement bubble since it happened. But here’s how it went down.”
She told them, asking Reeder to pitch in here and there.
Sitting forward, Luke Hardesy asked, “Reeder, how well did you know this Akers?”
“Very well. And here’s a possible connection to our double-tap case — for a couple of years, Jay Akers, Chris Bryson, and I were on presidential detail together.”
The shaved head shook solemnly. “Sorry to hear about a good man going down.”
“And Jay was a good man,” Reeder said. “A good man who wanted to talk to me because he’d caught wind of something bad.”
“Like Bryson had wanted to tell you something,” Hardesy said. “Another possible link between investigations?”
“I’m already convinced it’s one investigation.”
Nichols asked, “Is that why we’re here?”
Rogers said, “This is just a typical ‘all hands on deck’ following tonight’s incident. Who knows what else will pop up around town? In the meantime, we’re here.”
With a slow scan of faces, Reeder said, “Are we getting anywhere at connecting our double-tap victims?”
Ivanek said, “Miggie and I’ve been going over every aspect of their lives. No connections so far.”
“Miggie, how about the ‘sink’ search? Narrowing that any?”
He nodded. “To a couple of million possibilities.”
Reeder gave the computer analyst a look.
“No, really,” Miggie said. “We started with over a billion and a quarter.” He shrugged. “I said this would take time.”
Reeder said, “I’m afraid it’s going to take more.”
Miggie’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “How so?”
“Before he died,” Reeder said, “Akers’s last word was ‘senk.’”
Pin-drop silence.
Reeder went on: “He said it more than once, and I even asked if he meant ‘sink.’ He didn’t. We can assume Mrs. Bryson heard it wrong.”
Ivanek asked, “Is that a word, ‘senk’? A name?”
Miggie — face in his tablet, fingers flying — said, “Give me a second... it can be a name... Not a word, unless it’s phonetically the French word cinq.”