Finally Fisk stepped in, Reeder stepped back, and the Assistant Director said, “Thank you, everyone. That’s all for today.”
Reeder gave the reporters a nod and went out. Rogers followed.
As they walked quickly down the corridor, Rogers said, “You did fine. What’s the idea of making me out a hero?”
“You are one. Anyway, maybe it’ll get some of the heat off me.”
They went their separate ways, to go home and get a few hours sleep.
Looked like date night with Joe Reeder was finally over. With more fun soon to begin.
Fifteen
“Those who expect to reap the blessings of freedom must, like men, undergo the fatigue of supporting it.”
Walking with Rogers along First Street SE, the Capitol on their left, their breaths sending smoke signals, Joe Reeder looked up at the dome and wondered how much longer the scaffolding would be part of the view. The dome was cast iron, so fixes didn’t happen overnight, and of course cosmetic work would follow. The 2014 renovation had run over schedule and he assumed — relentless as the winter had been — this one would, too.
“What are you thinking, Joe?”
“That we finally have a connection between victims, though it’s goddamn vague.”
“A maintenance man from the Capitol and a congressional aide.”
“Right. Murdered months apart, in what seems to be the same series of crimes.”
Rogers nodded. She was in her gray peacoat. “No mistaking it for serial killing now, not with attempted political assassination and arson in the mix.”
Reeder gestured to the imposing building they were approaching. “But these two victims are tied to the Capitol, where our others — librarian, accountant, transvestite — aren’t.”
“Don’t forget our factory supervisor.”
Reeder’s gloved hands were in his Burberry pockets. “I haven’t. William Robertson. He provides a possible tie to the exploded buildings where our maintenance guy was dumped. An operation like that can always use a good factory supervisor.”
“Joe, Robertson already worked at a manufacturing plant in Bowie, Maryland. And he was hardly moonlighting at a shop almost three hours away.”
“Rough commute,” Reeder admitted.
Rogers, thinking, mused, “Of course that plant in Bowie might be related somehow to the Charlottesville shops...”
They made the turn onto the wide sidewalk that led up to the Capitol’s east front. Coming toward him was a very pleasant sight: his daughter Amy, in a navy-blue parka in keeping with her Georgetown school colors, walking head down, in conversation with a distinguished-looking fifty-something blonde, Senator Diane Trempe Hackbarth. Reeder had never met the attractive congresswoman, but she was a familiar face from TV.
His daughter glanced up, beamed upon seeing him, and came over quickly and gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. She gave Rogers a hug, too — they weren’t close but had become friendly after the dramatic events of last year.
Amy introduced them both to Senator Hackbarth.
“An honor to meet you, Mr. Reeder,” the senator said, smiling warmly, shaking his hand. “I admit to being a fan... although I assure you that your daughter has never played upon that weakness.”
“An honor here, too, Senator. Amy seems to really enjoy working with you.”
Another warm smile from the senator, whose cheeks were probably rosy even when the wind chill wasn’t below freezing. “Amy’s been fairly successful in not bragging you up too much... until just recently. You’re making a noticeable habit out of this hero business.”
“Not my intention, I assure you. Anyway, this Benjamin thing, my partner Special Agent Rogers was the real hero.”
Rogers suddenly had rosy cheeks, too.
Amy said to her, “Partner? Are you and Dad working together again?”
“Yes, he’s consulting with my task force.”
Amy knew not to ask anything further, saying, “Sounds like you’re the boss. Good luck getting him to do what you want.”
“Tell me about it.”
His daughter turned to him. “Have you heard from Mom?”
“Not for a few days.”
Her smile was gently mocking. “Well, she’s probably trying to figure out what to say to you.”
“Oh?”
“She’s very proud. And truly furious... Sorry to air our mildly dirty laundry in front of you, Senator.”
Hackbarth said, “I can understand your mother’s mixed emotions.” She turned a faintly amused smile on him. “If you were my husband... even my ex-husband... we’d be discussing your propensity to jump in front of bullets.”
Reeder grinned. “Amy’s mother and I have had that discussion.”
“But speaking not as a hypothetical wife, ex or otherwise, rather as United States Senator... I am grateful for your bravery, Mr. Reeder.”
“Make it Joe, please. And thanks.”
“Dad,” Amy said, uncharacteristically bubbly, “Senator Hackbarth just invited me to be her guest at the State of the Union speech — did you ever hear anything more cool?”
“Short of this weather we’re crazily out talking in? No. Thank you, Senator, that’s generous.”
“You have a very intelligent daughter, Joe, who works hard.”
“Great to hear,” Reeder said. “But credit her mother.”
Amy gave him an amused smile. “If you’re expecting me to report that remark back to Mom... I will.”
He smiled back at her, then said to the senator, “You’re on your way somewhere and so are we. We’d better get going before we all freeze into just so many more DC statues.”
Everybody laughed a little — politely, he thought — and they made their good-byes, he and Rogers repeating their gloved handshakes with the senator, then going their separate ways.
Reeder and the FBI agent took the stairs down to the lower entrance where all visitors passed through security, beyond which a dark-blue-uniformed Capitol Police officer waited to walk them through the labyrinth of corridors to the chief’s office. Wordlessly the officer led them through a small reception area with a currently unmanned reception desk and a handful of empty chairs, and right up to the frosted-glass door, where he knocked twice.
This was a modest satellite office of the chief’s — the main HQ of Capitol PD was over on D Street NE — reserved for meetings like the one AD Fisk had scheduled for them.
“Come,” a voice within said, and the officer opened the door for them, giving them a nod as crisp as his dark-blue tie; when Reeder and Rogers were inside, their escort pulled the door shut behind him.
“Chief Ackley,” Rogers said with her own crisp nod. “Special Agent Rogers. This is—”
But the big man at the desk in the small, nondescript inner office was already on his feet and coming around. “How the hell are you, Peep?”
“Old and hurting, Bob,” Reeder said with a grin, as the two men shook hands. “But then you know the feeling.”
Chief Robert Ackley, in uniform from badge to dark-blue tie, the pepper of his black hair heavily salted, was around Reeder’s age but looked older, the price of decades of tough, challenging police work.
The chief got behind his desk again, and Reeder and Rogers took two of a trio of waiting visitor chairs.
Before they got to it, Reeder asked about Ackley’s wife, Margie, who’d been fighting breast cancer. Ackley said everything was fine now.
“We just try to find a way to enjoy every day,” Ackley said. “Easier to do that at home, on a day like this.”
“When is it ever easy in this building?”
“There isn’t always this bullshit,” Ackley said, gesturing to a medium-size monitor on the wall.