“Then they’re good, too,” she said. “Really goddamn good.”
“Yeah. You know how people say ‘Take care’ instead of good-bye?”
“Sure.”
“Well, Patti — take care.”
The next morning, in her office at the J. Edgar Hoover Building, Patti Rogers sat sipping coffee at her desk, looking at the slip of paper with two phone numbers written in Reeder’s concise hand. Nothing to it, feeding them into the computer to call up the records.
Even though President Devlin Harrison had replaced the two assassinated Supreme Court justices with jurists closer to his own Democratic politics, the legacy of a gutted Fourth Amendment and expanded Patriot Act remained. Rogers, who did not wear her slightly right-of-center politics on her sleeve, approved. That Reeder was an old-school JFK-style liberal made for ironic amusement here, since those conservative-bred changes allowed her to do his dirty work — specifically, Rogers had the right to look into the phone records of any citizen.
The new court had also overturned Roe v. Wade, after President Harrison selected one liberal judge and one conservative to fill the two vacancies. Arguably the court was more balanced than before, but it still leaned clearly right.
The President’s stated intention had been to exercise bipartisan fairness to bring the country together. Instead, the assassinations of two justices and their replacement appointments had only pushed the two sides further apart. The only unity between right and left today was a shared anger at Harrison.
Even with the new Supreme Court’s blessing, however, running Bryson’s phone numbers wouldn’t be enough.
With Reeder’s advice to “take care” foremost in her mind, Rogers went to see Miguel Altuve, her colleague and friend from the Supreme Court task force. A computer expert who could coax the most obscure information out of the net, Miggie played his keyboard with the skill and artistry of a great jazz musician.
In an office of his own now — roomy enough to include a small conference table with chairs — Miggie looked up from a trio of fanned-out monitors to answer Rogers’s knock at the frame of his open door.
“Patti Rogers,” he said with an instant smile, rising to welcome her. “Let me lie to myself that this is a social call before you tell me what you want.”
“Well, you are looking sharp, Miggie.”
Now that he was heading up a unit hunting cyberterrorists, a slimmed-down Altuve evidenced undergoing a considerable makeover — center-parted black hair exchanged for swept-back razor-cut, wireframe glasses supplanted by contacts, red-and-black power tie in place of his former-trademark clip-on bow tie.
And that charcoal suit had clearly set him back.
They shook hands and shared the awkward smiles of two former coworkers with mutual affection but little to say to each other. When your respective jobs were shrouded in secrecy, small talk was a problem.
“Got a second?” she asked, her smile starting to feel frozen.
“A second? I might even scrounge up a minute.”
He gestured to the small conference table and she took a seat there while he came over and sat across from her. He folded his hands in a saying-grace fashion and leaned forward, eyes bright with curiosity.
“So what can I do for you, Patti?”
“Not for me exactly. Actually... for Joe Reeder.”
Miggie’s eyebrows rose; frankly the contacts gave him something of a glazed look. Nerds die hard. “He working for the Bureau again?”
“No. That’s what makes this a little sticky. Let’s say I’m keeping an eye on something he’s looking into.”
There was nothing negative in Miggie’s frown. “Are we on the down-low here?”
Slowly, Rogers nodded. “Yes. So far it’s nothing even vaguely work-related. Law enforcement — related, but not Bureau.”
“You haven’t scared me off yet. Keep going.”
“It concerns a friend of Joe’s from his Secret Service days. Another retired agent... who committed suicide under what Joe considers suspicious circumstances.”
“Who am I to argue with Reeder’s instincts? Few computers can compete with that mind. Lay it all out.”
She did.
Then she said, “If this wasn’t suicide, the killer or more likely killers took out a very capable agent. Retired but hardly over the hill. I guess we know better than most that if an agent from any government law enforcement agency dies, under even vaguely suspicious circumstances, something bad may have happened. And that could mean somebody in government covering up.”
“I’ll stop you when you get to something I don’t know.”
She nodded. “Good. On the same page, then?”
“Same page.”
She clapped once. “So... take precautions, cover your newly slender ass, and don’t get cocky.”
“You’re talking to somebody who can look at three monitors and over his shoulder, all at the same time.”
She smiled a little. “Then you’re just the guy.” Handing him Reeder’s slip of paper, she said, “Let know what you find.”
He glanced at the two numbers and said, “Be on the safe side — give me a couple hours.”
She left him to it and returned to her office. The Special Situations Task Force was investigating a string of four homicides in the DC area that might or might not be related. Of the 109 murders in the District over the course of this year, these four stuck out as something different. The team was getting together for a briefing this morning.
The bullpen housed a cozy half a dozen desks with Rogers’s office in back. She stood looking out at her busy crew — four agents and a behaviorist that made up the task force.
Behavioral expert Trevor Ivanek was a skeletal six-footer with a talking-skull head home to a fuzzy cap of hair, broad forehead, and dark deep-set eyes. The latter were bright and inquisitive, and he smiled readily, for a man who spent so much time inside the heads of monsters.
The other four agents were divided into two teams. The more senior duo, Jerry Bohannon and Reggie Wade, had over thirty years experience between them.
Handsome Bohannon — whose hair had become mysteriously darker since his divorce, even as his wardrobe got sharper — had become something of a mentor to Rogers. When the unit was assembled, she had expected some pushback from the more veteran agents. The most senior of these, Bohannon, had set a respectful example.
Wade — six four, African American, trimly bearded, a former college basketball player — always managed to just skirt Bureau’s apparel regs with his GQ wardrobe. Rogers suspected Wade was serving as his recently unmarried partner’s sartorial adviser. Wade, too, had shown her nothing but support, despite having logged more years.
Lucas Hardesy, lead agent of the other pair, was less than impressed with Rogers, though never outright insubordinate. Head shaved, clothes immaculate, shoes spit-shined, he was gung-ho ex-military and clearly resented taking orders from someone with less time in.
Rogers sensed no sexism in Hardesy’s attitude — his trust and respect for his partner, Anne Nichols, making that unlikely.
Younger than Rogers, African American Nichols managed to balance badass with beauty. Patti’s own default setting was to underplay her appearance, even going for an asexual vibe with her short hair and neutral wardrobe. She could only admire Nichols for pulling off the tough but feminine gambit. That blue suit with suede navy collar and cuffs, and the simple touch of lace at Anne’s throat, were beyond Rogers’s confidence and imagination.
Even if Reeder had said she was cute as lace pants...
“So,” Rogers said, putting enough into it to raise everyone’s eyes from their reports, monitors, and coffee to her direct gaze. “Anybody come up with anything new this morning?”