In fact, I was walking toward the door when Meany yelled, “Don’t you fucking move!”
“But you said no crime was committed. I’ll leave if I want.”
“There is the possibility of a crime.”
“Really? Then you’re required by law to inform me of the exact nature of that crime. Read Miranda, pal.”
“Possibly manslaughter, discharging firearms, disturbing the peace
… I won’t know till we fully interrogate you and get to the bottom of this.”
I looked at Martin. “You heard the man and the charges. He suspects me of being a suspect. That suspicion obviously extends to my accomplice, Mr. Spinelli. We demand to speak with our lawyers.”
Martin was staring at Meany and realizing, I think, that he really was an idiot. I was just brokenhearted that Janet wasn’t here to witness what a putz this guy was. Not only was I slick and brilliant; he was stupid.
But back to Lieutenant Martin, whom I actually liked, and whom I felt a little sorry for. This whole affair was fairly confusing.
But he was smart enough to appreciate that Meany had just blown any chance of an on-scene interrogation, so he rolled his eyes and nodded.
Actually, I was being a prick on the general legal principle that you should always be a prick. Also, I wasn’t sure whether I had a legal problem or not. Whoever they were, the shooters had invaded my home. Virginia law stipulates that homeowners may take reasonable steps to protect themselves and their property. When your door blows down and a firing squad starts emptying clips through your porch door, reasonable steps cover a lot of territory.
Spinelli and his fellow agents were all properly licensed to carry firearms-kosher on that front. Also, we had that helpful authorization provided by the provost marshal. But I didn’t mention that yet, because somebody was bound to wonder why there was a need for such an authorization. And why three armed agents of the United States Army were camped out with loaded guns in Sean Drummond’s apartment.
Martin and his boys weren’t stupid. After inventorying our arsenal and finding the shooter’s shields and burglar detection systems, they’d start scratching their furrowed brows and pondering what the hell was going on here.
George Meany was an idiot, and even he knew something was fishy.
But fortunately things suddenly turned chaotic. Five extendable stretchers had been brought up, and six medical technicians and a covey of cops and detectives were huddled around corpses. Some of Martin’s guys were scraping chalkmarks, Bill was being wheeled out with an IV poking out his arm, and a medic was trying to coax an ill-tempered Spinelli onto a stretcher. Spinelli was right, incidentally-there was a big splinter of wood poking out of his shoulder.
Just then two guys in gray suits appeared in the doorway. A cop blocked them from entering, and Lieutenant Martin glanced in their direction and yelled, appropriately, “Crime scene, gentlemen. Turn your asses around and get out.”
Meany said, “Let them come in.”
What?
The one in the lead, the older of the two, walked confidently up to Martin, flashed a set of credentials, and said, “How about a word in the hallway, Lieutenant.”
What bothered me most about this was that he had deliberately positioned himself so I couldn’t see the credentials. But they must’ve been pretty good shit, because Martin shrugged and obediently joined him in the hall. The second guy remained by the doorway and kept his eye on me. But I did notice that he and George exchanged brief nods. Not good. Really, not good.
Also, I noticed that the two gray-suited gentlemen had failed to sign in with the cop who stood by the door, a legal requirement for all visitors at an active crime scene. Nor did Lieutenant Martin make a stink about it. Also not good.
After a minute or so, Martin walked back inside, followed by the other gentleman. He said to me, “These gentlemen are going to take you to a suitable location for a debriefing.”
For the record, semantically speaking, cops interrogate; other kinds of agencies debrief. It sounds more polite and genteel. It’s not; it just sounds that way.
As though the choice were mine, I said, “Whatever.”
I looked over at George and smiled.
For once, George smiled back.
I said, “Hey, George, I think one of the attackers left some spent cartridges on the porch. Did you check there yet?”
“What? No… I’ll, uh…” He turned around, stepped onto the porch, and then said, “Auuggghhh.”
I walked out between the two gentlemen in gray suits, who, incidentally, had forgotten to offer me their names or show me their credentials. And of course, I noticed that they also had arrived awfully damned fast, which added another notch to my curiosity.
Well, good things come to those who wait.
But so do bad things.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Imagine my delight when I found myself in a black government sedan, speeding down the George Washington Parkway. Or my utter surprise when we took the exit to Langley and were soon waved through a guarded checkpoint, and then pulled to a stop in front of the sprawling headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency.
A word here about that “debriefing” thing. The list of the proliferating species of Feds who do spooky things, and carry variations of law enforcement credentials, has gotten to be as long as your frigging arm. There’s the DEA, the NSA, the DIA, guys from several counterterrorism agencies so new they don’t even have recognizable initials yet; and these days, even the IRS, U. S. postal inspectors, and Customs Service are elbowing their way into national security turf.
Still, think foppish, secretive, uptight assholes and you end up with… who?
Anyway, my lockjawed escorts and I climbed out of the sedan and then loitered by the entrance until three black Crown Vics pulled up and Janet stepped out. I was pleased to see her; just not pleased to see her here. However, she pecked my cheek and squeezed my shoulder, which I liked. We had only a brief moment to speak, during which she informed me that George the Moron had phoned and told her about the little problem back in my apartment. I didn’t really think it was a good idea to discuss this in front of our two gray-suited escorts, and I promised we’d talk more about it later.
But regarding this building, the Army and the Agency are on the same team, and in my line of work, as you might imagine, I often come into contact with CIA people. I have found them to be almost universally loyal, patriotic, intelligent, and courageous. But if you ever, say, end up in the shower with one, keep your hand on the hot water knob and, for Godsakes, don’t drop the soap-it’s sort of instinctive for them.
Our mute escorts directed us inside, got us building passes, then led us swiftly to an elevator that sped us upstairs to the fourth floor. Janet’s expression was one of surprise and awe, and in fact, she looked like Dorothy after the twister dropped her tush in a strange land filled with odd people, wicked witches, and wizards. That metaphor fit really well, incidentally; inside this building nobody was what they appeared to be, hearts and sometimes brains are in short supply, and all kinds of weird crap occurs behind impenetrable curtains.
Anyway, we were led to a briefing room, sort of a mini-theater, and asked to take seats. Which we did. But when I looked back over my shoulder for our escorts, they had vanished, probably through trapdoors in the floor or something.
Janet examined the room and whispered, “What are we doing here? ”
“First time?”
“Of course.”
“Keep your legs crossed, don’t take any IOUs, and I hope you’re on the pill.”
She shook her head. Apparently, she thought I was trying to be witty or melodramatic. I wasn’t.
The door behind us opened. A man and a lady entered.
The man looked like your typical CIA field operative type- ordinary build, indeterminate weight, facial features, and age, a guy you could spend a long weekend skiing with and not remember what he looked like, his name, even that you skied; just that somebody humped you in the shower and stole your ID and charge cards.