Supreme Justice (5 page)

Nobody laughed or even smiled at that. But a few people said “Hey”; several nodded.

Sloan didn’t let it go at that: “Some of you may know that Peep here is a controversial fellow. There are nasty rumors that he’s a Democrat.”

That did get a few laughs.

“But before you give him a hard time,” Sloan said, “keep in mind that he is here at the specific, special request of Assistant Director Fisk.”

That caused a murmur, but then they were all back at it.

“Well,” Reeder said, “that was fun. You had to bring up me takin’ a bullet, huh?”

Sloan put a hand on Reeder’s shoulder, and his blue eyes smiled. “Peep, they did need to hear that. It was a fucking brave thing you did.”

“Saving that bastard was the worst move I ever made.”

“He was a good president, despite what you may think,” Sloan said, “and there are those of us who feel you did the country a great service.”

“All I did was my job.” Rotating his left shoulder as much as he could, Reeder said, “And anyway, maybe
this
is going to turn out to be the worst move I ever made.”

Bishop came up, shook Reeder’s hand, clamped him on the good shoulder. “Welcome aboard, Peep.”

Returning the firm grip and smile, Reeder said, “Thanks . . . I guess.”

“We can sure as shit use the help,” Bishop said with a humorless smirk. “We’re not coming up with a hell of a lot so far. Any idea how many black SUVs there are in the DC metro area?”

Sloan said, “We’ll do a full briefing for everybody in ten minutes. I don’t care how many agencies are in on this. We need everybody on the same page.”

Bishop, clearly glad to be included, nodded. “I hear you, boss man.” He headed to one of the desks.

The flying-saucer brunette approached them. She wore a white blouse under a charcoal suit, had curly hair cut short, brown eyes, a wide nose, full lips, her makeup understated. She was attractive if not pretty in the conventional sense. Cute. Which was probably something of a burden for an FBI agent.

Sloan made the introductions: “Patti Rogers, Peep Reeder.”

She extended her hand, her expression still confused.

Shaking her hand, Reeder said, “What?”

She shook her head, clearing the cobwebs. “It’s just that Sloan has told me so much about you for so long . . . I sort of figured you’d
fly
in.”

“My cape is in the wash,” Reeder said with an embarrassed grin.

“Some people reader you are,” Sloan said with half a smile. “My partner played you like a kazoo, buddy.”

Rogers seemed a little embarrassed herself now. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Reeder,” she said.

He nodded. “Why don’t you make it
Joe
?”

“All right, Joe . . . There’s a desk next to mine. Wanna help me catch a couple killers?”

“Sure,” Reeder said, but he glanced at Sloan.

Rogers was already on her way as Sloan said, “Peep, I’m going to partner you up with Patti. You need someone with some actual authority, and Patti is damn good. She’s also footloose, since I’ll be spending my time running the show.”

Reeder nodded.

And then he took his place at a desk on the periphery, away from the big people’s table.

“
Ethics is knowing the difference between what you have the right to do and what is the right thing to do
.”

Potter Stewart, Associate Justice of the United States Supreme Court, 1958–1981.
Section 5, Grave 40-2, Arlington National Cemetery.

FIVE

Patti Rogers knew damn well that Joe Reeder was disliked, even hated, by many of their fellow law enforcement agents, including some here at the command post.

That Sloan had given his friend this chance at redemption reflected well on the man, though she figured neither of these friends looked at it that way.

Anyway, Rogers didn’t give a shit what anybody said—not the other agents, not even Sloan, for that matter. She had been assigned Reeder as her temp partner, and she would work with the guy. Any opinions about him would be made starting here and now—on the job. Based on his performance, she would decide whether or not he was the son of a bitch everybody but Gabe Sloan said he was.

Speaking of Sloan, he was making his way to the head of the table gradually, moving from one agent to another, gathering individual progress reports. But shortly it would be time for the briefing.

She glanced at the desk next to her, where her new partner was watching her. He was what they once called “ruggedly handsome,” and distinctively so with that white hair and matching eyebrows. Nice tan, too.

“What?” she asked. “Something in my teeth?”

He shook his head.

“What, then?”

“Nothing,” he said.

Then it hit her.

“Stop reading me,” she said.

“Who says I am?”

“I do.”

“Okay, Patti. Or do you prefer Patricia?”

“Everybody calls me Patti.”

“That doesn’t mean you prefer it. What’s your story?”

“I have a story? Why don’t you tell me?”

“Midwest. Small town. Farm girl? Figured early on the farm-wife routine that was fine for your mom, God bless her, just wasn’t for you. Education was a way out. Iowa State? No, University of Iowa. ROTC?”

“What are you, a male witch?”

“Psych major? Thought so. Three years active duty . . . Marines? Army. Obviously an MP.”

“Why obviously?”

“You’re in law enforcement. Still in the reserves.”

“Okay. I admit it. I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be.” He grinned at her. “Sloan told me all this, the other day, when he said he was thinking of teaming us up.”

She couldn’t stop herself from grinning back at him. “Why, you son of a bitch . . .”

“That’s not much of a read, Patti. Most of the other agents in this room could tell you that . . . Looks like our big chief is ready for his powwow. We better get over there.”

Rogers and Reeder, along with other deskbound participants like Homicide Detective Bishop, stood behind those seated at the conference table. This made her feel like an onlooker, but she was confident Sloan would not consign her—or, for that matter, his pal Reeder—to grunt work.

Seated at the conference table over to her right was FBI computer expert Miguel Altuve; short, pudgy, in shirtsleeves (his suit coat over his chair back), bow tie a clip-on, longish dark hair parted in the middle, Miggie could hardly have looked less imposing. But he could do more damage with a laptop than most agents could a firearm.

At Miggie’s left were a pair of clean-cut Secret Service agents, their backs rod straight as if even sitting down they were guarding a president. In their dark suits with jackets off, they looked like very well-armed Mormons. Senior Agent Alan Stein had short dark hair and that average look and body type the Secret Service sought. Rogers could offer no evidence that the agent knew how to smile. His partner, Anthony Ho, was tall, muscular—probably a workout junkie. Ho smiled on occasion. Rare occasion.

Did you get written up when you smiled in the Secret Service?
she wondered. The FBI had a reputation for being humorless, but was
Animal House
compared to this repressed lot.

Over at the table to Rogers’s left sat the only other woman in the room, Homeland Security Agent Jessica Cribbs. Taller and trimmer than Patti, Jess had a long brunette ponytail that Rogers secretly coveted. Given that they were members of the same gender minority, at least in federal law enforcement, the two had become friendly, if not quite friends, over the past three years or so.

Jess’s partner, beefy, well-dressed Walter Eaton, stood just behind her, arms crossed, his squinty brown-eyed gaze fixed on Reeder, his mustache practically twitching with anger. She didn’t need to be a people reader to know how Eaton felt about the new addition to the team. Eaton had just come in from somewhere and hadn’t been present when Sloan introduced Reeder to the rest.

Trouble?

Detective Bishop’s partner, Detective Ed Pellin, stood to Eaton’s right like something carved out of a tree trunk by a semiskilled artisan. A former Marine, Pellin was as Semper Fi as it got—hair clipped close, standing at attention out of habit, even if his gray suit was straight out of the hamper this morning. But this was an old-school cop who got results.

The others, including Supreme Court police and a few more FBI, were new to her.

“All right,” Sloan said. “Let’s get started.”

“Not until you answer a question,” Eaton said.

Shit,
Rogers thought.
Insubordination already.

“Let’s hear it, then,” Sloan said, with only slightly strained patience.

“What in the hell is
he
doing here?” Eaton demanded, still pointedly staring at Reeder.

Sloan kept his voice reasonable. “I explained that earlier. Let’s not waste time going over—”

“That man’s presence has not been cleared by Homeland Security.”

“No one here has been ‘cleared’ by Homeland Security, Walt. Joe Reeder is here at the FBI Assistant Director’s request. Got that?”

“No. I don’t.”

Sloan’s expression tightened. “Reeder’s on board because he’s valuable. Because we need him.”

“Bullshit,” Eaton snapped. “He’s a loose cannon that marches to his own damn drum.”

Wow,
Rogers thought.
Wasn’t
that
a mixed metaphor, not to mention a collision of clichés.

Sloan, his voice icy, said, “Reeder’s here because I recommended his presence.”

Eaton was sneering. “What if Homeland Security doesn’t think that cuts it?”

Seated in front of the bitching agent, Jess caught Rogers’s gaze and did an eye roll that would have scored a ten at the Olympics.

Rogers gave her a look back that said,
Just the inevitable agency dick-measuring contest. Might as well get it out of the way.

Sloan, his head to one side, gave Eaton a bland, bored look, as if the Homeland Security agent’s glare was unworthy of anything more.

The SAIC said, “The FBI is leading this interagency investigation, which I’m in charge of, and if any of you don’t like it, pick up your toys and go back to your own sandbox.”

Eaton said nothing.

Nor did anyone else.

Rogers glanced at Reeder, whose expression seemed blank; but somehow she sensed the man was enjoying this.

Sloan smiled in a businesslike fashion. “Now, may we proceed? Or do you think this kind of exchange benefits our investigation, which, by the way, is only into the first-ever murder of a Supreme Court justice?”

DC Homicide Detective Ed Pellin came to everybody’s rescue by saying, “I think we may have a lead.”

Turning to Pellin, Sloan said, “Let’s have it.”

“Bish and I got a call from a detective buddy in our robbery division a few minutes ago. He said a pair of stickup artists using this same MO, right down to weapons, has hit bars in Manassas and Falls Church in Virginia, and Bowie, Gaithersburg, and Landover in Maryland. Looks like they’ve finally made their way to DC.”

Sloan glanced at Reeder, then turned back to Pellin. “No one thought of this last night?”

Unembarrassed, Bishop said, “The scores were far enough apart—two states, and robberies, not murders—that nobody put it together right away.”

“Any shootings?”

Bishop shook his head. “In Bowie, the guy with the AK broke a bartender’s jaw for trying to stop them, but that’s the roughest it ever got. They weren’t on anybody’s radar for murder.”

“Well, they are now,” Sloan said. He ran a hand over his face like he was trying to wipe away years’, not hours’, worth of exhaustion. “Okay, Bishop, you and Pellin stay on top of that. Let’s ID these bad boys and round their asses up.”

“You got it,” Bishop said.

“And, Bishop?”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s follow this up faster than it came in.”

With a humorless smirk, Bishop nodded.

Turning to Eaton and Jess Cribbs, Sloan said, “So . . . is the Homeland Security contingent staying?”

Eaton said nothing, but, seated in front of him, Jess said, “We’re on board.”

Sloan nodded. “All right. Then it’s time to let you know exactly why I recommended that Reeder join us in this operation. You see, he thinks this is not just a robbery—but an assassination.”

Coming after news of a holdup team that matched last night’s perps, this cast a cloud of confusion over the room. The murmurs combined into the growl of an approaching storm.

Bishop spoke to what everyone was thinking. “Gabe, we have two suspects who—”

“Who we know precious little about. Just because two armed robbers are sticking up bars in nearby states does not mean we have this thing solved. Particularly not considering what Reeder has come up with. Peep! Join me.”

Reeder did as he was told. The faces that followed him till he was at Sloan’s side were not warm—in fact, many were cold. But even Eaton was no longer openly contemptuous.

“Bring up the security footage on your screens,” Sloan told them, then added the time code where they should cue up the video. Those standing leaned in over the nearest shoulder of a seated agent with a monitor.

For half an hour Reeder walked them through the footage, having them pause and go back and generally get to know every square inch of the recording. Rogers was impressed—Reeder’s kinesics seemed to be the real deal. She was sold.

And so, apparently, were the rest of them. Not even Eaton argued against the ex–Secret Service agent’s interpretation of the footage.

Reeder concluded: “You may say that hanging our entire investigation on my take on Justice Venter’s body language is an incredibly foolish tack to take. And I would agree. These holdup men hitting bars in nearby states provide a good lead. I’m sure many of you will come up with others. They should all be run down, with speed and diligence.”

Expressions among the agents were exchanged that said to Rogers their new team member had made his case well.

Reeder went on: “But I will stake my reputation . . . which isn’t much of a bet in this company . . . on being right.”

That actually earned a few chuckles and more than a few smiles.

Sloan stepped up. “If Reeder is right, and I think he may well be, we still don’t have a clear motive. Walt, I want you and Cribbs to spearhead looking into the Aryan Nations, Posse Comitatus types, religious extremists, any group that might want Venter dead for racial or religious reasons.”

Eaton nodded, still not saying a word.

To Stein and Ho, Sloan said, “Concentrate on Venter’s personal life. Is there something there that might have led to this? Keep in mind the sexual controversy that arose in the confirmation hearings. Miggie, run the Justice’s financials, give them to Stein and Ho—maybe there’s a motive there.”

Miggie nodded.

Sloan made a number of other assignments, mostly designating who would back up the individuals he’d already assigned tasks, then finally turned to Reeder and Rogers.

“Peep, much as I might agree with your take on this, these stickup men are our best lead right now.”

“Full agreement.”

“You and Rogers work with Bishop and Pellin. I want these knockover guys ID’d and brought in ASAP.”

If Reeder was disappointed that he’d be pursuing a theory other than his own, Rogers couldn’t tell.

Sloan said, “Everybody on top of their assignments?”

Nods all around.

“Good,” he said. “Let’s get to work.”

At the conference table, agents hunkered over their laptops again while those with desks made their way to them. Rogers sat at hers, moving her mouse to get rid of the screensaver.

She glanced at Reeder at his nearby desk, catching him staring at her again.

“Something wrong?” she asked with an edge.

He was clearly appraising her. It wasn’t a looking-her-up-and-down kind of thing. But this still made the second time he’d been reading her, and she didn’t like it.

Not surprisingly, he read that. “Patti, I’m not doing anything that you and everyone else don’t do every day.”

“I don’t do any such thing.”

“Sure you do,” Reeder said. “Everybody does. You size up the people around you based on what they give you to work from.”

“And what does your sizing up tell you about me?”

“Well, you’re practical. That Iowa background of yours.”

“You already admitted Sloan told you I was from there.”

“True, but the Herky the Hawk bobblehead on your desk would have if he hadn’t.”

The black-and-gold Herky sat on her desk next to a picture of her folks and brother outside. At the farm.

“And speaking of your desk . . .”

What now?

“. . . that baggie of carrot sticks says you’re health conscious.”

“Carrots make me a health nut?”

“If I go to Bishop’s desk, wanna bet I don’t find a cache of Snickers or maybe Kit Kats? He thinks ‘Candy Bar’ is a food group.”

She laughed a little. Couldn’t help herself.

“Your hair,” he said.

But now she frowned. “My
hair
? Jesus Christ, Joe. You really think this is appropriate to the workplace?”

“Short is practical, but it also keeps you more in line with this still predominantly male field. Similarly, you take it easy on the makeup.”

“I don’t wear any more or less than Jess.”

“Your friend wears blush and mascara—makes no effort to blend in with the Boys’ Club. Actually, she likes to stand out.”

Reeder had Jess nailed, all right. The Homeland Security agent had bigger aspirations than fieldwork.

He was saying, “No perfume, either.”

“Why all this, do you suppose? So I’ll fit in, here in the locker room?”