Max Collins - Executive Order

Almost shyly, Reeder said, “I probably shouldn’t even be here... but I needed to talk to you, away from your desk, and phones are out of the question right now.”

“Just tell me, Peep.”

“This is probably outside your sphere, but I need you to check up on a hit-and-run out at Arlington.”

The detective’s eyes widened and it didn’t take a kinesics expert to read them. “You’re shitting me.”

Shaking his head, Reeder said, “No, there really was a hit-and-run out there, and—”

Raising a traffic-cop hand, Bishop said, “Peep, I know. I know. It’s been all over the news.”

“It has?”

“The hit-and-run itself didn’t attract attention. But tourists got cell phone footage of FBI and Homeland agents at the site — two federal agencies send their people to a hit-and-run? That’s news. No one is saying who got killed but—”

“Len Chamberlain,” Reeder cut in.

The name meant nothing to Bishop. “You knew the guy?”

Nodding, Reeder said, “I saw it happen. He was CIA. The real deal, but lately just riding a desk. He was coming to Arlington to give me information about the slain US citizens in Azbekistan.”

“Hell you say.”

“Hell I say.”

Bishop’s expression would have seemed blank to most people, but not Reeder.

The detective said, “What can I do to help? You’re talking high intrigue. I’m just a simple DC gumshoe. You were there — what did you tell the cops?”

“Nothing. I left. What could I give them that a dozen witnesses couldn’t? And if Len was worth killing, then maybe I was a target, too.”

Bishop’s eyes were wide again. “Jesus, man. What about Melanie and Amy? These don’t sound like people who would stop at much.”

“They’re safe.”

“Good. Good.” He took some air in, then let it out. “So... we’re back to the beginning. What can I do to help?”

Reeder held Bishop’s gaze. “I’m curious as to what evidence the cops took from the scene.”

“And you want me to find out what that might be.”

“ If they found anything,” Reeder said. “But be goddamn careful, Bish — the forces in play may already be responsible for the deaths of seven people.”

A deep sigh. “Consider your point made, Peep. Look — was this guy Chamberlain bringing you a package? Is that what you hope to find?”

Reeder shrugged. “I hope to find anything that gives me some small piece of daylight. We set up the meeting textbook careful, yet Chamberlain is still wearing tire tracks. Whether he had something to tell me, or to give me, I have no idea. But us setting up a meet got somebody’s attention enough to warrant killing Len.”

Bishop grunted a non-laugh. “Great. Any advice for me?”

“Yeah. Watch your ass.”

They just sat there for a moment.

Then Bishop said, “With the feds already on this, I may not be able to get you a damn thing, you know.”

Reeder shook his head dismissively. “Don’t sweat that. I’ve got people at the FBI who’ll help me on that end. But I want to know if the local cops got anything before the feds shut them out.”

Bishop was nodding. “I’ll take care of it, Peep... and I’ll watch my ass. Anything else I can do for you? We’re full service here at Bishop Motors.”

“Sure.” Reeder slid off the stool. “Lock the door behind me. I’ll go out the back and through the neighbors’ yards.”

As Reeder headed that way, Bishop followed, saying, “Fine, but be careful. The Smiths, three houses down, have a mouthy little blue heeler. It’s penned up, but you might soil yourself if you’re not expecting that kind of welcome.”

“Yeah, I heard him earlier. Sounded like a bigger dog.”

“No, just a little son of a bitch, but a big pain in the ass.”

Reeder shot his friend an over-the-shoulder grin, his first in many hours, and ducked out into darkness.

“History and experience tell us that moral progress comes not in comfortable and complacent times, but out of trial and confusion.”

Patti Rogers, in her favorite gray suit with a black silk blouse beneath, strode with purpose into the Special Situations bullpen at the J. Edgar Hoover Building. Though she’d barely slept, Rogers had been up early, ready to go — or anyway, ready after grabbing a tall coffee from the Starbucks in the lobby of her apartment building.

First order of business: talk to the team’s resident computer expert, Miggie Altuve, who was as good at his specialty as anybody the FBI had.

He was in the office next to hers, at the back, first in, the other desks empty. He was using his private tablet, not his work computer. The small space had windows onto the street, his door always open because he could focus in a hurricane, and anyway, he was always welcome for more input.

“Hey you,” she said, strolling in without knocking on the jamb.

“Hey you,” he said, not looking up.

While his razor-cut hair was “Werewolves of London”-perfect, his navy suit coat was already draped haphazardly over the back of his desk chair, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up a couple turns. Formerly a pudgy nerd, Miguel Altuve had lost weight and ditched his wire-frame glasses, but inside this handsome, diminutive man a nerd still lurked. Right now his eyes were red-rimmed — likely his contacts had been in too long — and his dark complexion looked uncharacteristically sallow.

She lowered herself into the chair alongside his desk. “How long have you been up?”

“Twenty-four... uh, twenty- six hours.”

She almost felt guilty, having dropped Reeder’s suspicions on Miggie last night... using the burner phone of course. Almost guilty.

“No sleep at all?” she asked.

“I was working,” he said, as if that explained it, and actually it did. “I napped for an hour or two. Hey, I’m fine. My blood is thirty percent caffeine.”

“How far did you get?”

“I’m still on Tony Evans.”

Her eyebrows tried to join each other. “You spent all night tracing an alias?”

He leaned back in his swivel chair. “That was part of it. But I was also looking into the fascinating life and times of Anthony J. Wooten.”

“And just who is Anthony J. Wooten?”

With a sly smile, Miggie said, “He and Tony Evans are one and the same... at least according to the fingerprints from the DC Homicide morgue.”

She was on the edge of her seat, like a kid at a horror movie. “What do we know about the late Mr. Wooten?”

“Ex-military. Black ops stuff in Afghanistan.”

“So, he’s CIA?”

“Not so you’d notice. But clearly an asset.”

She shifted in the chair. “Okay, back up. How do you even know Wooten did ‘black ops stuff in Afghanistan’? That’s got to be classified.”

“Oh, it is. Way down deep.”

“Then you found out how?”

He folded his arms, shook his head. “We’re in that if-I-told-you-I’d-have-to-kill-you area. Or even worse, if-I-told-you-they’d-have-to-kill-me.”

“Or both of us?”

He sighed and thought for a moment. Rocking a little, he said, “Let’s just say I know somebody who knows somebody who knows somebody who could get me the answers we wanted.” He stopped rocking. “Are you planning to take this to court?”

“Not in the immediate future.”

He started rocking again. “Then we’re on a need-to-know basis... and you don’t need to know.”