Max Collins - Executive Order

With the door finally pulled shut, Miggie looked at Reeder and said, “Patti gave me the Cliff Notes version. How about the unabridged edition?”

Reeder motioned for them to move to the comfy chairs and couches facing the big flat-screen and settled in. Reeder brought Mig up to speed quickly but thoroughly.

Then he asked Miggie, “Have you had any luck tracking the money Wooten was paid to take Secretary Yellich down?”

Mig, in gray Hoyas Basketball sweats, shrugged. “Some... but nothing that does us any good yet. Shell companies, a slew of them. Whoever paid Wooten wanted the transaction untraceable. Nothing is , of course... but tracking it could take time.”

“How much time?” Reeder asked.

Miggie shrugged again. “Who knows? Weeks, even months.”

“We have four days. Then it won’t matter.”

Miggie frowned, flipped a hand. “I can only do what I can do, Joe. It’s like peeling an onion a layer at a time.”

Rogers asked, “What about our friend from the GAO?”

“Your elevator buddy? Well, knowing he’s from the GAO — if he’s really from the GAO — isn’t much to go on.”

She clearly didn’t like the sound of that. “Can’t you round up some pictures for me to sort through?”

Miggie huffed a non-laugh. “Patti, there’s somewhere north of three thousand employees in the GAO, more than half of ’em male — you want to look at all their photos?”

She frowned. “There has to be a faster way...”

“Might be,” Miggie admitted. “I’ve got a couple of ideas. Get back to you on that. In the meantime, what else do we need?”

Reeder held out the plastic bag with the busted flag-lapel camera in it. “Any way to track this?”

Miggie took the bag, removed its contents, studied it. Finally he said, “There’s no onboard memory, so it recorded images to a hard drive somewhere else. Meaning... probably not. Any idea who it belongs to?”

“A guy who jumped me in the dark.”

“Giving me a lot to work with, aren’t you?”

Reeder lifted a shoulder and put it back down. “Well, the Secret Service is the only agency I know of that uses these, this model anyway. It almost has to belong to one of their agents. If not, why did the GAO drone try to intimidate us right there at the Secret Service?”

Rogers asked, “What do you say, Miggie? Is there a way to track down the right agent?”

Examining the back of the mini-camera, the computer expert said, “There’s an ID number... maybe match it, if I hack the Secret Service. No small feat that, and when the flag cam got smashed, the ID number appears to’ve been ground into the concrete, and it was a tiny one to begin with... but we should be able to come up with several possibilities.”

“Good,” Reeder said.

As if taking stock for the first time, Miggie glanced around, sniffing some, and said, “You’ll need more Febreze than that to cover up that much weed.”

Reeder chuckled. “Who says Miguel Altuve can’t determine anything without a computer?”

Really taking their surroundings in now, Miggie asked, “What the hell is this place?”

Not missing a beat, Rogers said, “The Batcave.”

Miggie smirked. “Oh really? Is that how Bruce Wayne made his fortune, selling dope and guns?”

Ignoring that, Reeder rose and said, “Get set up, Mig, and get at it. You should be safe here... just don’t answer the door.”

The smirk morphed into a frown. “You think that elevator clown who threatened you can find us? Him or whoever he works for, anyway? And I don’t mean the GAO.”

Reeder shook his head. “Probably not, but in this town, what couldn’t happen? And the friend of mine who loaned us this pad has customers who will not be expecting you . So don’t answer it unless it’s one of us. There’s a camera — you’ll be able to see who’s out there.”

Miggie nodded, let some air out, said, “Got it.”

Reeder turned to Rogers. “Have you taken care of the Kevin situation?”

“No, but it’s next on my list.”

“Mine, too.”

She rose. “Joe... I can handle it myself. You stick here, why don’t you, and keep Miggie safe.”

Miggie volunteered, “I can handle myself.”

“He’s right,” Reeder told her. “This is a fortress. But you’ll be out in the world, Patti, and the next time they come at us, it’ll be with more than just threats. Consider me your backup.”

They took the rental car, Rogers driving, sticking to secondary streets, headlights like twin Maglites searching the darkness. When they were about a mile from her Joyce Street apartment house, Reeder had her pull over. He got out and in back and stayed low. He figured no one would recognize the rental, but understood that all of their residences were likely under surveillance.

A mile later, she pulled into the underground garage of her apartment building, pausing to swipe her card at the entry.

“Anything on the street?” he asked, still ducked down.

“Not that I saw. But these are pros.”

“So are we.”

“Should that be a comfort?”

She parked and they got out of the car and headed for the elevator, which was close to her stall. They didn’t bother trying to evade the security cameras, including the elevator cam, but going up the stairs would only put them in view of more high-mounted cameras. Odds were good no one would be monitoring the security system in Rogers’ building — her comings and goings would be the important observations.

They rode up in silence. Reeder had only been to her place two or three times, and not at all since Kevin Lockwood had more or less moved in. Of that he didn’t give a damn — as long as she was happy, he was fine with it. His only concern was that they now had another person who needed protecting. Another member of their extended “family.”

As she unlocked her apartment door, Reeder backed against the wall to one side, with his hand on the butt of the nine mil in his waistband.

“We’ve been busy,” she said, “so it’s kind of a mess,” then led him into the immaculate living room.

Browns and greens dominated, giving the place a vaguely military feel. A new sofa and matching recliner, dark green, dominated the middle of the room, angled toward shelves to Reeder’s left with a flat-screen and books. To his right, next to the door, hung a framed poster of Kevin and his late friend DeShawn Davis in their drag costumes — “The Plain Sisters,” a spoof of the Haynes sisters played by Rosemary Clooney and Vera-Ellen in White Christmas . Kevin and African American DeShawn — stage names Virginia Plain and Karma Sabich — posed in floor-length gowns, blonde wigs, and dazzling smiles.

DeShawn’s murder had first put Rogers and Kevin in contact. Despite the stressful circumstances, the pair had hit it off and had gradually become a couple. Reeder had accompanied Rogers to one of her boyfriend’s performances at the Les Girls club, and the young man, in his drag queen persona, was quite good... not that this was Reeder’s preferred form of entertainment.

Trying to process this relationship between a woman he assumed was gay and a guy he figured was bisexual only made Reeder’s head hurt. So mostly he didn’t bother.

Rogers turned toward the back of the apartment, where a hallway led to two bedrooms and a bathroom, and called, “ Honey, I’m home! ” Like this was 1957 and they were a typical couple. In a lot of ways, they were.

“ Joe’s here! ” she added.

Towel in hand, Kevin trotted out wearing only baggy shorts and a chin full of shaving cream, his wide grin nearly as white as the foam. “Mr. Reeder! Welcome.”