Carla Neggers - The Rapids

Rob rolled out of bed at six in his first-floor Brooklyn apartment, pulled on shorts and a T-shirt and headed out for his morning paper. He’d ignored all messages from reporters on his voice mail when he got home last night.

A woman in biking shorts was on his doorstep. “Deputy Dunnemore? My name’s Patty. I’d like to talk to you about the arrest of Nicholas Janssen yesterday in the Netherlands.”

No last name, no credentials. A freelancer. She looked young enough to be a journalism student. She was sweating and panting, indicating she’d pedaled a ways to get to him, which at least meant she didn’t live nearby.

Rob picked up his paper and noticed Janssen’s arrest had made the front page. No surprise.

Patty frowned when he didn’t respond. “Have you and President Poe talked about the arrest?”

Her eyes fell to where his scar was under his shirt. The whole damned world knew the details of his injury. There’d been diagrams of the path of the bullet on TV. Doctors had discussed his prognosis, his recovery, how people could live normal lives without a spleen.

“It’s a nice morning for a bike ride,” he said. “See you, Patty.”

He didn’t like shutting the door in her face, but his other options—for example, talking to her—were even less appealing. When he got back up to his apartment, he looked out his living room door and caught her giving him the finger from her bike.

A pro.

No way would he get a bike ride in himself. Or a run. Or even a swim at the Y. There’d be more reporters to deal with. He’d been shot and his family nearly destroyed because of their connection to the president. For months the media had hounded him.

Now Janssen was in Dutch custody.

Due to an anonymous tip to a diplomatic security agent three weeks on the job.

Something about it didn’t sit right with Rob. He took a shower, got dressed and headed for work, contemplating the unlikelihood of what had gone down across the Atlantic.

He managed to sneak past a throng of reporters outside the federal building where the Southeastern District Office of the U.S. Marshals Service was located. When he got to his desk, a stack of messages, all from reporters, was waiting for him.

Reporters and a day of desk work. He swore to himself and dumped all the messages in the trash.

Mike Rivera stood in his office doorway and jerked a thumb at Rob to join him. Rob doubted it was because the chief deputy wanted to put him back on the street. A heavyset man in his early fifties with bulldog features that his wife seemed to adore, Rivera was well respected but not a soft touch. He wouldn’t like having reporters crawling all over his office and harassing one of his deputies.

“Talk to me,” he said. “Who’ve you heard from?”

Rob sat in a spongy plastic chair. “A lot of reporters. I haven’t talked to any of them. There’s not much to say.”

“We can issue a statement. It probably won’t do much good while the feeding frenzy’s on, but we can try. Do you want to be available for interviews, issue a statement yourself or anything?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.”

“I want to do my damn job.”

Rivera’s eyes flashed. “Yeah, well, you’re going to need to lie low for a couple of days until the dust settles on this Janssen arrest.”

“I’ve been laying low since May.”

“You’ve been recovering from a goddamn bullet wound that nearly killed you—”

“It didn’t kill me.” Rob kept his voice calm. “I’m fit for duty. I don’t want anyone coddling me.”

“Who the hell’s coddling you? You don’t want to move too fast, get in over your head—”

“What, with a computer?”

“With another asshole with a gun.”

Rob didn’t respond. He hadn’t had a chance in May. He’d dragged Nate down to Central Park to see the tulips—they’d never live that one down—and gotten shot. No warning, no way to fight back. They’d walked into the park and come out on stretchers.

Rivera sat forward, his chair squeaking loudly. “Why do you look so thin?” he asked, making it sound like an accusation.

“I’m back into my triathlon training. I can pass any test you want to throw at me—”

“Yeah, okay. Don’t drop and do push-ups here in my office. You nailed your fitness for duty assessment. I know that. It’s your head I worry about.”

“I’ve done everything I’ve been asked to do, all the desensitizing and reprogramming or whatever it’s called. Time for you all to stop walking on eggshells around me.”

Rivera grunted. “Today isn’t a good day to tell me you’re just a regular deputy trying to do his job.”

His chair squeaked again when he leaned back, bugging the hell out of Rob. Not a good sign, probably, that a noisy chair irritated him. “I want to get out of here, at least for a few days. Let the dust settle.”

“Will you go down to Tennessee?”

“The Hague.”

Rivera stood and turned to his grime-encrusted window. “Christ, Dunnemore. You don’t make my life easy, do you?”

Rob smiled. “Not my job, Chief. Less chance of anyone getting misquoted or harassed if I’m out of the country.”

“So go to Ireland.”

“Nick Janssen’s not in custody in Ireland. The DS agent who got tipped off about where to find him isn’t in Ireland.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

Still in his plastic chair, Rob shrugged. “Sure, why not? I can check with our people in the Netherlands, see where things stand now that the Dutch have Janssen. A Dutch judge is considering our request to interview him. We don’t want anything slipping through the cracks.”

Rivera shifted from the window and held up a hand. “I get your point. What says a Dunnemore showing up in Holland won’t fire up reporters there?”

“Nothing. Janssen’s arrest is a public reminder of my family’s connections to President Poe. There’s not much I can do about that. But the media will be looking for me in New York, not The Hague.”

“You want to do this thing?”

“I can be on a flight out of Kennedy tonight.”

“Listen, Rob, if this is personal—”

“Of course it’s personal.” Rob stood, feeling the August heat even in the air-conditioned room. “Janssen put out word that he’d pay for a presidential pardon. He tried to get under my mother’s skin. Ultimately, he’s the one responsible for everything that happened in May—”

“It was a bad time.”

“Then there’s Charlene Brooker. The Dutch are charging Janssen with ordering her murder in Amsterdam last year. We’re all still scrambling to unravel his network.”

“None of that is why you’re going to Holland.”

Rob shrugged. “Maybe not.”

“You want to know who gave that DS agent the tip.”

“Don’t you?”

Rivera pulled out his chair and plopped down with a loud, obnoxious groan of metal. “Hell.” He looked up at Rob. “Bring me back some Dutch gin.”

“Mike—”

“Just a little bottle. I don’t drink as much as I used to.”

Rob knew he’d won. There was nothing to do now except figure out which flight to take, dig out his passport and pack.

Maggie stared at her boss in disbelief. “Why me?”

George Bremmerton regarded her with a reasonable measure of sympathy from the other side of her desk, but she knew he wasn’t about to change his mind. “Because he requested you.”

“Why would Rob Dunnemore request me?”

“Because you made the Janssen arrest happen.”

“I got an e-mail tip and made a phone call. That was the extent of it.” She sat back in her chair. “I can’t get out of this?”

“Not unless you find a way to get run over by a bus.”