Max Collins - Fate of the Union

“Name?” Reeder prompted.

“Henry Patrick.”

He glanced at her. “As in, Patrick Henry backward?”

“As in.”

“Funny.” Reeder frowned at the photo on the phone. “This character even looks a little like Patrick Henry.”

“I guess it’s an honor, then.”

“What is?”

“Getting your ass kicked by a founding father.”

He smirked at her. “Well, he had the honor of getting kicked in the balls by a guy who saved a president. Still, let’s get Miggie on facial recognition.”

“Already in process.”

Down at Bryson’s office, the uniformed officer on guard was eyeballing them.

Reeder said, “How thrilled do you figure Woods will be with your offer of Uncle Sam’s help?”

“Not at all. He’ll know immediately you called me in. We’re the brave duo who saved the Chief Justice, remember?”

“Vaguely.”

She opened her door and cold blasted them. “You better just hang back and let me do the talking.”

“You’re the boss. I’m just a consultant.”

Reeder stayed in the car as she walked over to the Bryson Security storefront. She showed her ID to the cop on the door and Woods came out to see what was up.

With the engine running and the heat going, Reeder couldn’t make out anything they were saying. Rogers’s back was mostly to him. The young detective threw the occasional glare Reeder’s way, mostly listening to the FBI agent on his doorstep, his posture — lowered head, hunched shoulders, crossed arms — purely defensive. Reeder didn’t need to see the guy’s micro-expressions to know this wasn’t going well. Clusters of gestures came quickly, defensive, aggressive.

Not good indicators.

The longer Rogers spoke, however, her posture firm but casual, expression pleasantly businesslike when Reeder caught glimpses of it, the more the young detective seemed to settle down. Hands went to his waist, chin came up, a looseness came in. Then he would nod now and then. Gesture clusters slowed, became more amicable.

Whatever Rogers was saying was having a positive effect.

FBI agent and homicide cop spoke another few minutes, then shook hands. Reeder waited to be waved over, but instead Rogers came over to him, moving neither fast nor slow. Woods stayed behind and was speaking to the uniformed cop.

She got in, bringing another momentary burst of cold with her. But her small smile had warmth.

Reeder said, “You turned him around, didn’t you?”

“Somewhat. I wouldn’t expect him to ask you for a signed photo.”

“I can live with that, Patti. Where are we?”

“Well, Detective Woods knows he fumbled the ball, and at this point in his baby career, misreading the murder of an ex — Secret Service agent as suicide would hardly speed him on an upward path. If we — that’s me and my consultant — can help him save face, he’s up for some interdepartmental love.”

“Patti, I always said you were cute.”

“He didn’t ask for a date. And you’ll need to tread very lightly. You made him look incompetent. Save his bacon, though, and that all changes.”

“Can we get inside?”

“Yes.”

“Carte blanche?”

“Hardly. Now that this is a crime scene related to a murder, he’s called for a CSI crew. When they show, we go. Should have fifteen minutes.”

“We’ll make that work,” he said, and got out of the car.

So did Rogers.

As they walked over, he said, “Took a while selling him.”

“I had to remind Detective Woods that our lab is both better and faster than his. I also said the Bryson family had turned his evidence box over to you, and retrieving it without a stink would be... problematic.”

“We don’t have to give it back?”

“Not till the FBI lab has processed everything.”

At the door, a blank-faced Woods stopped them with a traffic-cop palm. But he tipped how pissed off he was by keeping his eyes on Rogers and never Reeder.

“Anything you find,” Woods reminded her, “we share.”

“I’m known for playing nice,” she said.

Reeder said, “We’re not looking for credit, Detective — we’re after a killer.”

Woods nodded at that, but still did not meet Reeder’s eyes.

Rogers handed Reeder latex gloves; she had a pair for herself, and they put them on before she led the way inside. As she paused in the outer office to get the layout, Reeder said to her, “Chris wouldn’t keep anything out here. Big window on the street, no computer, no filing cabinet or even closet.”

“Still,” she said, “I should check the receptionist’s desk.”

“Do that. See you inside.”

He entered the inner office. A chair was overturned from the fight, and papers were scattered on the floor — obviously the work of the intruder, not the cops. Everything else seemed undisturbed. Reeder must have surprised the guy early in his search.

Rogers came in. “Nothing but some office supplies in that desk and not much of that.”

“Receptionist worked a few half days a week,” Reeder said. “Mostly Chris operated by appointment.”

“Okay,” Rogers said, hands on her hips, peacoat hanging open. “Here’s the haystack. We looking for any needle in particular?”

“The needle that got him killed.”

“Thanks for narrowing it.”

“The only thing we know we’re looking for is his laptop, but it’s doubtful it’s here. I figure his killers took that with them at the motel. But it’s possible he left it behind... Take the file cabinet.”

Rogers nodded and began going through the old-fashioned metal four-drawer file in one corner while Reeder took the desk. She started with the bottom drawer and said, “Bingo.”

He looked over and she was holding up a bottle of bourbon by its neck.

“Heavy drinker, your friend?” she asked.

“Not really. That’s probably as much a joke as anything. Typical Chris. Cliché from old detective novels.”

“I know,” she said with a little smile. “I’ve read Chandler, too, remember?”

“Listen, don’t spend a lot of our limited time now on the files themselves. That stuff probably dates back, and this is likely something very recent. So be on the lookout for a flash drive or something, hidden away in there. Riffle the pages, don’t study them.”

“Right,” she said. “Woods and his boys can go through this stuff thoroughly later. We’ll keep looking for the needle.”

Reeder checked a closet, found more work supplies, no laptop, then went through the desk and its drawers, no laptop there either. Then he stood in the middle of the area where not long ago he’d fought with that intruder.

He was studying the desk like it was a museum exhibit.

“Hey!” Rogers asked. “Tick tick tick — what, have you given up?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“No?”

“We’re doing this wrong.”

She came over. “How so?”

“Chris was a careful guy. Cautious.”

“Not cautious enough, obviously.”

Reeder glanced at her.

“Sorry,” she said. “Your point?”

He rubbed his chin. “It’s just that... even if he ran? Chris wouldn’t have left our needle just lying around. Not stuffed in a file folder, or taped under a desk drawer.”

“If the needle is something on his computer,” she said, “maybe he backed it up to the cloud. I can put Miggie on that.”

“Do that,” Reeder said. “But...”

“But?”

“He might have been dinosaur enough not to like the ethereal nature of the cloud. Might not’ve trusted something that insubstantial with his secret.”

Rogers frowned in thought. “So something tangible, then. A physical object. We’re back to a flash drive.”

“Yes. Anyway, if we were to find a possible needle too easily, it might be a red herring he planted, or even a booby trap.”