Max Collins - Fate of the Union

The cop climbing from the first squad car was well scrubbed and wore a navy-blue winter jacket with a Charlottesville badge on the left and “CHANEY” on a patch on the right.

As Reeder approached, the young cop’s eyes grew wide and his steamy breath came more quickly.

“You’re Joe Reeder!” he said, amazed, extending his hand.

As gloved hands shook, Reeder thought, About damn time this hero crap paid off.

“It’s an honor, Mr. Reeder.”

Reeder nodded. “Officer Chaney. First name?”

“Tim, sir.”

“Tim,” Reeder said, jerking a thumb toward the destruction around him. “You’ve arrived in the middle of an incident relating to a federal investigation. It’s going to be a very long night for all of us. But first we need a BOLO out on a Nissan Altima. And I have plates for you.”

As he continued to fill Chaney in, firefighters were hard at it, spraying down the twin blazes. The fiftyish chief — an obvious veteran, cool and in command — supervised and quickly called for reinforcements. EMTs were putting the corpse on a stretcher, with no pretense of trying to save an obviously dead body. Rogers was with them, getting pictures of the deceased with her cell.

“You need your detectives out here, Tim,” Reeder advised the young uniform. “The FBI will be handling the investigation, but your people will be in on it. This is arson and murder, for starters.”

The kid was doing a good job tamping down the celebrity worship. He said, “Yes, sir,” and called dispatch on his shoulder radio.

Her pictures taken, and seeing Reeder was no longer talking to the cop, Rogers headed back over, shaking her head.

“What?” he asked.

“Bohannon and Wade had the same thought you did, only about four hours ago. They’ve been watching security video.”

“Lucky them.”

“Not a single damn frame of Stanton coming through the metal detectors.”

Reeder thought about that, briefly. “If he didn’t come in the front, then he came in the back.”

She nodded. “Inside job, then.”

“Was the security a mix of Constitution Hall’s own people and Benjamin’s?”

“Yes, but mostly Benjamin’s.” She frowned. “Did one of them let somebody in to take out their own boss?”

“That’s a good solid maybe,” Reeder said. “Nasty as that is, at least we have somewhere to start.”

Rogers’s cell phone vibrated in her hand. She looked at the caller ID and put it on speaker so Reeder could hear.

She said, “What do you have, Miggie?”

“Like to know why those two buildings blew?”

“We’re on the scene, standing in the glow of two fires, and you know why the buildings blew?”

“I do,” he said with a smile in his voice. “We got lab results on Bryson’s clothes. Either of you ever hear of something called Senkstone?”

She gave Reeder a raised eyebrow look.

He said, “That’s s-e-n-k Senkstone?”

“Surely is,” Miggie said. His voice was crisp and confident coming from the tiny cell speaker. “Five years ago, Senkstone was a failed plastic explosive — real next-gen stuff, but unstable as hell. So the company responsible shut down. Well, there were traces of the stuff on Bryson’s clothes.”

“Judging by the fires around us,” Rogers said, “it may still be unstable.”

“More likely,” Reeder said, leaning in for Miggie to hear, “someone figured out how to stabilize it, and for some as yet unknown reason, decided to cover up that discovery.”

Rogers said, “I’m sending you some pictures, Miggie. See if you can ID the guy before we get back.”

“Can you send me his prints?”

“Can’t. Burned off.”

She sent the pics and ended the call. Then she looked at Reeder and said, “So this is what date night is like with Joe Reeder, huh?”

“Now you know why my ex divorced me,” he said.

She shrugged. “At least it’s not boring.”

Dawn arrived with them as they hit DC, the sun making picture-perfect postcards of the Capitol and its majestic neighbors. Rogers, behind the wheel, thought about nudging Reeder awake, but decided against it, though she knew he had a sentimental streak for the city and its history.

After a long night into wee-hours morning, dealing with efficient but dogged local cops, she’d caught an hour’s catnap while Reeder spelled her; snoozing in the passenger seat, arms folded, he seemed to have finally found a comfortable compromise between his sore shoulder and the seat belt.

He asked from behind closed eyes, “Who knew we were going to Charlottesville?”

“We made the decision in the conference room, remember,” she said, “and left from there.”

His eyes remained closed. “So most of the task force team knew... including Miggie.”

“Right. Excluding Bohannon and Wade, over at Constitution Hall.”

He opened his eyes, tasted his mouth, didn’t like it, straightened, grimaced, readjusted his seat belt, asked, “What about the motor pool guy?”

“I signed out the car without a destination.”

“That narrows the suspect field by one, anyway.”

“You think we were set up?”

“You don’t? Our best lead, so far, blows up in our face, and not metaphorically. You can’t think that’s a coincidence.”

She was a few blocks from the Hoover Building. “I don’t, but I trust my team. I vetted them personally.”

He gave her a sideways glance. “You and I have less than spotless records in that regard.”

Rogers didn’t need to be reminded that the Supreme Court task force had included a betrayer.

“I was very damn careful,” she said, “when I put this team together.”

“You didn’t select Detective Woods,” Reeder said.

“He’s not one of us.”

“In a way he is.”

“But Woods wasn’t around when we decided to go to Charlottesville.”

He shrugged. “Maybe somebody on the team filled him in about our road trip. Maybe somebody called Bohannon and Wade, just keeping them up to speed, and then they told Woods. We need to check, first opportunity.”

“All right.”

“And even if Woods didn’t know about Charlottesville, what do we know about the man? Just that he’s new, was assigned the Bryson investigation, initially bobbled it, and then was on the scene right away at the security office break-in.”

“You might be reaching, Joe.”

“Probably am. But just the same, let’s have Miggie check him out — discreetly.”

“Then you do trust Miggie?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Even though he sent us to a couple of buildings that exploded in our laps?”

Half a grin cracked his placid mask. “You’re starting to sound like me.”

“Paranoid you mean?”

“Patti,” he said, “if after all we’ve been through together, you aren’t paranoid? You’re just not trying.”

She laughed. “Okay, you’ve made your point. But looking at our team, and its extended family? It’s hardly the only possibility.”

“I’m listening.”

“Miggie says whoever removed Bryson from the equation had skills enough to turn on the GPS on that burner phone, and track him with it, with your friend none the wiser.”

He gave her a sharp look. “Then they weren’t following Chris — they were ahead of him.”