Max Collins - Fate of the Union

“No — that’s a company called Barmore Holdings. Who and what that is, I don’t know yet.”

“Any sign of Barmore Holdings in the ownership chain of Chemical Solutions?”

Miggie shook his head. “Not that I’ve found. Haven’t tracked down the actual owners of any of these companies, but this kind of entity is created to protect the anonymity of owners. These aren’t exactly publicly held companies. I know it’s a familiar refrain I’m singing, guys, but it’s going to take time. I could have a team on this for months, and it would still take time. Doing it by myself, it’s slow going.”

“Stick with it,” Rogers said. That had been a lot to absorb, and in truth she hadn’t absorbed it yet. But she pressed on. “Anything else, Mig?”

“Yeah,” he said, and turned to Reeder and said, “Your instincts were right about our friendly neighborhood would-be assassin, Thomas Stanton.”

“How so?”

“Stanton’s sons have Cayman Islands trust funds — each with one hundred K in them. Opened two days ago.”

“By whom?”

“That’s still murky,” Miggie said. “These people clearly don’t want to be found out. Let’s face it, they were paying for an assassination.”

“Keep an eye on those accounts,” Reeder said. “Since Stanton failed, maybe whoever paid him will try to renege. Might provide a path.”

Rogers said, “How about the body Joe and I hauled out of that building? Any luck with facial recognition?”

“Yes!” He summoned a front-on mug shot — type photo on his tablet screen of a man Roger immediately recognized as their half-charred, all-dead rescue. “Our latest double-tap is one Lester Blake.”

Leaning in for a look, Reeder asked, “Did he work for Barmore? Or whatever the business in those buildings was calling itself?”

“No, surprisingly. Actually, Lester Blake was employed in the maintenance department at the Capitol.”

“The US Capitol?”

“The one and only.”

“Maintenance,” Rogers said, frowning. “A janitor?”

“Limited information on that so far. But I’d say, probably, yes.”

Reeder said, “Jay Akers’s last words weren’t limited to ‘Senk’ — he also said ‘Capitol.’ And now a Capitol Hill maintenance man winds up dead in a building that exploded after he was killed? A building that may have been a site of manufacture for a highly dangerous, impossible-to-find plastic explosive?”

Rogers said, “Sounds like we better get over to the Capitol and find somebody to talk to.”

Reeder was already on his feet.

She said to Miggie, “While we’re gone, we need you to run a discreet background check on Detective Woods.”

“Oh, that’s already done,” Miggie said. “You have to multitask when you’re running these searches, or you’ll go gonzo waiting.”

“What do you have?”

“Detective Peter Arthur Woods,” Miggie read. “BS in criminal justice from Virginia Commonwealth, high marks, spotless record, citations, youngest on DC PD to make detective in twenty-five years. Seems like a really good guy.”

“So,” Reeder reminded him, “did Thomas Stanton.”

Miggie shrugged. “I’ll dig deeper.”

Rogers said, “Incredible job all around, Miggie. Uh, did Lester Blake have a family?”

“Wife and three kids.”

She sighed. “I’ll have Hardesy and Nichols make the survivor visit. While Reeder and I go over to the Hill, make the same level search on Blake that you gave Stanton — okay?”

“No problem.”

“But, Miggie — when did you sleep last?”

“... Day or two ago?”

“Go take a nap on that nice couch in your office. That’s an order.”

Miggie’s expression was just a little mocking. “Technically, I’m just helping out here. You’re not my boss, you know.”

“Then it’s not an order. It’s an earnest request from a caring friend.”

“Now you’re making me sick.”

“Then maybe you better lie down.”

In the hallway, Rogers and Reeder ran into AD Fisk, still in yesterday’s apparel, meaning she’d been here all night as well, though she looked typically perfect. The AD had been on her way to the Special Situations bullpen, having been alerted that Rogers was back in the building.

After a quick update from Rogers, Fisk said, “I’ll call ahead and set up a meeting for you and Joe with the chief of the Capitol police. I’m going to make it for this afternoon, so the two of you can go catch some sleep. But first, there’s something I need Joe to do.”

Reeder frowned a little. “What would that be?”

“I’ve been dealing directly with the media, under the guidance of our top PR officer, of course.”

“Okay.”

“But here’s the thing — I can protect our agents, to some extent, but you’re a consultant, Joe — not technically an employee — and there’s only so much I can do to keep the press away from you.”

He chuckled. “Thanks, but I can handle myself.”

“I know you can. But the reporters did not get the chance to quiz you after the Constitution Hall incident. I spoke to a large group outside the building, not long ago, and they’re already asking questions about Charlottesville — the local police there seem competent enough, but haven’t exactly been discreet.”

“We drove in the building,” Reeder said, “we’ll drive out the building.”

“I prefer you wouldn’t. That same group is waiting now in the press room. I indicated I’d ask you if you were willing to talk to them.”

Reeder’s eyes and nostrils flared like a rearing horse’s. “A press conference?”

“That sounds more formal than I mean it to.”

“Director Fisk,” he said, “as a dollar-a-year man, I reserve the right to pick and choose my assignments.”

“Joe, you and Special Agent Rogers are running our most important current FBI investigation. The media’s going to dog your heels and impede that investigation at every turn, unless you get out ahead of it.”

He turned to Rogers, who said, “You’re on your own. I can’t talk to the media before I deal with a shooting board. Two shooting boards, now.”

Fisk said, “She’s correct, Joe.”

“Okay,” he sighed. “I don’t suppose you could find me a shaver, safety or electric, and somewhere I can throw some water on my face? Unless you enjoy having somebody who looks like a homeless guy representing the Bureau.”

“Give me your sizes,” Fisk said with a smile, “and I’ll get you fresh clothes as well.”

“You’re a full-service operation, I’ll give you that.”

All of that was done, and quickly. Rogers took advantage of freshening up, too, and she had extra clothes in her office closet. As she’d pointedly told Reeder, she would not be taking questions, but would have eyes and cameras on her.

Soon she, Reeder, and Fisk were in a room the size of the task force bullpen, filled with chairs, all taken by reporters who looked as harried and sleep-deprived as Rogers felt, with TV cameras along the side walls and in back.

The AD introduced Reeder, then joined Rogers behind him at his podium. When Reeder stepped to the microphone, Rogers half expected the press to leap to their feet and frantically pelt him with questions. They leapt to their feet, all right, but what they gave him was applause.

“Thank you,” he said, looking surprised and frankly humbled, and said, “I’ll take a few questions.”

Rogers smiled. He knew how to silence their applause. They resumed their seats and hands shot up.

Reeder pointed.

“Mr. Reeder,” a Fox News reporter asked, “some years ago you took a bullet for your president. Last year, you saved the life of the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. Now you’ve prevented the assassination of a possible candidate for the presidency. That’s an impressive trifecta.”