then watched while he waited at the curb with a few other kids similarly outfitted. A few minutes later, a yellow school bus pulled up. There was a hiss of hydraulic brakes, a red stop sign sprouted from its side, and then it was gone, the children along with it. Wheeler watched it go, looking somehow deflated in its wake. Ben thought of Ami in Manila, another child of a dead father.
Come on, forget it. It’s better like this. Put it away
.
He got out of the car and started walking toward Wheeler’s house, his head sweeping left and right, keying on the hot spots. He detected no problems. He was wearing an olive poplin suit, white shirt, wine-colored tie, and black wing tips, all courtesy of a Brooks Brothers in Orlando, all practically government-issue. A standard Bureau Glock 23, spare magazines, pocket litter, and FBI ID and passport in the name of special agent Daniel Froomkin had been waiting for him in a dead drop near Orlando. Hort had explained that there actually was a Froomkin on the payroll in the J. Edgar Hoover Building in Washington, D.C., that the legend was fully backstopped. They couldn’t expect Wheeler to cooperate with someone who had no colorable legal authority.
The air was humid and smelled of cut grass. A thin, Mexican-looking guy was pushing a buzzing mower across one of the lawns on the other side of the street. Ben paused and watched him for a moment. The guy’s T-shirt was soaked with sweat and he was wearing earplugs against the noise. His arms were weathered and brown from too much sun. A beat-up pickup loaded with gardening equipment sat at the curb. The guy felt legit.
He headed up a short riser of cement steps, the Glock creating a reassuring weight and pressure under his left armpit, reminding himself one last time that he was Dan Froomkin, FBI, investigating a crime. Even a civilian could sometimes spot the incongruity in the vibe between an operator and an investigator. One of the things they’d taught him at the Farm was that to make a cover work, you had to submerge your true self inside it. The key was to
believe
your cover, to feel it like it was the truth.
He knocked on the door, an authoritative knock, confident, but not so loud as to be intimidating or aggressive. And he kept a respectful distance from the threshold. The trick would be to make her want to cooperate in part by making her afraid of what might happen if she didn’t. But she couldn’t be consciously aware of the fear. It had to be in the background, obscured by a demeanor just friendly enough to enable her to believe she was volunteering and ignore that she was being subtly coerced.
A moment later, Wheeler opened the door. Either Kissimmee enjoyed a low crime rate, or she was trusting. Or maybe her mind was still on her son.
“Can I help you?” she asked, her expression uncertain. Up close he could see she was a pretty woman, mid-forties, hair highlighted, teeth artificially white. The shorts and tank top revealed a toned body. Ben noted in mental shorthand that despite the modest house, despite being a single mother, she still spent on the hair, the teeth, maybe on a personal trainer or yoga or Pilates courses. Her appearance was important to her. He was aware this might be useful, but he didn’t yet see how.
“Yes, ma’am,” Ben said, producing the FBI ID. “I’m Dan Froomkin, special agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’d like to ask you a few questions about your late husband, Daniel Larison. It should only take a few minutes, if you don’t mind.”
Her pupils dilated slightly, the result, no doubt, of an adrenal surge. But she seemed more surprised than afraid. “My late husband … what? Why?”
“We’re investigating a crime, ma’am. Your husband wasn’t involved, but his behavior in the time before his death might prove helpful.”
Ben waited while she absorbed that potentially ominous
we
. After a moment, she said, “All right, but I don’t really think I’ll be able to
Come on, forget it. It’s better like this. Put it away
.
He got out of the car and started walking toward Wheeler’s house, his head sweeping left and right, keying on the hot spots. He detected no problems. He was wearing an olive poplin suit, white shirt, wine-colored tie, and black wing tips, all courtesy of a Brooks Brothers in Orlando, all practically government-issue. A standard Bureau Glock 23, spare magazines, pocket litter, and FBI ID and passport in the name of special agent Daniel Froomkin had been waiting for him in a dead drop near Orlando. Hort had explained that there actually was a Froomkin on the payroll in the J. Edgar Hoover Building in Washington, D.C., that the legend was fully backstopped. They couldn’t expect Wheeler to cooperate with someone who had no colorable legal authority.
The air was humid and smelled of cut grass. A thin, Mexican-looking guy was pushing a buzzing mower across one of the lawns on the other side of the street. Ben paused and watched him for a moment. The guy’s T-shirt was soaked with sweat and he was wearing earplugs against the noise. His arms were weathered and brown from too much sun. A beat-up pickup loaded with gardening equipment sat at the curb. The guy felt legit.
He headed up a short riser of cement steps, the Glock creating a reassuring weight and pressure under his left armpit, reminding himself one last time that he was Dan Froomkin, FBI, investigating a crime. Even a civilian could sometimes spot the incongruity in the vibe between an operator and an investigator. One of the things they’d taught him at the Farm was that to make a cover work, you had to submerge your true self inside it. The key was to
believe
your cover, to feel it like it was the truth.
He knocked on the door, an authoritative knock, confident, but not so loud as to be intimidating or aggressive. And he kept a respectful distance from the threshold. The trick would be to make her want to cooperate in part by making her afraid of what might happen if she didn’t. But she couldn’t be consciously aware of the fear. It had to be in the background, obscured by a demeanor just friendly enough to enable her to believe she was volunteering and ignore that she was being subtly coerced.
A moment later, Wheeler opened the door. Either Kissimmee enjoyed a low crime rate, or she was trusting. Or maybe her mind was still on her son.
“Can I help you?” she asked, her expression uncertain. Up close he could see she was a pretty woman, mid-forties, hair highlighted, teeth artificially white. The shorts and tank top revealed a toned body. Ben noted in mental shorthand that despite the modest house, despite being a single mother, she still spent on the hair, the teeth, maybe on a personal trainer or yoga or Pilates courses. Her appearance was important to her. He was aware this might be useful, but he didn’t yet see how.
“Yes, ma’am,” Ben said, producing the FBI ID. “I’m Dan Froomkin, special agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’d like to ask you a few questions about your late husband, Daniel Larison. It should only take a few minutes, if you don’t mind.”
Her pupils dilated slightly, the result, no doubt, of an adrenal surge. But she seemed more surprised than afraid. “My late husband … what? Why?”
“We’re investigating a crime, ma’am. Your husband wasn’t involved, but his behavior in the time before his death might prove helpful.”
Ben waited while she absorbed that potentially ominous
we
. After a moment, she said, “All right, but I don’t really think I’ll be able to
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