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Authors: Max Allan Collins
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his thanks and dismissal, and Miggie went back to his desk.
Reeder said, “Gabe, we don’t need a warrant to knock on a door.”
The SAIC frowned in thought. “I suppose you two want to check this Granger out.”
“Patti here caught it,” Reeder said with a shrug.
“But you’re backing up Bishop and his partner, what’s-his-name.”
“Pellin. I haven’t shared this with them yet.”
The SAIC frowned again. “Why not?”
“Why do you think?”
Sloan and Reeder were talking to each other in a way Rogers couldn’t quite follow—the shorthand of agents who’d worked together a long time.
She said, “Maybe we should bring in SWAT . . .”
Sloan grimaced. “Means money if it turns out to be nothing.”
Reeder said, “I thought you had carte blanche, Gabe. Supreme Court justices don’t get murdered every day, you know.”
“Carte blanche,” Sloan sighed, “within budgetary constraints.”
Rogers said, “Could be a dead end.”
Sloan thought about it endlessly, for maybe ten seconds, then said at last, “Okay. All right. Check it out, you two.”
Rogers, still not quite following, said to Sloan, “But don’t take Bishop and Pellin?”
Sotto voce, Reeder said, “Tell ’em and they’ll be taking us along. You like the sound of that?”
Her head was swimming. “But the out-of-state tavern holdups are their assignment.”
“Yes, I know,” Sloan said. “I gave it to them.” He was almost whispering, his manner casual—no one else in the room would guess theirs was a key conversation in the case. “Familiar with the Beltway sniper shootings?”
“Vaguely,” she said. “Before my time . . .”
“Peep, you remember what a jurisdictional nightmare that was. I won’t put up with that this time around.”
She asked Sloan, “What happened?”
But Reeder answered: “October 2002, John Allen Muhammad and Lee Boyd Malvo drove up and down I-95 sniping people from the trunk of their ratty-ass Chevy Caprice. First five victims were in Maryland, number six was in DC proper, then one in Fredericksburg in Virginia, before going back for one more in Maryland, another four in Virginia, then, finally, one more in Maryland.”
“My God,” Rogers said. “How many victims?”
Sloan said, “Thirteen Beltway victims, and as many as twelve more as far away as Louisiana and Alabama. The whole investigation was a clusterfuck, full of jurisdictional hiccups, piss-poor management, and just plain shitty information.”
Reeder said, “The man does not exaggerate.”
Still seemingly casual, Sloan said, “In the end, a citizen saw the car, and the two killers were apprehended sleeping in a rest area in Maryland. All the law enforcement in the DC area, and it’s a citizen who finally tracks them down. Not this time. We’ll find Justice Venter’s killers and be the ones to bring them in.”
Half an hour later, Rogers pulled the unmarked Ford in front of a bungalow on Byrd Lane in Groveton, an unincorporated part of Fairfax County. Two modest oaks guarded either side of the sidewalk leading to a front stoop with white pillars, an antebellum anachronism for this glorified shack with its yellow aluminum siding.
They were still in the car when Rogers asked Reeder, “Need a gun? There’s an extra in the glove compartment.”
“No, thanks.”
“We might be facing Justice Venter’s killer in a couple of minutes, you know.”
“Doubtful, but thanks for the concern.”
“Why, do you already have a gun?”
She thought maybe he kept one in an ankle holster or some damn thing.
“I own a gun,” he said. “I don’t have it with me.”
“You do know we’re on duty here.”
“Hey, I’m not law enforcement, remember—I’m just a consultant. We can always call for backup.”
She stared at him. He looked as ready for action as a Buddhist monk.
As they got out of the car, she said, “Stay in back of me, then. That’s where consultants belong.”
They went up the stairs to the
Reeder said, “Gabe, we don’t need a warrant to knock on a door.”
The SAIC frowned in thought. “I suppose you two want to check this Granger out.”
“Patti here caught it,” Reeder said with a shrug.
“But you’re backing up Bishop and his partner, what’s-his-name.”
“Pellin. I haven’t shared this with them yet.”
The SAIC frowned again. “Why not?”
“Why do you think?”
Sloan and Reeder were talking to each other in a way Rogers couldn’t quite follow—the shorthand of agents who’d worked together a long time.
She said, “Maybe we should bring in SWAT . . .”
Sloan grimaced. “Means money if it turns out to be nothing.”
Reeder said, “I thought you had carte blanche, Gabe. Supreme Court justices don’t get murdered every day, you know.”
“Carte blanche,” Sloan sighed, “within budgetary constraints.”
Rogers said, “Could be a dead end.”
Sloan thought about it endlessly, for maybe ten seconds, then said at last, “Okay. All right. Check it out, you two.”
Rogers, still not quite following, said to Sloan, “But don’t take Bishop and Pellin?”
Sotto voce, Reeder said, “Tell ’em and they’ll be taking us along. You like the sound of that?”
Her head was swimming. “But the out-of-state tavern holdups are their assignment.”
“Yes, I know,” Sloan said. “I gave it to them.” He was almost whispering, his manner casual—no one else in the room would guess theirs was a key conversation in the case. “Familiar with the Beltway sniper shootings?”
“Vaguely,” she said. “Before my time . . .”
“Peep, you remember what a jurisdictional nightmare that was. I won’t put up with that this time around.”
She asked Sloan, “What happened?”
But Reeder answered: “October 2002, John Allen Muhammad and Lee Boyd Malvo drove up and down I-95 sniping people from the trunk of their ratty-ass Chevy Caprice. First five victims were in Maryland, number six was in DC proper, then one in Fredericksburg in Virginia, before going back for one more in Maryland, another four in Virginia, then, finally, one more in Maryland.”
“My God,” Rogers said. “How many victims?”
Sloan said, “Thirteen Beltway victims, and as many as twelve more as far away as Louisiana and Alabama. The whole investigation was a clusterfuck, full of jurisdictional hiccups, piss-poor management, and just plain shitty information.”
Reeder said, “The man does not exaggerate.”
Still seemingly casual, Sloan said, “In the end, a citizen saw the car, and the two killers were apprehended sleeping in a rest area in Maryland. All the law enforcement in the DC area, and it’s a citizen who finally tracks them down. Not this time. We’ll find Justice Venter’s killers and be the ones to bring them in.”
Half an hour later, Rogers pulled the unmarked Ford in front of a bungalow on Byrd Lane in Groveton, an unincorporated part of Fairfax County. Two modest oaks guarded either side of the sidewalk leading to a front stoop with white pillars, an antebellum anachronism for this glorified shack with its yellow aluminum siding.
They were still in the car when Rogers asked Reeder, “Need a gun? There’s an extra in the glove compartment.”
“No, thanks.”
“We might be facing Justice Venter’s killer in a couple of minutes, you know.”
“Doubtful, but thanks for the concern.”
“Why, do you already have a gun?”
She thought maybe he kept one in an ankle holster or some damn thing.
“I own a gun,” he said. “I don’t have it with me.”
“You do know we’re on duty here.”
“Hey, I’m not law enforcement, remember—I’m just a consultant. We can always call for backup.”
She stared at him. He looked as ready for action as a Buddhist monk.
As they got out of the car, she said, “Stay in back of me, then. That’s where consultants belong.”
They went up the stairs to the
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