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off a floor mat from last year’s Taurus—which, according to color schemes, should make it a champagne-brown exterior, I believe.” LaMoia understood then that Flemming’s people had already interrogated the Shotzes and had made inquiries at the lab, all with no one the wiser. Strangely, he did not dislike Flemming for this, but found himself admiring him. Flemming continued, “Our lab people would like to review the pollen as well as the Taurus fibers ASAP. We’d also like to conduct our own interview with this realtor, Daech. Quite frankly, Captain,” he said, addressing Sheila Hill, “we’re a little disappointed we weren’t included in the first round with Daech.”
    â€œI have a decent relationship established with Daech,” LaMoia informed him.
    â€œI’m sure you do,” Flemming returned, staring him down.
    â€œCop to witness,” LaMoia explained, his admiration melting away.
    â€œFrom what we know of your reputation,” the linebacker, Dunkin Hale, contributed, “that would be something of a first.”
    Only Mulwright laughed.
    Hill cautioned the FBI man, “That’s enough of that! She’s LaMoia’s witness, and she’s assisting this investigation.”
    â€œFor the sake of the investigation,” Hale questioned, “or for the publicity?”
    Hill decided, “You’re welcome to the sergeant’s notes. Let’s leave the witness to him, shall we? You gang-bang her and we’ll lose her.”
    â€œThe notes will do fine,” Flemming acknowledged, having never taken his eyes off LaMoia. “And perhaps the sergeant will allow us to add a few questions to his script for their next session.” Flemming hesitated, holding the attention of everyone in the room. He said, “Let me be perfectly candid, shall I? This is my investigation. Has been since San Diego and that first kidnapping. Task Force, Special Crimes Unit—dress it up however you want, make all the claims of ownership you want, it’s not going to affect me. Sticks and stones, as far as I’m concerned. It’s these kids I’m worried about, not the name tags or the stripes on the sleeves—the kids. And it’s mine. Not yours,” he said to Hill, “or yours,” he said to LaMoia, “mine. You play games with me—concealing evidence, delaying reports—and you’ll regret it. That’s about as clear as I can make it to you. And why will you regret it? Because I don’t give a shit about you or your careers. I’ll walk right over you if necessary.”
    Looking at Hill he added, “Destroy you, if necessary. Any one of you. All of you. Any of my people as well, and they know this about me.” Hale and Kalidja did not so much as blink. “They know it’s about the kids, and only the kids. It’s about catching this guy and doing whatever it takes to find those kids. Rant, rave, scream, bitch, kick—complain to whomever you wish. Washington D.C.—I don’t care. It won’t do you a bit of good. Why? Because it’s mine to win or lose, and lose is not an option. Remember this, and remember it clearly: You are working for me. You are working for these kids, and I am their guardian angel. I am bringing them home. And the first person to get in my way, the first person to slow me down even a step, is going to wish they’d never seen this thing, wish they’d never heard of it.” He met eyes with each person, sighed deeply and said, “Ah. Feels good to get that off my chest.”
    Daphne Matthews spoke in a near whisper, thereby commanding everyone’s attention. As if reviewing the fundamentals, she said, “A task force is assembled to facilitate an open-minded exchange. The FBI can run an investigation without us—as we can without them. The point, the intention, of such a task force is to bring us all under one tent,” she