“The Bureau found the drugs; you filed your report. You said you were going back to catching counterfeiters and standing post. I remember it pretty clearly because it’s when you also gave me that fabulous career advice.”
“I got a call from Anne Jeffries last night. She said the drugs were bullshit. She threatened to sue us.”
“She’s full of crap. And she can’t sue us for doing our job. Hell, it’s not like we planted the heroin in Johnson’s house.”
Alex glanced over at her. “But what if someone else did?”
She stared back at him skeptically. “Planted drugs? Why?”
“That’s for us to find out. Right from the get-go this case hasn’t made sense.”
“It makes perfect sense if you accept the fact that Patrick Johnson made a ton of money dealing drugs; he was getting married and didn’t see a way out.”
“If he didn’t see a way out, why did he agree to get married in the first place?”
“Maybe despite her dowdy looks, little Annie is Superwoman in bed and wouldn’t give it up anymore without a ring on her finger. So he pops the question and then has second thoughts. He feels trapped and decides the only way out is to bite the bullet.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“You don’t know a lot about women, do you?”
“Meaning what exactly?”
“Meaning that being only a man’s lust repository gets a little old after a while. Women want permanent relationships of the diamond variety. Men want conquests.”
“Thanks for stereotyping the entire human race; it was very informative.”
“Well, here’s another theory for you: Johnson was dealing drugs, but with his marriage he wanted to quit the business. It’s not the sort of business you just walk away from. As a wedding gift his associates gave him a bullet instead of a toaster.”
“On the island where he had his first date? How would they have known?”
“Maybe from Anne Jeffries, the lady who is now protesting so much that her sweetie was never involved in drugs.”
“So she’s lying to us?”
“She’s either incredibly stupid or else she knew about the drugs.”
“So if she had no problem with it, why would he kill himself?”
“Maybe he wanted to walk away from the business, but she didn’t want him to.”
Alex shook his head. “So now in cahoots with the druggies, she kills her fiancé?”
“It’s as plausible as your theory.”
“I don’t think Anne Jeffries could tell the difference between a kilo of heroin and a box of sugar even if we shoved them down her throat.”
“Whatever.” Simpson folded her arms across her chest. “So where are we going?”
“Remember the two guys we met out at Roosevelt Island, Reinke and Peters? I called them. They’ve finished the handwriting analysis, and I thought we could go learn those results, get our note back and then snoop around.”
She exclaimed, “Snoop around! Did you know that when the president goes to NIC, the Secret Service isn’t even allowed on certain floors with him because our security clearances aren’t high enough?”
“Yeah, I know. That still pisses me off,” Alex said.
“So what do you expect to find out there?”
“As part of our investigation we need to know what Johnson did at NIC.”
“What happened to the man who didn’t want to screw up his last three years?”
Alex stopped the car at a red light and looked over at her. “If I’m afraid to screw up, then I should just turn in my badge right now. And since I’m not willing to do that . . .”
“And this wonderfully patriotic epiphany just hit you?”
“Actually, an old friend pointed it out to me last night.”
The light turned green and they started off again. He glanced over at her, and that’s when he suddenly noticed it, because she’d unbuttoned her jacket.
“That’s a SIG .357.”
She didn’t look at him. “My other gun was a little heavy.”
Alex also noted that she was not wearing her usual flashy breast pocket handkerchief.
They were passing through western Fairfax County on Route 7 when Simpson finally spoke again. “I had dinner with my father last night.”
“And how is the good senator?”
“Enlightened,” she answered tersely.
Alex wisely kept his mouth shut.
When they pulled up to the main security entrance at NIC, Alex surveyed with awe the sprawling complex that lay ahead.
“What the hell is NIC’s budget?”
“It’s classified, like ours,” Simpson answered.
It took them nearly an hour to clear security, and even then, despite their protests, they had to turn over their weapons. The two were escorted through the halls by a pair of armed guards and an inquisitive Doberman that kept sniffing at Alex’s pant leg.
“Let’s not forget we’re all on the same team, little fellow,” Alex said jokingly to the dog.
The guards didn’t even crack a smile.
The two Secret Service agents were deposited in a small room and told to wait. And they waited. And waited.
“Is it my imagination, or did we cross into a foreign country back there?” Alex said sourly as he balled up a piece of paper and missed a three-pointer aimed at the wastebasket.
“You’re the one who wanted to come here,” his partner snapped. “I’ve got a full caseload back at WFO that I could be working on to build my career.”
Before Alex could answer, the door opened, and in walked Tyler Reinke followed closely by Warren Peters.
“Long time no see,” Alex said as he made a protracted show of checking his watch. “I’m glad you two could finally make it.”
“Sorry about the wait,” Reinke said casually. He pulled out a piece of paper, and they all sat at the small table in the center of the room.
“The handwriting on the note matches Johnson’s,” Reinke said. “No doubt about it.” He passed across the analysis for the Secret Service agents to examine.
“No surprise there,” Alex said. “Where’s the note?”
“In the lab.”
“Okay.” Alex waited, but neither of the men said anything. “I’ll need it back.”
“Right, fine,” Peters said.
“It might take a little time,” Reinke added.
“I was hoping you’d say that, because we wanted to look around Johnson’s office and talk to some of his co-workers. Get a feel for the stuff he was working on.”
The men looked at him blankly. “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Peters said.
“Guys, this is a homicide investigation. I need a little cooperation.”
“As far as cooperation goes, we ran the handwriting analysis for you. Besides, it looks pretty clear that the man committed suicide. That’s the Bureau’s conclusion too.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” Alex shot back. “And investigating a person’s workplace is standard for this sort of case.”
“Patrick Johnson’s work area is restricted to the highest security clearance levels,” Reinke said firmly. “No exceptions. Your clearances aren’t good enough. I checked.”
Alex leaned forward and eyed Reinke. “I guarded the president of the United States for five years. I worked on the Joint Anti-Terrorism Task Force while you were still banging cheerleaders in college. I’ve stood post at meetings of the Joint Chiefs where they talked about stuff this country is doing that would make both of you crap in your Brooks Brothers pants.”
“Your security clearances aren’t adequate,” Reinke reiterated.
“Then we have a big problem,” Alex said. “Because I’ve been assigned to investigate this case. Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way.”