Supreme Justice (18 page)

Had he overplayed his hand? Was he gambling with Amy’s life?

He wanted to hear her voice, he
had
to hear her voice, to let her know everything was going to be all right.

To let him know she was still breathing.

Thirty minutes after he hung up on the kidnapper, he began to wonder if he was ever going to hear her voice again.

Finally, the cell rang.

“Reeder.”

“This will be your only opportunity to save your daughter. By the way, we also have her friend.”

So they had Bobby, too. Or did the voice on the phone mean someone else?

“Your choice is simple. Just listen. If you hang up again, or make any demands on us, or even ask one question . . . your daughter’s death will be on you.”

Almost the exact phrase that Justice Venter’s killer had spoken to Nicky Blount:
It’s on you!
He was dealing with one of the conspirators, all right.

Reeder said nothing. The mechanical coldness of the voice-disguising software was matched by a real coldness in the original. He would take this man’s threat seriously.

“Your silence is the correct response. Tomorrow morning, you will resign your position with the task force looking into the Supreme Court killings. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“After the coming weekend, we will disappear, our work done
. . . and your daughter will be released unharmed. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Failure to comply means death for your daughter and her friend. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

The phone clicked.

For a moment he just sat there. He felt numb. He hit the number for Patti Rogers.

He asked her, “Anything?”

“The call was from the cell of a Georgetown student.”

“Bobby Landon,” Reeder said. “Amy’s boyfriend. They seem to have him, too.”

“Could
he
be in on this?”

“Very little chance. He’s been dating Amy since October.”

“Okay, but how long has the conspiracy been working on this thing?”

“Doesn’t matter, Patti. They couldn’t know I’d be asked to consult with the task force. No, the Landon kid must have been with Amy when they grabbed her. They claim he’s alive, too.”

“Well, his
phone
isn’t—went dead right after the call. So what’s our next step?”

“Your next step is to have Miggie send me everything he has on the Supreme Court investigation.”

“And nobody can know, I suppose.”

“You can know. Miggie can know. I can know.”

She sighed. “Okay. That’s
my
next step. What’s yours?”

“I have to quit the team.”

“Trouble creates a capacity to handle it.”

Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr., served thirty years as Associate Justice of the Supreme Court.
Section 5, Grave 7004, Arlington National Cemetery.

EIGHTEEN

Seated at her desk in the task force command post at the Hoover Building, Patti Rogers felt a hyper uneasiness that had little or nothing to do with this, her second grande latte of the morning. She sipped at it. Granted, she’d come into the office early, but that was two hours ago and still no sign of Reeder. Over at the conference table, Gabe Sloan would occasionally glance from his watch to Reeder’s empty desk and back again, and frown a little, before getting back to work.

The weight of what Reeder had shared with her last night—two kidnappings, both apparently still unreported—had her wondering if her new partner had left her to twist in the wind today. If it became known that she had withheld that knowledge of such crimes, she really
could
lose her job. Hell, she could face obstruction charges . . .

Around her, most of the rest of the team was working away, oblivious to what had gone down last night.

Hunkered over his laptop, Miggie Altuve—who’d also done Reeder a clandestine favor—had thus far cast not a glance her way. Was he hiding in his work, or just obsessive about it? In any case, he was blissfully unaware of the kidnappings that were burning a hole in her conscience.

Rogers could not allow the abductions to stay off the books much longer. If Reeder didn’t show up in the next thirty minutes, she would have to go to Sloan, career be damned . . .

On cue, Reeder pushed open one of the command post’s double doors; but he did not come in. He just motioned to her, then pointed toward Sloan. Heads started popping up around the room, but when she and Sloan rose to go out, everybody got back to work.

A confab in the corridor made sense. Reeder would hardly want to face the SAIC in front of the entire team. Despite the tragic circumstances, the consultant seemed placid as a mountain stream. Or was that a slight tension around his eyes? In Reeder’s case, that was tantamount to a nervous breakdown.

When the three were alone in the corridor, Sloan spoke up first: “Why so late for work, Peep? I have several fresh leads for you and Patti.”

Without preamble, Reeder said flatly, “Amy’s been kidnapped.”

Sloan gaped at him. “Jesus, no. This
morning
?
”

“Last night,” Reeder said with a head shake. “I sat on it till now.”

“Oh, Christ, Peep, no. You
know
that’s no way to—”

“I went to Amy’s apartment first. I needed to make sure this wasn’t a false alarm.”

“And it was no false alarm.”

“Apparently not.”

Sloan huffed a sigh. “When did the call come in?”

“Just as I was getting home. I was given an hour to determine for myself whether Amy had been taken. Her boyfriend, Robert Landon, also a Georgetown student, was likely also abducted.”

Sloan’s eyes flared with irritation. “And you waited till
now
to bring us in?”

“The caller told me not to involve anyone else. I took that to mean no law enforcement.”

“Shit. You know
better
than that! The more time you allow to pass, the more likely—”

“On reflection, obviously, I’ve come to the same conclusion. I’m here, Gabe. I’m here now.”

The SAIC shook his head, teeth bared like a growling animal. “And it took you this long to come to your senses?”

“Well, I went to Melanie’s last night. Amy’s mother had a right to know what was going on. I wasn’t about to tell her something like this over the phone.”

Sloan’s angry visage eased to one of concern. “How’s Mel doing?”

“What do you think? She’s a wreck. We went through all the stages of grief, including a new one, where I got pounded on.”

“Shit. Shit shit shit.”

“We talked for hours, working through it, figuring things out, deciding exactly how I should play this.”

The irritation returned. “Peep, you don’t have that luxury.
We
decide that now. The FBI. You
have
heard of it? How much does the kidnapper want?”

“This isn’t a ransom deal. He wants me to resign from the task force—walk away from the investigation.”

Sloan frowned in confusion. “What the hell?”

“I have no idea why. It’s not like we seem to be getting anywhere. But that’s what they’re asking. And, frankly, I wouldn’t be coming to you now if I hadn’t been told to.”

Sloan’s hands went to his hips, his eyebrows raised. “Don’t kid yourself, Peep. Your background doesn’t qualify you to take this on alone any more than
any
distraught parent. Leave this to us. We’ll go after the bastards.”

The SAIC turned to go back into the command post, but Reeder stopped him with a hand on an elbow.

“I’m not finished,” Reeder said.

“What?”

“When the creation of this task force was announced to the media,” the consultant said, “I wasn’t a part of it. That came later. An afterthought. An add-on.”

Sloan blinked at him. “Yes. Right. So?”

“The media’s been kept away from us. If I was spotted at a crime scene by a news crew, nothing’s come of it. Far as I know, I’ve stayed strictly under the radar.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is . . . how many people even
know
I’m part of this task force? Have you considered that?”

Shrugging, Sloan said, “Well, no, I haven’t. I’ve given it no thought at all. Why should I?”

At Reeder’s side, Rogers said to Sloan, “Start with the people we’ve interviewed—Nicky Blount, the Chief Justice, Charlie Granger, Tom Marvin. We spoke to a few people at the White House, including the President and his chief of staff. It’s a limited number.”

Sloan didn’t seem to be following.

Reeder took over for her: “Granger and Marvin are behind bars. They didn’t kidnap Amy. Blount’s a victim himself, and the Chief Justice seems an unlikely snatch artist. I think we can rule out the President, although I wouldn’t put much past Vinson, his chief of staff.”

Sloan, frowning, said, “Well, who the hell
does
that leave, Peep?”

But Rogers answered, pointing toward the nearby double doors. “Everybody in that room.”

Sloan goggled at them. “You think one of our
own
is part of . . .” He couldn’t even finish it.

Reeder said, “I don’t think anything yet. But someone who knows I’m working with the task force took my daughter. Keep that in mind.”

“I will,” Sloan said. “I don’t share your paranoia, but I will. And I’m going to do you a big favor, Peep. I’m not going to press the issue that you waited to report this. But I’m taking this to AD Fisk, right now.”

Reeder nodded. “Yes, by all means. Get an FBI kidnap team over to Melanie’s—I told her to expect that. Alert Bobby Landon’s parents, too—they live in Arlington. They have a right to know what’s going on.”

Sloan eyed him suspiciously. “All right. But where do you come in?”

“I don’t come in. I go out.”

“What . . . ?”

Reeder pointed a finger at his friend’s chest. “
You
need to go in—go in there and tell the team I’m leaving, that I’m off the task force as of now. Tell
Fisk, too. Inform the President, while you’re are it. I need to make a show of walking out of this building and going home. I’m off the Supreme Court investigation.”

“That’ll raise a lot of questions from everybody you just mentioned.”

“Tell them I have a family emergency. Nothing more. Anyway, it won’t take long for word about Amy to get around the building, once you’ve told Fisk and kidnap teams are dispatched.”

“You’re right, of course.” Sloan gripped Reeder’s arm. “Peep, I promise you that we will do everything in our power to get Ames back to you.”

“I know you will.”

“Go home and wait by the phone. I’ll keep you posted, all the way. Do I have to tell you what that daughter of yours means to me?”

“I know. I know.”

Sloan swallowed thickly, opened the door, holding it open for Rogers, who said, “You go. I’ll walk him out.”

The SAIC nodded, gave his old friend a sorrowful smile, and headed in.

She and Reeder headed down the endless corridor toward the elevator.

About halfway there, Rogers said, “Before we teamed up, I heard a lot about you.”

“That I’m an arrogant son of a bitch, you mean?”

“Pretty much. I don’t necessarily think that assessment is too far off base.”

He smiled a little. “Oh, don’t you?”

“No. You’re at least half crazy and could obviously use a decent round of therapy.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.”

“But you’re a hell of an investigator, Joe. You see things nobody else does, and I appreciate that.”

“Well, I appreciate you saying it. You’re okay yourself, Patti. Sloan was right that you’re smart, and you’ve got good instincts. Learn to listen to them.”

They were at the elevators.

She stuck out a hand and they shook.

“Joe, I would work with you again in a heartbeat.”

“Thanks, Patti.” The elevator came and he stepped on. “But who says we aren’t still working together?”

“Wait,
what
did you say?”

She hadn’t been planning to ride down with him, but the car was empty and she hopped on.

As usual, his face gave nothing away. “You don’t
really
think I’m going to stop working on this, do you? My daughter’s kidnapping? The conspiracy behind all this shit?”

She shook her head. “Now you
are
talking crazy. You need to stay out of it, Joe, and let the experts do their job. The FBI’ll get your daughter back, and nab all of those responsible. Bank on it.”

He gave her a bland smile. “Actually, the rate of return of kidnap victims when the FBI is called in is slightly lower than when not. Oh, and thanks for having Miggie e-mail me those case files.”

“You’re welcome, but—”

“I’m not going to put you and your career in undue peril. I’ll work alone . . . but I’ll feed you anything I find.”

The doors opened onto the lobby. He stepped out; she stayed on.

“Patti,” he said, holding the door open, “they’ve already killed two Supreme Court justices. Do you
really
think they plan to release Amy?”

Her inability to give him an answer was answer enough.

Then she heard herself say, “What can I do for you?”

“Eyes and ears open. Trust no one. There’s a very good chance somebody on the task force is a conduit to the conspiracy.”

He let the doors close on her.

The morning rushed by in a blur as Rogers sifted through a mountain of information culled from the crime scenes. A diligent digger, she couldn’t come up with one useful new avenue to pursue. Around her, team members were mining for clues, too—Eaton was in the field, as were the cops, Bishop and Pellin; but Cribbs, Secret Service agents Ho and Stein, and computer expert Miggie worked away at their laptops and phones.

Just before noon Sloan, back from a meeting with AD Fisk, approached her desk. Maybe he had those leads for her that he’d mentioned earlier. But his expression seemed awfully grave.

“Patti, were you with Reeder when he talked to Granger at Fairfax Detention yesterday?”

“Yes, with him at the lockup, but no, not in the room. I was off questioning Marvin.”

The SAIC dragged the desk chair away from Reeder’s empty station and sat close, leaning in closer.

He said, “Eaton went over to see Granger first thing this morning for a follow-up interview. It never happened—prisoner was dead in his cell.”

“
What?
How?”

“We won’t know till the autopsy—no physical signs of violence. Could be somebody slipped him a get-out-of-jail-free pill.”

“Jesus,” Rogers said. “Suicide?”

“Or so we’re supposed to think. A prisoner figuring he was facing a long, slow ride to lethal injection
might
take an earlier exit . . . Any idea what Reeder said to Granger in that interview?”

“Not really.”

Sloan’s eyebrows flicked up and down. “Well, Reeder was the last person alone with the prisoner.”

“Are you . . . implying something?”

The SAIC spoke softly, almost whispering, glancing around to make sure their small conversation in this big room stayed private. “What I’m saying is that the last person who had a chance to slip something to Granger seems to be Reeder.”

She smirked dismissively. “That’s crazy. What about guards or other inmates? Morning meal . . . ?”

“Eaton’s sticking around to check into that,” Sloan said. “But right now it’s looking like . . . do I have to say it?”

She was shaking her head, wide-eyed. “Not Reeder. No. There
must
be another explanation.”

“With any luck,” Sloan said, “Eaton will find it.”

Eaton fucking
hated
Reeder!

Sloan was saying, “Before we go down a road I really don’t want to, Patti . . . I need to know something. You’ve been working with Reeder for the last few days. I can’t be objective—he and I’ve been friends too long. What’s
your
take on Reeder’s current state of mind?”

She shrugged. “He doesn’t show it, but he
must
be going crazy over his daughter’s kidnapping.”

“If that’s what it is.”

“What else could it be?”

He ignored that, then repeated, “Patti, what’s your take on him?”

“He’s not an easy guy to, well . . . read. Plays it close to the vest. I guess when you know how to read other people, you learn how to guard them from reading you.”

“Agreed.”

“And he’s a hell of an investigator. I mean, every decent break we’ve had in this case is due to him.”

“Also agreed.”

“But . . . nothing.”

“Go on.”

“Well . . . he’s badly injured two suspects with that baton of his. I worry that this violence may be an inappropriate response. Could have something to do with his being shot as a Secret Service agent. PTSD, maybe. But, hey, I’m no damn
shrink
. . .”

Sloan frowned in thought. “Could he be . . . out of control?”

“He seems almost too
much
in control . . . except for those violent outbursts, where the situation called for at least
some
aggressive response.”