Supreme Justice (20 page)

On the move now, Reeder was walking along Tenth, away from M Street, head tucked slightly.

He said, “I was wondering why the cops were after me. Gabe murdered Brooks, planted the murder gun.”

She said nothing.

“Tell me, Patti. Would the evidence against me be purely circumstantial, by any chance? It would have to be, since I’m innocent.”

“Why don’t you come in,” she said stiffly, “and we’ll talk about it.”

“Forget the trace, Patti. It’s a burn phone.”

“Joe, if you’re innocent, come on in. We’ll get it straightened out.”

“The boss of the task force—my best friend—is framing me for the murders of two justices. He at the very least aided in the kidnapping of my daughter. And you suggest I come in, on his turf, and talk about it?”

“Joe, you’re talking crazy.”

“Will you do me this favor?” He stopped and tucked into the recession of a doorway. “Will you hear me out?”

“. . . All right. Okay. Yes.”

He laid it all out, quickly but in detail: everything he had figured out about the Venter, Gutierrez, and Brooks killings.

“Joe, all of that’s circumstantial.”

“Like what Sloan has on me,” Reeder reminded her. “And I can’t prove any of it. The kidnapper, on the phone, called my daughter
Ames
,
Patti. That’s a nickname only Gabe uses anymore.”

“Joe . . .”

“He has my daughter. My God, would I use my
daughter
as a pawn in this game? You know, I almost didn’t call you. You were his partner. You could be with him in it.”

“Then why did you call?”

“Because I get paid to read people. I did a lousy job where Gabe Sloan is concerned. But you—I have you nailed, Patti. I know exactly what you are.”

“What’s that?”

“
My
partner now.”

“What . . . what do you expect from me?”

“You have to choose. Choose between us.”

“And I’ll pick you over a man I’ve worked with for six years?”

“Trust your instincts and that brain of yours. Think about the things I’ve just told you. Look at the circumstantial evidence he’s lined up against me.”

“There’s . . . another killing you haven’t mentioned.”

“I don’t know of any.”

“Granger. In his jail cell.”

“Who saw him last?”

“Other than guards and inmates, you.”

“Who found him?”

“Eaton.”

He laughed harshly. “You should give that some thought, too.”

“. . . And when I have?”

“Meet me at the grave of Edward Washburn Whitaker.”

“Edward who?”

“Look it up. Come alone, if you believe me. If you bring the cavalry, I’ll understand. Eight p.m.”

He clicked off, walked to the next corner, where he tossed the cell down the sewer.

“Trials by the adversarial contest must, in time, go the way of the ancient trial by battle and blood.”

Warren E. Burger, Fifteenth Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States of America, 1969–1986.
Section 5, Lot 7015-2, Grid W-36, Arlington National Cemetery.

TWENTY

Patti Rogers had worked with Gabriel Sloan for over five years, and partners in law enforcement, like combat soldiers, grew to have a bond not unlike marriage. She had been teamed with Reeder only a few days, during which time he’d often been remote, and she had at times been filled with doubt about his fitness in the field.

But she had also seen Reeder analyze a crime scene, with a sideways take uniquely his own, and was suitably impressed. Her temporary partner had advised her to follow her instincts, and right now those instincts told her Reeder was right—that Sloan was their Judas made a terrible kind of sense.

Spending working day upon working day with Gabe meant she’d had closer access to the man in recent years than anyone else in the Bureau. And she had, accordingly, noticed changes in him that others may have missed. He’d become less talkative since his daughter’s death, and his affable surface seemed something he had to work at.

With a loss such as Gabe had suffered—his marriage had come apart, as well—all that strained behavior was no surprise. In particular he’d seemed distracted, if never quite morose, and she’d tried to give him plenty of space.

Now she found herself looking at Gabe through Reeder’s eyes. Had what she’d noticed been something more than grief? Had Sloan been plotting his supreme revenge? All those times in the office or the car, when he seemed only partly with her, had he been planning murder as a means of reconfiguring the high court itself?

From the sidewalk outside Reeder’s town house, Rogers and Sloan observed the SWAT team sweeping into the place, the red front door off its hinges. She could only wonder if she’d soon be entering the domain of a manipulative madman.

Or was she standing next to one?

Sloan looked toward the broken door, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“Come on, come on,” he muttered.

He might have been anxious for his friend inside, hoping Reeder would surrender so they could take him safely into custody and, please, God, clear the man’s name.

Or he might have been hoping Reeder was in there ready to shoot it out and get taken down, taking to the grave any knowledge of the SAIC’s role in the conspiracy.

The SWAT team came out of the house, and their leader shook his head. “No sign of him—or the daughter!”

“Damn it,” Sloan said. He was already striding toward the busted-open front door.

Rogers, working to keep up, said, “Kidnap team is on it. They’ll find her, Gabe.”

Sloan said nothing, moving inside, and Rogers followed him into the masculine living room with its easy chairs and wall-mounted television. Frowningly taking things in, Sloan wandered toward the dining room. Seeing no reason to follow, Rogers reversed course and went up to the second floor.

In Reeder’s home office, her eyes were drawn to the cell phone crushed on the floor. She glanced at the battery on the desk. Reeder knew she was having him traced and had bolted.

He’d left in such a hurry that he hadn’t even bothered to turn off his computer.

Or had he
left
it on—for her to see something?

She moved the mouse, and the image of Butch Brooks on his bed jumped at her—haloed by the blood-and-brain-spattered headboard, gun that killed Henry Venter in his right hand.

Reeder seemed to whisper in her ear:
Glock’s the murder gun, yet Brooks is strictly a wheelman—never a shooter—and left-handed.

That, according to Reeder, meant Sloan planted the weapon. And it explained why Sloan had left Rogers behind, taking instead Reeder, rusty after years away from the field.

“Somebody must’ve warned Peep,” Sloan said from behind her.

She flinched at that, but turned and covered with an embarrassed smile. “I’m afraid
I
did.”

He frowned. “Oh?”

She nodded down at the crushed cell phone. “Must’ve figured out I was stalling to get the call traced.”

“Don’t sweat it. Not his first day at the rodeo.” He met her eyes. “But not mine, either, Patti. We’ll find him.”

His eyes lingered on her, and she was just getting uncomfortable when he gestured toward the monitor.

Too casual, he asked, “Why was Peep looking at this crime scene photo, d’you think?”

And she knew Reeder was right.

“No idea,” she said, too quickly.

Did Sloan know she knew?

What now? A game of pretend till one of them made a real slip? A shoot-out in this enclosed space, with the survivor left in one hell of a spot?

Sloan’s expression was friendly, but his eyes were cold blue marbles. “What do you think his next move’ll be, Patti?”

“I have no way of knowing.”

He scratched his head. “Well, I can tell you what it
would
have been, before we got on to him.”

“Which is?”

With a matter-of-fact shrug, he said, “Take out Chief Justice Jackson. If he’s crazy enough, he may still try.”

“Why on earth would he do that?”

Sloan shrugged. “Reeder as much as told us. You were there in the Oval Office, Patti, when he laid the motive out for the Venter and Gutierrez killings.”

Nodding, she said, “Change the balance of the Court, yeah. But we found two
more
remote-control kill devices.”

“Peep himself said those weren’t legitimate attempts.”

“Legit or not, Gabe, it made security even tighter around
all
the justices—particularly Van Steenhuyse, Sorenson, Jackson, all the conservatives.”

He waved that off. “With Reeder on the task force, working from the inside? Tighter security wouldn’t mean shit. Anyway, the point of the devices was to keep the investigation ongoing.”

“Why would he want that?”

Sloan cocked his head, which made his smile slant. “Because his job was done. The two conservative justices were dead, certain to be replaced by liberals. Now all he had to do was keep the spotlight on preventing the next kill . . . while he hid in plain sight and the other conspirators faded away.”

She was shaking her head. “But now it’s not so certain those conservatives will be replaced by liberals. That’s the news cycle right now—that the President may appoint a centrist.”

“Right. You heard Peep say to Harrison that appointing a more centrist justice, a swing vote, might avoid political blowback.”

She shook her head again. “But why even
make
that suggestion to Harrison? With his mission over, the Court’s balance changed, the ongoing investigation a sham . . . all he had to do was walk away!”

Sloan’s grin was as casual as his eyes were hard. “What better camouflage than Reeder suggesting to the President that a centrist be nominated? Of course, to make sure his scheme worked, he’d have to kill a
third
justice now.”

Reeder had made a horrible kind of sense . . . but now so did Sloan. After their years as partners, did Gabe deserve the benefit of the doubt?

There was one way to know . . .

“Let me tell you,” she said, jerking a thumb toward the monitor, “what I’ve taken away from studying this crime scene photo.”

“Please.”

They both turned to it.

She said, “It’s that if
you
hadn’t killed him, Butch Brooks might’ve led us to the conspirators.”

His frown was nasty. “Now
you’re
second-guessing
me?
What would you do, Rogers, if a slimeball took a shot at
you
?
”

She held up a single surrender palm. “Same damn thing. Absolutely. Still, it’s unfortunate, isn’t it? Brooks and Granger both dead, and Marvin clamming up . . . Of course, who
wouldn’t
shut up, in his place?”

“It
is
unfortunate,” he admitted. “A bad break. But it is what it is. The only angle I had from the doorway was a head shot.”

She sighed, nodded. “I can see that.”

He seemed to have nothing else to say. She sure didn’t.

Finally he twitched a lame grin and said, “Why don’t you go home, Patti, and catch a nap or something? I need you at the Chief Justice’s tonight.”

“Oh, really? Okay. Sure. Time?”

“Be there at nine o’clock. Jackson and his wife are going out for supper, and I’ll be along with a security team to babysit. We’ll be back around then or a little later. I want you around for extra firepower in case Reeder is crazy enough to make his play after they get home.”

She nodded, started out, then turned. “You want me to drop you at the Hoover Building?”

“No, thanks. I’ll catch a ride back. See you at nine.”

She’d been dismissed, and that was just fine with her.

In the unmarked Ford, she sat and in her head replayed her conversation with the SAIC several times. Much of what Sloan had said, attributing the Judas role to Reeder, could be read as his own veiled confession. And telling her to meet him at the Chief Justice’s residence could be seen as an invitation to bring Reeder in—for an arrest, or a showdown.

She got out her cell, tried the number of Reeder’s burn phone, went straight to voice mail. No surprise.

Briefly she considered going to Assistant Director Fisk. But Fisk was the one who’d appointed Gabe Sloan head of the task force, which made her a conspiracy suspect, too.

And the idea of going home and trying to catch a nap, as Sloan suggested, was almost funny.

Instead she headed to Arlington National Cemetery, way early for her meeting with Reeder. Her phone’s search engine gave her the location of Edward Washburn Whitaker’s grave—a Union brigadier general in the Civil War who’d received the Medal of Honor. A little of his bravery might come in handy about now.

A light, cool wind caught tendrils of her hair and wisped them around. The breeze conspired with a slice of moon and some fast-floating clouds to make the graveyard suitably ghostly. She was shivering a little—maybe more than the temperature called for.

She’d wanted to get there before Reeder. For once, she wanted the upper hand.

But of course, she didn’t get it: Barely after six, and already Reeder was waiting for her. He wore black slacks and a black turtleneck with a gray suit jacket. No gun bulge showed, but she knew he’d be armed and ready.

Approaching, she said, “How’d you know I would come alone?”

He shook his head. “I
hoped
you’d come alone.”

“I never took you for somebody who leaves much to chance.”

“I don’t. But I trust my read on people. Even if I did get Gabe Sloan wrong.”

Her hair danced in the breeze, tickling her face. “We’re
both
taking a hell of a risk. I’m almost positive Sloan knows that
I
know he’s the Judas.”

“So he might track you by GPS.”

“Right. But I don’t think so. He’s up to something else.”

She told him about Sloan having her meet him at nine o’clock at Justice Jackson’s residence.

“Don’t sweat the GPS,” Reeder said. “If you wanted to find me, Patti, and I wasn’t at my office or home, where would you check?”

“Here. Arlington.”

“And you don’t think Gabe knows that? You’ve known me how many days—he’s known me how many years?”

“He’d know.”

“Right.” He glanced around. “And the police at Arlington are federal. Gabe could’ve made a call and had me picked up anytime. I’ve been strolling around here for a couple of hours. Nobody’s come near me.”

“So he
does
want a showdown.”

Reeder grunted something not quite a laugh. “He sure as hell doesn’t want me arrested before he can do something about the problem I’ve become.”

She nodded. “Then let’s walk into a goddamn DC police station and get your friend Bishop’s help. Get your accusations out on the table before Sloan can do anything about it.”

His expression was calm, but his eyes were as cold as Sloan’s had been. “Tell me. Why didn’t you go to Fisk about this? . . . That’s what I figured. We don’t know
who’s
part of the conspiracy, other than it involves law enforcement. No, Patti, we need to take Gabe up on his invitation.”

She knew he was right, but hearing it was still like a slap. “Isn’t that suicide?”

“Didn’t Granger die of ‘suicide’ in police custody?”

“That doesn’t mean you should walk into a trap.”

“I
have
to walk into that trap, just like Gabe has to set it. He needs me there when Justice Jackson is murdered, so the frame will fit.”

When Justice Jackson is murdered
—chill words made colder by the breeze.

She said, “If Gabe has a time frame, if he feels this is all about to fall apart on him?
Don’t
go.”

The wind ruffled Reeder’s short white hair. The coldness left his eyes, replaced by moisture. “Patti . . . what else can I do? He has my daughter.”

“He also has the federal government behind him.”

A nod. “For now. But probably not much longer. Tonight he won’t want a huge contingent around. He’s been very crafty all through this, running the task force just a little shittily—we were always just a step behind, weren’t we? That’ll happen when the bad guy is in charge.”

“I’m coming with you,” she said, stepping forward, fists at her side. “Goddamnit, don’t try to stop me.”

He gazed at her with something like warmth. “Why, Patti—I wouldn’t think of leaving you behind.”

“. . . No?”

“No. Gabe sent you here with his invitation. If I show up, alone or otherwise, he’ll know for sure you delivered it—and that you’re on to him. If we don’t take him down tonight, Patti . . . tomorrow we’ll be as dead as Lee Harvey Oswald, not to mention Jack Ruby.”

She swallowed, worked to slow her spinning head. “Maybe we can get some help. There’s Bishop and Pellin, friends of yours. Jess Cribbs is a friend of mine.”

“But not as good a friend as Gabe Sloan was to me.”

That said it all.

“So,” she said, trying to sound strong but her voice cracking, “just the two of us, then.”