Supreme Justice (9 page)

“
Sometimes history takes things into its own hands.”

Thurgood Marshall, Associate Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States of America, 1967–1991, First African American Justice.
Section 5, Grave 40-3, Arlington National Cemetery.

NINE

Special Agent Gabriel Sloan was having a good morning, considering. In a life that in recent years included losing a daughter and a marriage, such mornings were rare. But this boded to be one of them.

They had the gun taken from Butch Brooks’s house, and Sloan felt confident that the shell casing from the bedroom would match the one from the Verdict restaurant bar, where Justice Venter had been slain. Since he’d had to shoot Brooks, for Sloan this would mean vindication of a sort.

Walking toward the task force command post, he saw his reflection glide by in door glass and damned if he wasn’t smiling. Things were finally starting to get better.

“Hey, Gabe,” a familiar voice behind him said. “Wait up!”

Sloan turned. “Morning, Peep.”

Reeder came up fast, digging into his suit coat pocket, his face its usual blank mask, somehow emphasized by his tan complexion and stark white hair. The consultant withdrew the Glock that Sloan had provided him at the Brooks duplex yesterday.

“Here,” Reeder said with a tiny sneer of disgust, “take the damned thing.”

You’d think Reeder was the one who’d had to kill a man.

Slipping it into his own pocket, Sloan let his smile blossom into a grin. “What an old lady you’re getting to be in your emeritus years.”

Reeder frowned. “Right—like yesterday didn’t bother you any.”

“Disturbed the hell out of me. I haven’t had many guns pointed at me in my years of service. I know I don’t have to tell
you
how
that
feels.”

Reeder shook his head. “There’s more to it. There’s the aftermath. Are you going to see an FBI shrink?”

“Are you kidding? There won’t even be a shooting board till this investigation is over.”

They were walking, but suddenly in no hurry.

“How did you sleep last night, Gabe?”

“Frankly, like a goddamned baby. Do I love losing the information that Brooks could have given us? Hell no. But do I mind putting a lowlife down so I can go on breathing? Not hardly.”

“There’s the conservative SOB I know and love.”

Sloan flashed a rumpled grin. They continued down the endless corridor.

“Anyway,” Sloan said. “That part of it is over. We got the guys. And
one’s
still breathing, at least.”

“You get the forensics results?”

Sloan shook his head. “Should be soon. Usually the lab takes weeks, even months. But the death of a Supreme Court justice jumps us to the front of the line.”

“Don’t kid yourself about this, Gabe.”

Sloan stopped—the command post was a few doors down. “What do you mean, Peep? If the casings match, Brooks and Granger are our guys.”

“Maybe in the sense that one of them pulled the trigger on Venter.”

“
Of course
one of them pulled the trigger.”

“What I mean is—if they did it, they were hired. This is still no robbery.”

Reeder pushed through the command post doors, holding one open for Sloan, who was a single step in when the applause began—the rest of the task force already there. He glanced back at Reeder, who wore a mild smirk, this reception clearly not something Peep found appropriate.

But the clapping grew louder, accompanied by a few hoots and whistles, as Sloan faced a roomful of smiles, everybody on their feet at their desks and at the conference table. Only Patti Rogers, standing but leaning back against her chair, seemed restrained in her smile and lackluster in her clapping—
was she still pissed that she’d been left out of the Brooks raid?

Sloan gave them a “stop” palm and a grave expression, and the applause quickly died. “Much as I appreciate that, everyone—we’re a long way from the end of this.”

“Maybe not,” Eaton said, jerking his head toward Altuve. “Ask Miggie about the test results he got from the lab.”

This sounded like good news, yet Sloan found himself frowning. “I was promised they’d give it to me direct, the second they had something.”

“Well,” Eaton said with a sly grin, “Miggie
might
have cut a corner or two.”

Sloan turned to Miggie, who—despite the group meeting—had already sat down at his desk and was back at it. Or pretending to be.

Sloan said, “Agent Altuve—you hacked our own
lab?
”

Miggie swiveled and smiled sheepishly. “Let’s say I . . . identified a security lapse that we now know can be, uh, properly addressed.”

“Skip the spin, Mig. Do the shell casings match?”

Miggie nodded. “Yes, they do.”

“Which is why,” Eaton said, grinning like he’d done the hacking, “you deserve a round of applause, boss man. Well, we all do.
Almost
all of us, anyway.”

The beefy Homeland Security agent was looking past Sloan at Reeder. Who said, “You think you have a point to make, Eaton?”

Eaton’s head went back and his chin came out, as if daring Reeder to take a swing. “Just that your kinesics bullshit sent us down a lot of needless paths and wasted valuable time. Those casings matching tells us Brooks’s gun is the murder weapon—that Justice Venter really
is
collateral damage in a tavern stickup.”

Sloan glanced at Reeder, gave him a small head bob that told the ex–Secret Service agent to step forward and explain himself.

Reeder said, “Brooks and Granger are career criminals. Somebody could have hired them to kill the Justice. It’s even possible that somebody was sophisticated enough to hire them
because
they were pulling these tavern robberies, and the Venter assassination could be written off as a robbery-related slaying.”

A lot of frowns were forming, but the burly Eaton goggled at Reeder.

“What a load of horseshit!” the Homeland agent blurted, eyes rolling. He turned toward the SAIC. “Sloan, you
can’t
be
buying
this!”

Calmly, Sloan said, “We’ve all seen the Verdict security footage, and we all heard Mr. Reeder give us a convincing reading of the body language of both the judge and his killer.”

Eaton spat words like seeds: “It . . . is . . . a . . . god . . . damned . . .
robbery
.”

Sloan nodded slowly. “You may be right. Probably are. But we have to make sure. This room is filled not just with representatives of various agencies, but with experts—Joe Reeder is one of them, dispatched here by
my
boss. And as
your
boss, I want to know
why
Justice Venter was murdered and, along the way, build an airtight case against Granger.”

The room got quiet. Even Eaton seemed to be settling down.

The group dispersed to their seats at desks or the conference table. They each had jobs to do, and went about doing them. Both the celebration and its argumentative aftermath were over.

Seated at the conference table, Sloan glanced over where Reeder had taken his place at the desk next to Rogers at hers. The SAIC might not have been a kinesics expert, but he could read that Rogers was annoyed with him for leaving her behind yesterday. But he and Patti had been partners long enough for Sloan to know he should give her some space.

He had just booted up his laptop when his cell vibrated, and he checked caller ID:
Margery Fisk.

Shit
.
Had Miggie’s hacking been caught?

He took the call, and the Assistant Director said only three words before clicking off: “My office. Now.”

Soon he was standing before her Buick-size desk—she had not indicated he should sit, so he edged in between two visitor chairs opposite her. Fisk was in a gray business suit that matched her complexion. Her dark hair was its usual lacquered self; her aging fashion model’s features had a coldness, but her dark eyes blazed.

As if asking him to pass the salt, she said, “Justice Gutierrez has been murdered.”

“What? Jesus.
When?
Where?”

“In his own backyard,” Fisk said, “within the half hour.”

“My God. That changes everything.”

“You think?” Her face tightened with barely controlled rage. “Can you tell me, Agent Sloan, why you didn’t have Justice Gutierrez under protective watch? Him and every
other
justice?”

He gestured with upraised palms. “Because Venter was the victim in a robbery holdup gone wrong.”

“Really? Is that why you had me put Joe Reeder on your team? He was talking assassination, and you were taking it seriously.”

“I was. I . . . I still do. Still am.”

“Particularly
now
,
I should think.”

He put a hand on her desk and leaned in. “All due respect, Director—why would the death of one justice be interpreted as indicating other justices were in danger?”

“It would seem a routine precaution. When this investigation is over, another inquiry will follow. You can count on that, Agent Sloan.”

Oh—so that was it: When criticism was raised that the other justices should have been given protection, someone would have to be blamed. And it wouldn’t be Margery Fisk.

She said, businesslike now, “I’ve already sent guards to the homes of the surviving justices.”

“Surviving justices . . . my God, what a bizarre sound.”

She arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “It’s not the
only
bizarre sound we can both expect to hear today and in the coming days. As for now, take your team and find out exactly what went down at the Gutierrez home.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He turned to go, but she called out: “And, Sloan?”

He faced her; their eyes met.

“Make sure this is the last justice we lose.”

“I’m certain it will be, Director—now that you’ve seen to it they’ve been provided with security.”

She studied him for a moment, searching for sarcasm; giving up, she said, “Well, I want you to make sure that none of them need it. Find those responsible. ASA-fucking-P.”

He nodded and went out.

It didn’t take long to fill in the team, considering how scant the available information.

“Rogers . . . Bishop . . . Pellin . . . Eaton . . . Cribbs . . . Reeder—we’re going to the scene. The rest of you keep at what you’ve been doing. Now that two justices have been taken out, look hard at racial hate groups . . . we have an African American and a Hispanic justice as our two victims . . . and also at left-wing fanatical groups.”

“Because,” Reeder said in the same cadence as Sloan, “it’s possible somebody is trying to change the balance of the Court.”

All eyes went to the kinesics expert. Things had been moving so fast that no one but Reeder had put it together.

“We just lost the two most conservative members of the Court,” Reeder pointed out, “and we have a liberal president sitting in the White House. How do you think those vacant seats will likely be filled?”

Silence draped the room.

Sloan said, “Peep is right. That’s a very logical read of the situation.”

Reeder said, “Oh, and Agent Eaton? As soon as you apologize, I’ll be happy to accept.”

Eaton said nothing, but his face was flushed.

Miggie was already machine-gunning at his comput
er as those Sloan had singled out grabbed jackets and headed for the door.

Sloan called out: “Miggie! We need the Gutierrez address.”

“Way ahead of you, boss. It’ll be on everyone’s cell phones by the time they get to their cars.”

“Good.” Sloan turned to the conference table. “Oh, and let’s not let the jihadists feel neglected. Stay on that thread, too.”

Nods over laptop tops saw them out the door.

Drivers in DC are not known for rushing out of the way for emergency vehicles, but this morning, the convoy of unmarked cars, cherry tops flashing, sirens screaming, had even the most hard-nosed motorists heading for the shoulders.

Sloan paved the way by cell with the Fairfax County sheriff, who told him Chain Bridge Road would be blocked at both ends, per protocol. Knowing locals disliked dealing with feds, Sloan put Bishop and Pellin in the lead, and the caravan paused briefly while two DC cops had the deputy check with his boss.

Sloan could see but not hear what was going on, and he was just about to get out and get involved when the deputy stepped back, lifted the chain out of the way, and waved Bishop and the rest of the parade on through.

Already, Gutierrez’s street was lined with law enforcement vehicles from every jurisdiction in the surrounding hundred or so miles. Sloan got out, giving his car door a slam as if to announce his presence, and strode toward the Justice’s estate, his team behind him like a posse in business suits, Reeder falling in at his side.

With so much local law on the scene, Sloan expected another pissing match, and was ready to let go at whichever local detective was planning to make a career on the back of a murdered Supreme Court justice.

But what emerged from the front door to meet them was a kid, barely thirty, who seemed glad to be approached by someone raising an FBI badge. The kid might have been a younger version of Sloan, military-short blond hair, bright blue eyes, cleft chin.

Hand extended, the young detective said, “Special Agent Sloan?”

Sloan nodded, shaking the kid’s hand.

“Detective Tim McCrosky,” the young man said, mouth smiling, forehead frowning. “Am I glad to see you. What we have here is well beyond my skill set.”

Sloan grunted a laugh. “Who was it said a man has to know his limitations?”

“Dirty Harry,” Reeder said, a half step back from Sloan. “First homicide, Detective McCrosky?”

McCrosky shook his head. “Not hardly . . . but the first
big
homicide. The media is already trying to muscle in here and sneak in there—woods edge the backyard, y’know.”

Sloan narrowed his gaze. “Detective, we can’t have media trampling the killer’s route.”

The kid raised a gentle hand. “I have uniformed officers back there, in blue booties, shooing ’em off. Plus, we put up a canvas tarp in front of the body.”

“Good thinking,” Sloan said, nodding. “But you need to cordon off that whole area. Get your guys a shitload of crime scene tape and make sure we keep the media the hell out of there. Got it?”