Executive Order (Reeder and Rogers Thriller) Read online

  In good shape from her thrice weekly workouts, she was well up to the challenge, making it quickly to the far end of the building, rounding the corner . . . but Willard was already almost to the parking lot. Damn! He had a good fifty yards on her.

  She ran harder, closing the distance, but then she heard Hardesy yell, “Freeze, Glenn! Federal agents!”

  Willard stopped, but he didn’t freeze. Instead his hand went behind his back, slipping under the untucked polo to yank out a small automatic from his waistband.

  Rogers shouted, “Gun!” but she doubted Hardesy heard the warning over the report of his own pistol.

  The automatic seemed to fly out of Willard’s hand of its own volition, then skittered out of reach as the young man crumpled into a heap on the pavement in an empty handicapped parking place.

  Rogers rushed to the fallen drug dealer, her Glock still on him, and Hardesy did, too, from around the front of the building.

  At first she thought her colleague had pulled off a trick shot out of one of those old westerns Reeder watched, shooting the gun right out of the man’s hand. But it had been pain that sent the weapon flying, not fancy pistol-work: writhing on the cement, Willard got his hands red trying to stop the blood pouring from a wound in his side.

  The young man looked up at Rogers as if maybe she were a nurse there to help him. “Son of a bitch shot me,” he said, like it had hurt his feelings.

  Kneeling next to him, Rogers said, “Shut up and lie still.”

  She ignored his moans as she dragged latex gloves from her pocket, pulled them on, then took his scarlet-smeared right hand.

  “Quit grabbing at it,” she said, then pressed his palm back against the wound. “Keep steady pressure.”

  Pacing nearby, her cohort had his cell out, telling the dispatcher, “Suspect down! Suspect down! Ambulance needed.”

  As he gave the address, Hardesy was fishing latex gloves out of a coat pocket. When he’d finished the call, he went over, bent down, and collected Willard’s automatic, dropping it into a plastic evidence bag like a dog owner cleaning up behind Fido.

  Rogers remained crouched near Willard, who was wincing in pain but alert. She asked, “Good idea, you think, drawing down on a federal agent?”

  Willard seemed about to say something, but all that came out was a groan.

  They didn’t have to wait long for the ambulance, but while they did, Hardesy read Willard the revised Miranda rights, after which Rogers—still kneeling, as if praying for the perp—started asking questions.

  “Glenn, did you regularly deliver Secretary Yellich’s lunch?”

  But Willard was too busy whimpering to respond.

  She kept trying anyway: “And the Secretary always ordered the same sandwich, correct?”

  Not a nod nor a shake of the head. Just whimpering and tears.

  “That sandwich had sesame in it, Glenn. And Secretary Yellich was dangerously allergic. Did you know that?”

  He passed out.

  As the attendants loaded Willard up and in, Rogers and Hardesy gave their statements to both the local cops and an FBI Agent Involved Shooting investigator. This took a while. Before long, the parking lot filled with cop cars whose flashing lights painted the late morning red and blue.

  Hardesy said to her, “I told you he’d be an asshole.”

  “Let’s hope he’s not a dead one.”

  “Hey, he pulled on me, so don’t look for tears.”

  “I won’t. But we can’t talk to him if he isn’t breathing.”

  Finally they had the chance to enter Willard’s apartment, the FBI evidence team’s work winding down. The apartment wasn’t the mess she’d figured, the expected scattering of pizza boxes not present, nor the anticipated scruffy carpeting. The room was surprisingly clean, in fact, and she attributed any disorder more to the evidence team’s search than a lack of cleanliness.

  The furniture—a leather sofa along a wall, a matching pair of chairs under the living room window, a good-size flat-screen against another wall—was higher-end than she would have expected in an apartment like this.

  Granted, the place was redolent of the sickly sweet mixture of dope and incense, but otherwise everything seemed so . . . normal. The dining room, off the entry, had a polished wood table and four chairs with a pile of mail propped against a condiment holder.

  Rogers picked up the envelopes, thumbed through—a few bills, some junk, nothing special. She set the stack back down and took a pass through the galley kitchen. Coffee pot and toaster on the counter, sponge and dish soap near the faucet, everything clean and in its place.

  Martin Napoli, a tall, balding agent of around forty, strode into the room; he wore an FBI windbreaker and a seen-it-all expression. The Special Agent in charge of the evidence collection team, Napoli was a favorite of Rogers’—good at his job, and he could always make her smile.

  “Hiya, Patti,” he said.

  “Hiya, Marty.”

  Hardesy and Napoli traded nods.

  “Find anything?” she asked.

  Napoli gave up a tiny shrug. “You could say that.”

  “Care to share?”

  His expression giving away nothing, Napoli crooked a finger for Rogers and Hardesy to follow him down the hall.

  As they trailed the evidence SAIC down the dim corridor, Hardesy whispered to her, “What’s he bein’ so cute about?”

  “It just means he has something.”

  They passed a bathroom on the right. Neat and clean. A bedroom, door open, was dark but appeared tidy, too.

  Opposite was a second bedroom, its door closed. Napoli stopped there, wearing a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin, then twisted the knob and pushed the door open.

  The fecund aroma of weed rolled out.

  As she and Hardesy stuck their heads in, Napoli said behind them, “Enough grass in here to replace the turf at RFK Stadium.”

  If this bedroom had a bed, it was buried beneath bursting, stacked garbage bags, the pot aroma so strong that Rogers wondered if she could get a contact high just standing in the doorway.

  “My lord,” she said. “Marty, any idea how much dope is in there?”

  Napoli shrugged. “We haven’t exactly had time to weigh it, but my guess? Enough to make a guy carry a gun and make a run for it when federal agents come around.”

  Nodding, Rogers said, “Anything to tie him to the death of Secretary Yellich?”

  “Not unless one of these bags is filled with sesame seeds,” Napoli said with half a smirk. “And in the kitchen? Not a bun or a bagel with the deadly little beauties.”

  Moving away from the odor, she said, “Well, stay at it, Marty. And thanks.”

  “Always entertaining, Patti, when a call from you comes in. How’s your pal Reeder?”

  “Getting rich not working for the government.”

  She and Hardesy headed outside. Afternoon now, it was getting colder.

  Hardesy regarded her with narrowed eyes. “So what do you think?”

  “Well,” she said, “I almost wrote this off as a wild goose chase.”

  “Yeah, me, too—but I didn’t figure it would lead to a half ton of marijuana.”

  She huffed a laugh. “I guess we know why Willard pulled on us.”

  “Do we?” Hardesy asked. “Or is Reeder onto something?”

  “Always possible with him. We’ll have to keep digging. I wonder if taking a huge pile of dope off the street will make AD Fisk smile upon Special Situations?”

  Hardesy laughed once. “We may get a day or two out of it.”

  Her cell chirped—it was Miguel Altuve, their computer analyst.

  “I’ve been going through security video,” he told her, “and not just from the day Secretary Yellich died—from the days before her death.”

  “And?”

  “And a guy who must be your Glenn Willard did deliver her meals regularly . . . but he didn’t do it the day of her death.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah. The gu
y subbing for Willard was dressed similarly, similar look generally, but definitely not the same guy.”

  Her stomach did a backflip. “Do we know who the ringer is?”

  “Not yet,” Miggie said. “Facial recognition came up nada.”

  “Have you talked to Avninder, the owner of the restaurant, since you got this?”

  “Briefly, on the phone. Knows nothing about anybody filling in for Willard. But I figure you’ll want to talk to him yourself, and not on the phone.”

  Nearby, the evidence team was hauling the bulging bags of dope out of Building Two and loading them into a van—they were going to need another.

  She told the phone, “Send the file on the restaurant and the owner to our phones. Hardesy can fill me in while I drive.”

  “You got it,” Miggie said, then clicked off.

  Turning to Hardesy, she said, “Reeder was right.”

  “Was he now?”

  “Ready for this? Glenn Willard delivered the secretary’s sandwich on every day but one. Guess which.”

  Her colleague’s eyebrows rose high on his endless forehead. “Jesus. What are we into?”

  She didn’t answer that, saying instead, “We kind of missed the noon hour, but I did promise to buy you lunch. And I have a certain restaurant in mind . . .”

  Ye Olde Sandwich Shoppe, a hole-in-the-wall joint, sat only blocks from Yellich’s DC office. Owner Dev Avninder was in his sixties, the patriarch of a family business he’d opened when he brought his brood to the United States almost three decades ago (according to the file Altuve sent them).

  When Rogers and Hardesy walked in, the lunch rush was long over, just a couple of diners at the four tables in the tiny room. The back was taken up with a glass deli case and a counter with register, behind which stood a gray-haired, white-bearded man in suit and tie, with the proud look of a man who’d built an empire, however small. Behind him, younger workers in clean white T-shirts were making sandwiches and otherwise putting together orders, working rather frantically. Lunch hour might be over, but the demand for the little shop’s sandwiches wasn’t.

  “Mr. Avninder?” Rogers asked, flashing her credentials.

  The man’s brown eyes lost a tiny bit of spark, and his automatic smile for all customers died on its way to his lips. “Yes?”

  “I’m Special Agent Rogers and this is Special Agent Hardesy. We’d like a word with you.”

  “We are very busy,” Avninder said.

  Hardesy said, “Doesn’t really look that way, sir.”

  “My business is mostly delivery. And my best deliveryman did not show up for work today. We are seriously behind schedule.”

  Rogers said, “Your best deliveryman—you mean, Glenn Willard?”

  Avninder’s eyes became slits. “And how do you know this?”

  “He’s in the hospital,” Rogers said. “In the emergency room, or possibly surgery by now.”

  A hand rose to his lips but didn’t quite touch them; his eyes were wide, white all around. “This is terrible. What has happened? Is he ill?”

  Hardesy said, “He pulled a gun on a federal agent and got himself shot.”

  Avninder drew a breath in, quick. “I . . . I don’t believe it! Glenn . . . he is a good man!”

  At his raised voice, a slender girl working the food counter turned in concern. “Papa, what is it?”

  “More federal agents, dear—they say Glenn drew a gun, and that . . . that one of them shot him.”

  The girl, her black hair ponytailed back, her white T-shirt emblazoned with the name of the restaurant, looked far less surprised than her father. She peered at them past the register.

  Matter-of-fact, she asked, “Was it because of drugs?”

  “Drugs!” her father said. It was damn near a yelp.

  “You knew he sold drugs?” Hardesy asked the girl.

  She shrugged.

  Shaken, Avninder said to his daughter, “What is this craziness about drugs?”

  Rogers locked eyes with the girl, who had ignored her father’s question. “And you are?”

  “Veena Avninder.” She was in her early twenties, pretty, and clearly had a different angle on the world than her father.

  Rogers asked, “Did you know Glenn was selling drugs?”

  “Yes,” she said, not at all ducking it. “That was common knowledge.”

  Her father’s eyes flared. “Veena!” Then to the agents he said, quietly, “I did not know of this. He seems a nice young man.”

  Veena seemed a nice young woman, but she knew about the drugs didn’t she?

  As if Rogers had spoken that question aloud, Veena said, “But Glenn never sold them here! My father’s business is legitimate. We make deliveries to some of the most important people in town.”

  But that didn’t preclude drugs, did it?

  Hardesy asked, “What about Glenn’s deliveries? Was he delivering more than sandwiches?”

  Veena gave a very elaborate shrug that said she didn’t know, but suspected he probably was. Rogers wondered if the girl was herself a customer of Glenn’s, but didn’t press in front of her papa.

  Hardesy asked, “Mr. Avninder, has anyone talked to you about the death of Secretary of the Interior Yellich?”

  The old man frowned deep and suddenly Rogers had a pretty good idea why Avninder had been brusque when they came in. He seemed to be searching for words, but his daughter beat him to it.

  She said, “Other FBI agents stopped by, and my father explained that he himself made the Secretary’s sandwiches—she was a longtime, valued customer, who came into the shop at times.”

  “I knew all about her allergy,” her father said. “I told the agents, and someone from the FBI today who called, and I told him, too. She was a fine lady and I looked out for her.”

  Rogers asked, “You made the sandwich yourself that day?”

  “I did. As always.”

  “It’s not possible you were busy, and someone else stepped in to do it, maybe someone who didn’t know about the allergy and made a mistake?”

  “No! Impossible.”

  Rogers didn’t press it further. “All right,” she said. “Did the FBI agents ask you about the other deliveryman the day of the tragedy?”

  Avninder shook his head as if trying to clear it. He said, “What are you talking about? For over a year now, Glenn delivered the Secretary her sandwich every day. What other deliveryman?”

  Rogers said, “Someone substituted for Glenn that day.”

  The old man swiped the air with a dismissive hand. “No, you are misinformed. Glenn took it as always.”

  On her cell, Rogers brought up Miggie’s security still showing the alternate deliveryman and showed it to Avninder.

  Nodding as he looked at it, Avninder insisted, “As I said, Glenn . . .” Then his voice trailed off.

  Veena stepped forward, looked at the photo. “That’s not Glenn,” she confirmed. “There’s a resemblance, but that’s definitely not Glenn.”

  Rogers asked, “Do you know who it is? Someone else here? Someone who fills in?”

  Veena shook her head, then turned to Avninder. “Papa?”

  He said, stiffly, ridiculously proud, “I have never seen this person before.”

  “So, then,” Hardesy said, “how did he end up delivering the Secretary her fatal lunch?”

  They both shrugged, then looked at each other and shrugged again.

  “No idea,” Veena said.

  “I have no idea also,” her father said, at her side.

  Rogers exchanged grim glances with Hardesy.

  She’d be calling Reeder soon to tell him he was right—Amanda Yellich’s death had been no accident. The Secretary of the Interior, a cabinet member, had likely been assassinated . . . with everyone writing off her death as just a tragic accident . . .

  And the one man who could shed any light on this affair was in surgery in Baltimore, possibly about to die from a gunshot wound for which she and Hardesy were responsible.

 
; Avninder seemed surprised when Rogers and Hardesy ordered two sandwiches and ate them at one of the little tables. They were delicious and, anyway, a deal was a deal.

  “When even one American—who has done nothing wrong—is forced by fear to shut his mind and close his mouth—then all Americans are in peril.”

  Harry S. Truman, thirty-third President of the United States of America. Served 1945–1953.

  FIVE

  Alone in his Georgetown office at ABC Security—a surprisingly modest space for a CEO—Reeder went over the information on the thumb drive he’d received from President Harrison.

  The security firm now took all four floors of the nondescript 1990s-era building they’d moved into a decade ago, occupying space that had sat empty ever since the microfiche company that erected it went belly up. Reeder was constantly pressured by his business associates to upgrade, embarrassed as they were that the home office was shabby compared to the branch ones; but he was comfortable here.

  Right now he sat at an old-fashioned oak desk with a window to his back; to his left was a wall of manuals and studies with trophies and awards serving as bookends. The wall opposite was engulfed by a video monitor, and to his right the remaining wall was given to a couch under a surprisingly small but nonetheless client-pleasing display of his national magazine covers and the famous photo of him taking a bullet for a president (who he just as famously hadn’t liked).

  He was leaning back in his oversize black-leather ergonomic office chair, one of his few indulgences, his gaze fixed on his desk’s video monitor. After a third time through the thumb drive, he still had not found one damn thing of real interest.

  Included were individual files for each of the missing-presumed-dead CIA operatives, a copy of the President’s directive that no one be sent to Azbekistan, and incident reports that detailed prior actions of lead agent Jacob McMann and his longtime partner, William Meeks. The two analysts, Vitor Gorianov and Elizabeth Gillis, were not regulars in McMann and Meeks’ circle, but had occasionally worked with them.

  McMann and Meeks were good, very good, and none of their previous missions cast any light on why they might have been deemed expendable. But in being ordered to Azbekistan, four top operatives—including Gillis, an exceptional young talent (judging by her file)—appeared to have been knowingly sacrificed.