Executive Order (Reeder and Rogers Thriller) Read online

  Theodore Roosevelt, twenty-sixth President of the United States of America. Served 1901–1909.

  SIX

  Patti Rogers, behind the wheel, didn’t pick up either call that came in. When she and Lucas Hardesy parked in the ramp at MedSTAR Trauma Center, she finally checked and saw Reeder had tried but left no voice mail. The other number she didn’t recognize, but the caller had left a message. As Rogers and her colleague walked toward the main hospital building, she checked it.

  “This number ASAP,” Reeder’s voice said. As usual there was nothing to find in his tone; a man whose specialty was reading people didn’t give much for others to work with. But to her the clipped brevity of it spoke volumes.

  Reeder had more than one cell phone, and she knew (or thought she knew) them all; but she had never seen this number before.

  To Hardesy, she said, “Go ahead on in—I’ll be a minute.”

  Noting her checking her cell, he asked, “Something?”

  “Reeder.”

  “Cool,” he said with a nod and kept walking.

  On the grass near the sidewalk to the entrance, she punched in the unknown number. Reeder answered on the first ring.

  “What’s up, Joe?”

  His answer was as long as her question was short: the old friend who was CIA, the scheduled meeting at the Fortress of Solitude, the car that had run his friend down, a description of the vehicle and where it was headed. She promised to do what she could.

  “But, Joe—this is obviously a professional hit. If we or the locals manage to find the car, it’s not likely it’ll lead anywhere.”

  “No argument. It’s almost certainly stolen, and’ll be abandoned somewhere—with maybe a piece of lint for the forensics guys to work with.”

  “You’re calling on a burner phone.”

  “Right. I tossed mine. They must have tracked my call to Len—it’s the only way that could have gone down. So hold onto this number. For now.”

  “Jesus, Joe. What the hell’s next?”

  “Oh, not much. Just keep the President happy and figure out who sent four Americans to their death to foster a war between us and Russia. Same-oh, same-oh.”

  “Oh, Joe.” The phone in her hand was shaking. “This is . . . I mean, we’ve been through a lot, but . . .”

  “I don’t mean to involve you beyond some simple law enforcement stuff. This call is just a heads-up.”

  “But, Joe, if the entire CIA is flummoxed by this thing, how can you . . . ?”

  “Don’t know,” he admitted. “I may have to fall off the grid and go underground for a while.”

  “I wish there was something more I could say than just . . . be careful.”

  “You be careful, Patti. Remember, these pricks didn’t come after me—they took my friend Len Chamberlain out.”

  “And . . . you think they might try to hurt you through—”

  “The people I care about, yes. Consider yourself warned. I’m on my way to try to talk Melanie and Amy into disappearing for a while.”

  His ex-wife and daughter.

  “Okay,” she said, “so I’m warned. Do what you need to, but remember to call me in off the bench if need be.”

  They ended the call.

  Hardesy was waiting for her near the information desk. He eyed her as she approached. “You okay?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Reeder. Some problems he’s dealing with.”

  “Such as?”

  She gave him the short version, which did not include the reason for Reeder meeting with his old buddy at the cemetery. The mission for the President was not to be general knowledge.

  “Christ,” Hardesy said, eyebrows high. “Chamberlain was a CIA guy, huh?”

  “Just a desk jockey. But they always have histories, those people. So where’s Willard?”

  “Upstairs. ICU.”

  They walked to the elevator.

  She asked, “How is he?”

  “Out of surgery. Awake, I’m told.”

  They got off the elevator, took an endless corridor walk to the ICU, pushed through the double doors. Glenn Willard was just two rooms down. As advertised, the suspect was awake, hooked to an IV and several monitors, propped up slightly in a bed, a thin white blanket covering him, though where he’d been shot, the bandages made a mound. As they came in, a middle-aged nurse, taking his vitals, gave them an accusatory look.

  Holding up her credentials, Rogers said, “FBI,” for the benefit of both caregiver and care-given.

  The patient, getting his blood pressure taken at the moment, goggled at Hardesy. To the nurse, he said, “That’s the asshole who shot me!”

  The nurse gave Hardesy a glare, and the agent casually said, “That’s who I am, all right. And he’s the asshole who drew down on a federal agent.”

  Now the nurse seemed nervous and she finished up and got out, never having spoken a word. Rogers and Hardesy stood on opposite sides of the patient’s bed. The patient looked alert enough.

  “Getting shot over some damn dope,” Willard complained. “Not even real drugs. Stupid.”

  “We’re in agreement,” Hardesy said.

  “That’s not why we’re here,” Rogers said. “And it’s not why we were at your apartment today either.”

  Willard frowned in confusion. “Then why did you come around?”

  “We wanted to talk to you about Secretary Yellich. We still do.”

  “Well, she’s dead, right? Heard about that. She was nice, always . . . cheerful, tipped good. Too bad. But what’s it got to do with me?”

  Hardesy said, “You delivered food to her regularly.”

  “Yeah. So? Look, I know she was important. Secretary of the Interior, right? Whatever that is.”

  Rogers asked, “Did you know she had an allergy to sesame?”

  “No. I don’t make sandwiches, I just deliver them. Like I said, she was a nice lady, kind of foxy for being that old. We joked around and stuff. I liked her. I’m sorry she died. You should check at the sandwich shop, if that’s what killed her.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” Hardesy said.

  Willard shifted in bed and made a pained face. With Rogers on one side and Hardesy on the other, he had to work a little. They meant him to.

  “Hey,” he said. “Five days a week I delivered her a damn sandwich and some chips. We exchanged, you know, pleasantries. I gave her lunch and she gave me the money with a twenty-five percent tip. That’s the whole story.”

  Rogers said, “You didn’t deliver her sandwich every day.”

  “Sure I did.”

  “Not the day she died.”

  “I didn’t?”

  Hardesy leaned in menacingly. “Now is a bad time to play dumb.”

  “I’m not playing dumb!”

  “Then you really are an idiot?”

  Rogers gave her partner a quick look.

  Willard was shaking his head. “Look, guys, they got me goofed up on pain meds, and most days I’m usually a little lit anyway, you know?”

  Rogers said, “We made that leap.”

  “So for me, time sort of . . . runs together.”

  “Well,” she said, “since you delivered the Secretary’s lunch ‘every day,’ you surely must remember the one day you didn’t.”

  His boyish features tightened in thought. “Well . . . I do. Didn’t realize that was the day she bought it, but yeah—I remember it. Only, really, I did work that day.”

  Hardesy said, “Somebody else is on the security footage outside the Secretary’s office. Much as I would like you to’ve delivered the fatal sandwich, Glenn, you didn’t.”

  “Somebody took your place that day,” Rogers said. “Who?”

  Willard gestured with an open hand and tugged on his IV. “Like I said, I did work, but . . . my buddy Tony filled in for part of the day.”

  “Your buddy Tony who?”

  “Tony Evans. Anthony Evans.”

  “Why did he fill in part of the day?”

  “You know . . .
I had stuff to do. This and that. Stuff.”

  “Why did he fill in, Glenn?”

  He shifted in bed a little. “I don’t think I want to answer that. Maybe . . . maybe it’s time I lawyered up.”

  Hardesy said, “Might be at that, if we arrest you on an accessory to murder charge.”

  That got Willard’s attention. He managed to sit up some. “I’m no accessory! I told you, I liked that lady. If Tony did something to her, I had nothing to do with it!”

  Rogers said, “Then answer the question—why did Tony fill in for you part of the day?”

  His eyes squeezed shut as if the pain had gotten worse; in a way, maybe it had. “All right, okay, all right. I had a chance to score some primo chronic at a crazy low price . . . but the guy selling it could only meet me at a certain time.”

  “Let me guess,” Hardesy said. “The time you were supposed to deliver the Secretary’s sandwich.”

  “Well, it was that time of day, yeah. I didn’t remember that was the day that . . . that she, you know, died.”

  Rogers said, “So you got Tony to take your place. I would imagine you have lots of friends, Glenn. Why pick on Tony?”

  Willard was shaking his head. “No, no, it wasn’t that way—he volunteered.”

  “Volunteered?”

  “Yeah, he did! Who do you think told me about the guy with the primo chronic?”

  Rogers and Hardesy exchanged narrow-eyed looks.

  “Your pal Tony,” Hardesy said.

  Willard nodded several times. “Tony did, yeah.”

  Rogers asked, “So tell us about the delivery.”

  Willard huffed a laugh. “What do you think? I met the guy, I bought the dope. The end.”

  “Not the dope, Glenn. The sandwich. The owner of the shop says you did your regular deliveries that day.”

  “Oh. Yeah, well. I didn’t want to get on Mr. Avninder’s bad side—he’s a good boss, but he has a temper.”

  She nodded for him to continue.

  “He’da been pissed if I didn’t make that delivery myself, so I walked the sandwich out of the shop, gave Tony my Ye Olde jacket and hat, and a bag of sandwiches and chip packs, for lunch-hour delivery, with instructions . . . but not till I was around the corner from the shop. Then Tony made the deliveries, including the Secretary’s lunch.”

  Only instead Tony had delivered murder.

  Rogers asked, “How did you meet Tony?”

  “He was a customer. I sold him a lid or two at a couple of dance clubs, you know, in the john. We got friendly. He started doing a little dealing himself and I helped him out.”

  “Did you approach him or vice versa?”

  “Him me.”

  Rogers asked, “Where can we find your friend—Tony?”

  “After what he’s put me through,” Willard said, “he’s no friend of mine.”

  And gave them an address.

  On the way back to the Ford, Rogers called Miggie and gave him Tony Evans. Minutes later, with her driving, Hardesy put Miggie on speaker.

  “The Skygate Apartments address is right,” Miggie said. “At least for the last three months, anyway.”

  “The guy just moved there?” Hardesy asked.

  Miggie said, “Yeah, but the thing is, before three months ago?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I can’t find any indication that this particular Tony Evans exists.”

  Rogers and Hardesy traded a look. “Thanks, Miggie. Keep digging.”

  “I brought a shiny new shovel, boss,” he said, then clicked off.

  Hardesy said, “What’s your pal Reeder got us into? A cabinet member murdered, and it was put in motion months ago? This shit is getting serious.”

  “And deep.”

  They drove awhile.

  Then Hardesy asked, “You suppose there’s any chance this guy is still at Skygate?”

  “Maybe, but I doubt it. I suppose if Evans wanted to keep an eye on Willard, yeah. The addresses are damn close. But after what happened this morning, if he’s heard about it . . .”

  “It’s a long shot he’s still around. By now, ‘Tony Evans’ may not exist.”

  She couldn’t argue with that.

  They swung by Skygate Apartments in a Hillcrest Heights neighborhood referred to by some residents as Marlow Heights, after the old shopping center that had long ago been replaced by Iverson Mall.

  A vast complex of over a dozen matching three-story buildings fanned around a U-shaped parking lot on the north end, with a swimming pool in the bottom of the U. South of that, along Temple Lane, another dozen buildings squatted like Monopoly hotels all clustered onto one property.

  Rogers pulled in near the pool. Night had settled in, but the parking lot fought back with streetlamps and nearby well-lit building entries. The two agents sat in the car and regarded the landscape before them, pool shimmer on their faces.

  She said to Hardesy, “Look, even if there’s little chance our man is here, we need to be more careful than we were with Willard.”

  “Yeah,” Hardesy said. “That was my screwup.”

  “Not placing blame. But I’m serious.”

  He held her eyes with his gaze. “I’m serious, too, boss. Glenn’s an asshole but I didn’t love shooting him.”

  She could only smile. “You’re going soft in your middle age, Lucas.”

  “Maybe you’re a bad influence.”

  They got out of the car and crossed the parking lot to Evans’ building.

  “This time,” Hardesy said with a disgusted smirk, “I will go in the back way.”

  Rogers nodded. “Second floor, remember. 211.”

  “See you there.”

  Then Hardesy disappeared around the corner of the building.

  Unlike Willard’s place, no security doors awaited them here. Rogers entered a vestibule with mailboxes on one wall, including one that said EVANS. To her left, stairs went up; to her right, stairs went down. She checked the first-floor stairwell, saw nothing, then silently climbed to the second floor, her hand on the butt of the Glock at her hip.

  This guy might be a ghost who was already gone. Or he might be nobody, just a drug dealer who subbed for Willard, the sandwich dosed by somebody else. Or he might be the assassin of the Secretary of the Interior of the United States . . .

  Her colleague came up the stairs at the opposite end of the corridor. They met at Evans’ apartment. Each took a position on either side of the door, then traded nods. Rogers drew her gun while Hardesy used a pick and a tension wrench on the lock, which he defeated in under thirty seconds.

  Hardesy took a step back and turned the knob slowly, then shouldered in.

  The door swung open onto a tidy living room empty but for a camp chair and small TV. They moved in, cautious, quiet. The tiny dining area at right bore only a card table and two folding chairs. She wondered how Evans explained his spartan living conditions to his guests, if he had any. The kitchen beyond had no furnishings, but a coffee pot and a microwave rested on the counter. She edged into the room, opened a cupboard and, touching nothing, found a couple of packs of ramen noodles and a bottle of sesame oil.

  Beyond the kitchen was a short hallway to a bathroom and the only bedroom.

  Rogers pointed to the bathroom and Hardesy kept his gun trained on the bedroom door while she ducked into the john and almost immediately backed out.

  Clear, she mouthed.

  She turned her attention, and Glock, to the bedroom, too. Was that breathing she heard? She couldn’t be sure—might be a breeze pulsing in an open window. Her eyes tightened and her spine stiffened as she eased the door open . . .

  On the bed, a man lay spread-eagled on his stomach. He wore jeans and a red-and-black plaid flannel shirt. For a moment she couldn’t tell whether or not he was breathing and her mind raced to what their next step would be if the guy was dead.

  Then he snort-snored and Rogers almost laughed.

  But instead, she said, “Tony Evans! Federal agents—stay as you are!
”

  “What the shit . . . ?” He started to push himself up, but Hardesy pushed him back down. Then the man in the plaid shirt decided to cooperate and flattened again.

  Hardesy frisked him while she covered him.

  “Guys!” the guy blurted. “I’m not Tony Evans!”

  Hardesy said, “Then who’s that sleeping in his bed, Goldilocks?”

  The guy craned to look at Hardesy. “Look, dude, what I’m trying to say is, Tony isn’t here. You’re making a mistake.”

  “If you’re not Evans,” Rogers said, “who are you? Where’s your identification?”

  These appeared to be questions that were too tough for him. All he managed was, “Uh . . .”

  “Okay,” Hardesy sighed. “We’ll sort it out at the Hoover Building.”

  Rogers put her Glock away and cuffed the prone man’s hands behind him.

  “I’m not Evans, I tell you! You’re fucking up!”

  “Somebody is,” Hardesy said, and pulled the guy to his knees, hands cuffed behind him, and for the first time Rogers could see their man’s face. He wasn’t exactly a twin, but he had the same nondescript sort of features as Glenn Willard. The two might be brothers. Maybe he wasn’t Tony Evans, but he sure as hell was the guy in the security video from outside Secretary Yellich’s office.

  Hardesy pulled him around and helped him to his feet beside the bed.

  “I tell you, Tony’s out. Me, I’m just crashing here.”

  Rogers read him his rights and advised him to use them, adding, “Shut up until we get you back to the Hoover Building. We’ll straighten this out there.”

  They marched the guy out of the apartment and down the stairs to the front door. Rogers had him by the arm and Hardesy was right behind; both agents had their guns holstered now. They stepped outside and down the two stairs to the sidewalk, Hardesy’s hand on the guy’s arm, behind him but guiding him.

  Halfway down the steps, a whipcrack split the night. The suspect tumbled awkwardly to the grass, and Hardesy threw himself at Rogers. With her partner piled on top of her, she was sandwiched facing the man who’d been calling himself Tony Evans. He now had a dime-sized hole in his forehead and his empty eyes were more glazed than any drug could manage.

  Getting out from under and to her feet—the dead man in the same spread-eagle posture he’d been in when they first saw him—Rogers scurried to the nearest parked car. Staying low, she called back to Hardesy, “Did you see where it came from?”