Miggie volunteered, “I can handle myself.”
“He’s right,” Reeder told her. “This is a fortress. But you’ll be out in the world, Patti, and the next time they come at us, it’ll be with more than just threats. Consider me your backup.”
They took the rental car, Rogers driving, sticking to secondary streets, headlights like twin Maglites searching the darkness. When they were about a mile from her Joyce Street apartment house, Reeder had her pull over. He got out and in back and stayed low. He figured no one would recognize the rental, but understood that all of their residences were likely under surveillance.
A mile later, she pulled into the underground garage of her apartment building, pausing to swipe her card at the entry.
“Anything on the street?” he asked, still ducked down.
“Not that I saw. But these are pros.”
“So are we.”
“Should that be a comfort?”
She parked and they got out of the car and headed for the elevator, which was close to her stall. They didn’t bother trying to evade the security cameras, including the elevator cam, but going up the stairs would only put them in view of more high-mounted cameras. Odds were good no one would be monitoring the security system in Rogers’ building — her comings and goings would be the important observations.
They rode up in silence. Reeder had only been to her place two or three times, and not at all since Kevin Lockwood had more or less moved in. Of that he didn’t give a damn — as long as she was happy, he was fine with it. His only concern was that they now had another person who needed protecting. Another member of their extended “family.”
As she unlocked her apartment door, Reeder backed against the wall to one side, with his hand on the butt of the nine mil in his waistband.
“We’ve been busy,” she said, “so it’s kind of a mess,” then led him into the immaculate living room.
Browns and greens dominated, giving the place a vaguely military feel. A new sofa and matching recliner, dark green, dominated the middle of the room, angled toward shelves to Reeder’s left with a flat-screen and books. To his right, next to the door, hung a framed poster of Kevin and his late friend DeShawn Davis in their drag costumes — “The Plain Sisters,” a spoof of the Haynes sisters played by Rosemary Clooney and Vera-Ellen in White Christmas. Kevin and African American DeShawn — stage names Virginia Plain and Karma Sabich — posed in floor-length gowns, blonde wigs, and dazzling smiles.
DeShawn’s murder had first put Rogers and Kevin in contact. Despite the stressful circumstances, the pair had hit it off and had gradually become a couple. Reeder had accompanied Rogers to one of her boyfriend’s performances at the Les Girls club, and the young man, in his drag queen persona, was quite good... not that this was Reeder’s preferred form of entertainment.
Trying to process this relationship between a woman he assumed was gay and a guy he figured was bisexual only made Reeder’s head hurt. So mostly he didn’t bother.
Rogers turned toward the back of the apartment, where a hallway led to two bedrooms and a bathroom, and called, “Honey, I’m home!” Like this was 1957 and they were a typical couple. In a lot of ways, they were.
“Joe’s here!” she added.
Towel in hand, Kevin trotted out wearing only baggy shorts and a chin full of shaving cream, his wide grin nearly as white as the foam. “Mr. Reeder! Welcome.”
Kevin strode over and, somewhat soapily, shook Reeder’s hand.
“Not exactly a social call,” Reeder said.
Kevin frowned in confusion, then turned to Rogers and said, “Patti, why didn’t you give me a little warning? I’d have cleaned up the place.”
The apartment was about as messy as a NASA clean room, but Reeder said nothing.
“Not prudent, calling,” Rogers said.
Kevin looked even more confused.
She touched his arm. “I need to fill you in about something.” Then she led him by the arm to the couch.
Taking his cue, Reeder said, “I’ll just step outside and check in with Miggie.”
Rogers nodded and he went out into the hall, then punched the computer expert’s cell number into the burner phone.
When the call went straight to voice mail, Reeder tried not to make anything of that. He debated calling back, but then his phone trilled at him — UNKNOWN.
Letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, he took the call. “Yeah.”
“Miggie,” the phone said. “Saw you called my cell. Figured I better use one of your friend’s burners instead.”
“Yeah,” Reeder said again.
“Everything okay on your end?”
“So far. We’re at Patti’s. Anybody else check in?”
“Bohannon and Wade are treading water out in the field, each on his own. Hardesy, too. He picked up burner phones from some street source of his and got ’em to Bohannon and Wade. Nothing new from Nichols, although Lucas did get a burner to her.”
“Try to call her?”
“Yeah, no answer.”
Reeder didn’t love that. “What about Trevor?”
“He’s the only one Hardesy couldn’t link up to and give a clean cell. But, then, you know Ivanek.”
Not working with a partner, the profiler would occasionally fall off the grid for a day or even more. Didn’t answer calls, check e-mails, nothing. That he’d been out of touch for less than a day didn’t concern Reeder, not much anyway — but he wished they’d heard from Nichols.
Reeder asked the computer guru, “You have any luck on the flag-pin front?”
“Unless the guy reports it missing, finding who that cam belongs to is gonna be tough going.”
“I figured as much. What about our GAO drone?”
“Well, an employee signed out of GAO and into the Secret Service building yesterday.”
Reeder perked. “Do tell.”
“Could be our boy — one Lawrence Morris.”
“Why ‘could be’?”
“Well, I never saw him, and what you and Patti gave me was fairly general. Seen one government drone, seen ’em all. I’m sending you a photo to this number. See if it’s your elevator buddy.”
“Will do. Good work.”
“Thanks. Oh, and I’m still digging through Wooten’s Cayman Island money.”
“And?”
“And one of the shell companies the money was funneled through was owned by Adam Benjamin.”
The late billionaire had launched an independent run for president last year.
Reeder grinned at the phone. “So we’re getting somewhere.”
“Somewhere... and nowhere. This transaction was made after Benjamin died. Still... considering Benjamin’s role in last year’s fun-and-games, it’s a hell of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”
Like most law enforcement types, Reeder hated coincidences. But sometimes seeming coincidences were very real clues. “That shell company — does the Benjamin estate own it, or what?”
“No, it was sold as part of his holdings. But this looks like another shell company — something called DTOM Holdings.”
“Which is what the hell?”
“No idea. Shells within shells, like those Russian dolls.” Miggie laughed a little. “Except here you open one doll and there are fifteen inside.”
“Then why do you sound so chipper?”
“Why, don’t you like a challenge?”
Reeder chuckled and said, “Stick with it. I’ll get back to you after I check the photo. And keep trying to reach Nichols, too.”
“Will do.”
They clicked off and Reeder called up the photo. Staring blandly back at him was the bespectacled bastard from the elevator, who was indeed one Lawrence Morris. A name to put with the face was always good. Now, to learn more about him...