"You're the one wanted to be a bigshot, Don Antonio."
It was always liberating to leave work. The air smelled fresher on the way out than on the way in. He walked out to his truck, noting that it hadn't been touched or stolen. There was an advantage to dirt and mud. He shed his suit jacket—O'Day rarely bothered with an overcoat—and slipped into his ten-year-old leather one, a Navy-type flight jacket worn just enough to be comfortable. The tie was disposed of next. Ten minutes later, he was outbound on Route 50 toward Annapolis, just ahead of the bow wave of government commuters, and listening to C&W on the radio. Traffic was especially favorable today, and just before the hourly news he pulled into the Giant Steps parking lot, this time looking for official cars. The Secret Service was fairly clever about that. Like the Bureau, its automobiles were randomly tagged, and they'd even learned not to go with the obvious cheap-body, neutral-paint motif that fingered so many unmarked cop cars. He spotted two even so, and confirmed his suspicions by parking next to one and looking down inside to see the radio. That done, he wondered about his own disguise, and decided to see how good they were, then realized that if they were halfway competent, they'd already checked out his ID through the documents he'd handed over to Mrs. Daggett that very morning, or more likely even before. There was a considerable professional rivalry between the FBI and the USSS. In fact, the former had been started with a handful of Secret Service agents. But the FBI had also grown much larger, and along the way accumulated far more corporate experience in criminal investigation. Which was not to say the Service wasn't damned good, though as Tony Caruso had truthfully observed, very tight-assed. Well, they were probably the world's foremost baby-sitters.
He walked across the parking lot with his jacket zipped up, and spotted a big guy just inside the door. Would he stay covert? O'Day walked right past him, just another father in to pick up his munchkin. Inside, it was just a matter of checking out the clothes and the earpieces. Yep, two female agents wearing long smocks, and under them would be SigSauer 9mm automatics.
"Daddy!" Megan hooted, leaping to her feet. Next to her was another child of similar age and looks. The inspector headed over, bending down to look at the day's crayoning.
"Excuse me." And he felt light hand pressure through the jacket, on his service automatic.
"You know who I am," he said without turning.
"Oh! I do now." And then O'Day recognized the voice. He turned to see Andrea Price.
"Demoted?" He stood to look her in the face. The two female agents mingled with the kids were also watching him closely, alerted by the bulge under the leather jacket.
Not bad, O'Day thought. They'd had to look closely; the bulk of the leather was good concealment. Both had their gun hands off whatever educational task they'd been performing, and the looks in their eyes would appear casual only to the unschooled.
"Sweep. Checking out arrangements for all the kids," she explained.
"This is Katie," Megan said, introducing her new friend. "And that's my daddy."
"Well, hello, Katie." He bent down again to shake her hand, then stood again. "Is she…?"
"SANDBOX, First Toddler of the United States," Price confirmed. "And one across the street?" Business first. "Two, relays."
"She looks like her mom," Pat said of Katie Ryan. And just to be polite he pulled out his official ID and tossed it to the nearest female agent, Marcella Hilton.
"You want to be a little careful testing us, okay?" Price asked. "Your man at the door knew who I was coming in. He looks like he's been around the block."
"Don Russell, and he has, but—"
"But ain't no such thing as 'too careful, " Inspector O'Day agreed. "Yeah, okay, I admit it, I wanted to see how careful you were. Hey, my little girl's here, too. I guess this place is a target now." Damn, he didn't say aloud.
"So do we pass?" "One across the street, three I can see here. I bet you have three more camped out within a hundred yards, want me to look for the Suburban and the long guns?"
"Look hard. We've got them well concealed." She didn't mention the one in the building he hadn't spotted. "I bet you do, Agent Price," O'Day agreed, catching the clue and looking around some more. There were two disguised TV cameras that must have gone in recently. That also explained the faint smell of paint, which in turn explained the lack of little hand-prints on the walls. The building was probably wired like a pinball machine. "I must admit, you guys are pretty smooth. Good," he concluded.
"Anything new on the crash?"
Pat shook his head. "Not really. We went over some additional interviews at WFO today. The only inconsistencies are too minor to count for much of anything. The Mounties are doing a hell of a job for us, by the way. So are the Japs. I think they've talked to everybody from Sato's kindergarten teacher on up. They even turned two stewardesses he was playing with on the side. This one's in the bag, Price."
"Andrea," she replied.
"Pat." And they both smiled.
"What do you carry?"
"Smith 1076. Better than that 9mm mouse gun you guys pack." This was delivered with a somewhat superior attitude. O'Day believed in making big holes, to date only in targets, but in people if necessary. The Secret Service had its own weapons policy, and in that area he was sure the Bureau had better ideas. She didn't bite.
"Do us a favor? Next time you come in, show your ID to the agent out front. Might not always be the same one." She didn't even ask him to leave it in his truck. Damn, there was professional courtesy.
"So, how's he doing?"
"SWORDSMAN?"
"Dan—Director Murray—thinks the world of him. They go back a ways. So do Dan and I."
"Tough job, but you know—Murray's right. I've met worse men. He's smarter than he lets on, too."
"The times I've been around him, he listens well."
"Better than that, he asks questions." They both turned when a kid yelled, swept the room at the same time and in the same way, then turned back to the two little girls, who were sharing crayons for their respective works of art. "Yours and ours seem to get along."
Ours, Pat thought. That said it all. The big old bruiser at the door, Russell, she'd said. He'd be the chief of the sub-detail, and sure as hell that was one experienced agent. They'd have selected younger ones, both women, for inside work, the better to blend in. They'd be good, but not as good as he was. Ours was the key word, though. Like lions around their cubs, or just one cub in this case. O'Day wondered how he'd handle this job. It would be boring, just standing post like that, but you couldn't allow yourself to get bored. That would be a fight. He'd done his share of "discreet surveillance" assignments, quite a feat for one of his size, but this would be far worse. Even so, a cop's eye saw the difference between them and the other preschool teachers in the room.
"Andrea, looks to me like your people know their job. Why so many?"
"I know we have this one overmanned." Price tilted her head. "We're still figuring this one out. Hey, we took a big hit on the Hill, y'know? Ain't gonna be any more, not on my watch, not while I run the Detail, and if the press makes noise about it, fuck 'em." She even talked like a real cop.
"Ma'am, that's just fine with me. Well, with your permission, I have to go home and make cheese and macaronis." He looked down. Megan was about finished with her masterpiece. The two little girls were difficult to tell apart, at least for the casual observer. That was distantly worrisome, but that was also the reason the Service was here.
"Where do you practice?" He didn't have to say practice what.
"There's a range in the old Post Office building, convenient to the White House. Every week," she told him. "There's not an agent here who's short of'expert, and I'll put Don up against anybody in the world."