Fate of the Union

by Max Allan Collins

  She sucked in breath, the news hitting her like a blow. “I’m so very sorry, Detective Woods. We’ll do everything we can for you. I’ll have agents out there ASAP.”

  “Well, I appreciate that, Special Agent Rogers,” he said, his voice conveying the opposite. “But this is our case. Please keep that in mind. I’m just calling as a courtesy.”

  “I do understand. You’ve lost one of your own. But we’re in this together now. You take lead on this aspect, okay?”

  “Fine,” he said, in an I’ll-believe-it-when-I-see-it manner, and clicked off.

  She did the same, then answered the question that every face in the room was silently asking.

  “Bryson’s office has been torched,” she said.

  “Good,” Reeder said.

  Rogers suddenly recalled how cold he had at first seemed to her, on their case last year.

  She said, hollowly, “Joe, an officer’s been killed,” and filled them in on that, leaning hard on the double-tap that made this part of their case.

  “I’m sorry to hear about the officer,” Reeder said without apparent emotion. “But we’ve picked up a valuable piece of the puzzle.”

  “Well, I’m glad there’s a silver lining to an officer’s death.”

  He ignored that. “The killer doesn’t know that we found what he was looking for—the SIM card that gave us those photos.”

  Rogers frowned. “How do you figure that?”

  “Well, if he’d known, he wouldn’t have gone back there this morning. No reason to.”

  Getting it, she said, “Instead he did go back, finished his search, unsuccessfully, then burned the office, so that nobody could find whatever-it-was.”

  “Exactly,” Reeder said. “Remember, if what we have is a serial killer, this would go on till we catch him. People would die, but eventually the killer would lead us to him. But a pro, killing names on a list? He stops when he gets to the bottom. And then he’s gone.”

  Rogers said softly, “That could be at any moment.”

  “Which means,” Reeder said, slowly scanning the faces at the table, “we need to catch him fast.”

  “’Tis the business of little minds to shrink, but he whose heart is firm, and whose conscience approves his conduct, will pursue his principles unto death.”

  Thomas Paine

  ELEVEN

  The Special Situations Task Force worked through the weekend, but their efforts produced no new leads. Plowing through security footage—from both the Skyway Farer motor hotel and various businesses in the Bryson Security strip mall—made for tedious, eye-strain-inducing work; but that had been Reeder’s assignment.

  The task force boss, Patti Rogers, was doing the same shit duty herself, while Miguel Altuve had taken up a desk in the bullpen to work his computer magic (somewhat surprisingly, no goats were sacrificed). The two teams of agents—Lucas Hardesy and Anne Nichols, Jerry Bohannon and Reggie Wade—were out talking to friends, neighbors, and work associates of both Chris Bryson and DeShawn (aka Karma Sabich) Davis.

  Behaviorist Trevor Ivanek had begged the day off, having worked the weekend before, and got it. With the serial killer theory pulled out from under him, Ivanek seemed to Reeder frankly a little lost.

  So far, Monday morning had been taken up by another conference-room meeting where everybody reported in on what they’d found, which was the same thing: nothing. Or at least nothing that seemed to move them even one move ahead on this chessboard.

  With his head in the investigation, Reeder had all but forgotten he’d agreed to join Adam Benjamin at the big “A Citizen’s State of the Union” event; and until his cell vibrated, Benjamin’s private number on caller ID, he’d lost track of how fast the speech was coming up.

  Tomorrow night, in fact.

  “Joe, Adam Benjamin. Sorry to interrupt if you’re working. I hoped we might chat briefly about tomorrow night.”

  Benjamin, in good assume-the-sale salesman form, hadn’t asked if he was still coming.

  Reeder was searching for a diplomatic way to decline an invitation he’d already accepted when the billionaire said, “Joe, your support is extremely important to me. Not to embarrass you, but you’re an American hero. Admiration for you crosses party lines, which is a perfect fit for the Common Sense Movement.”

  “Not so long ago,” Reeder reminded him, “I was a pariah on the right.”

  “Yes, because you had the balls to criticize the president you saved.”

  “If by ‘balls’ you mean poor judgment, yes.”

  Benjamin snorted a laugh. “That’s forgotten and forgiven by the American people. Your approval rating is 92 percent—do you know what any presidential candidate, hell, any president, would do for that level of public approval?”

  “Who’s taking my approval rating, anyway?”

  “Well, frankly . . . I am. Or my polling people, anyway. Look, your presence at the rally would be comforting to voters. Not necessarily seen as a seal of approval, but would lend me credibility.”

  “You already have plenty of that, Mr. Benjamin.”

  “None of that ‘Mr. Benjamin’ crap. Adam. Okay, Joe?”

  “Okay.”

  “Then I can count on you?”

  “You switched up questions on me, Adam. You are a politician now.”

  The chuckle lost none of its warmth over the phone. “Perhaps I am. But it’s a necessary evil. I know we think alike in the need to wrest this country out of the hands of special interests, and back to the hands of real people.”

  “Are you reading that?” Reeder asked lightly. “If not, write it down. It’s pretty good.”

  Another warm chuckle. “Joe. I’m counting on you.”

  “Adam, I don’t view myself as someone who can . . . deliver votes.”

  “It’s not how you view yourself, Joe—it’s how the people view you.”

  “I’m just a guy who got hot for a couple of news cycles. Which I’m glad cooled down.”

  “Don’t kid yourself, Joe. No cooling off, according to my pollsters. The vast majority of Americans respect you, and consider you the kind of old-fashioned hero we haven’t seen in a very long time.”

  “Just doing my job.”

  “Which is what every great hero says . . . but usually that job is something most people can’t, won’t, or wouldn’t do. I’m not asking for your endorsement, just your presence. Come listen to the speech, be seen there, and if the media sticks a mic in your face, and you want to say I’m a huckster or a fool or a fraud, well . . . that’s your privilege. At least they haven’t taken our freedom of speech away yet.”

  Maybe he was reading some of this stuff . . .

  “Joe, I’ve reserved good seats for you and a guest. Join us, please. This might . . . just might . . . put you on the ground floor of something historic.”

  Of course Reeder didn’t need to attend this rally, or hear the speech, to know what Benjamin had to say. He’d read the man’s book, heard him give interviews. But Reeder remained curious to see how this Midwestern populist would play in front of a crowd in a frankly political setting. It was just possible this was history in the making.

  Or maybe it was just another fart in the wind, like Ross Perot.

  Either way, should make for good theater.

  “Joe . . . ?”

  “Yes, Adam. You can count on me being there.”

  “Well, that’s just wonderful. Call this number when you arrive at Constitution Hall. My man, Frank Elmore, will have this phone. He’ll make sure you get in and get to your seats. Thank you, Joe.”

  Reeder paused, not sure whether to thank the man back, or say “You’re welcome”; but then Benjamin clicked off.

  Rogers came over to Reeder’s desk, toward the back of the bullpen, and leaned in. “That seemed fairly intense. Breakthrough on the case?”

  “No. Pull up a chair, though.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “It isn’t.”

  She pulled a chair over.

>   He said, “Whose turn is it to buy?”

  “Mine. Unless you don’t count the barbecue the whole team went out for last night where you picked up the check.”

  “No, that’s its own thing. Your turn to buy. But how would you like to get off cheap and yet have a unique evening of entertainment?”

  “What, are we checking out Les Girls?”

  He smiled. “No,” he said, and invited her to be his plus-one at the “Citizen’s State of the Union” rally.

  She immediately said yes.

  “Really?” he said. “I thought I’d have to twist your arm.”

  “No, I’m a Benjamin fan. You may not realize it, but you and I don’t usually vote for the same side of the ticket.”

  “Oh, I know you’re a Republican.”

  That surprised her. “Really? More ‘people reading’?”

  “Betting that an FBI agent is a Republican is not exactly long odds.”

  “Hey, I’m not one of these crazy right-wingers or anything, like that Spirit bunch. But some of the changes that President Bennett made—you remember him, right, guy you saved?—are just fine by me.”

  “I know. You’re the kind of traditional Republican that my father was. Which makes you a Commie pinko in the eyes of that Spirit crowd.”

  She smiled a little. “You’re overstating it, but kind of, yes.”

  “They’d feel the same about Ronald Reagan, if they actually studied his presidency. So—you like what Adam Benjamin has to say?”

  “Based on what I’ve picked up, yeah. It’s like he says, common sense. Joe, I’d love to be your date. Finally a real date, huh?”

  “We’re going to have good seats, I’m told, probably down front, so that leaves out necking. And you can take me to a Wendy’s drive-thru after.”

  “No way! I do have some class, Joe Reeder.”

  “Do you?”

  “Sure. Wendy’s, yes. But we’ll eat inside.”

  Chill January wind from the west greeted Reeder and Rogers as they walked from a parking lot to DAR Constitution Hall on D Street NW. Built by the Daughters of the American Revolution one hundred years ago, the auditorium was still a much-used concert venue, and served Benjamin’s political purposes well, practically set as it was on the south White House grounds.

  “Nothing like thumbing your nose at the President of the United States,” Rogers said, “from his own front lawn.”

  She was in a gray sweater coat over a black ensemble—turtleneck with jacket, slim skirt, tights with boots.

  “Benjamin wasn’t the first,” Reeder said, “and certainly won’t be the last.”

  Reeder was in his Burberry trench coat over a Brooks Brothers navy suit and (what the hell) red-white-and-blue striped tie.

  They paused at the foot of the short series of steps to the front doors. Reeder got out his cell, turning east onto a view of the Capitol and the web of scaffolding that surrounded it. Even during renovation, the building had a classic beauty that stirred the patriotic kid in him. He punched in Benjamin’s number.

  “Frank Elmore,” a rough-hewed voice replied.

  “Frank, Joe Reeder. We’re here.” He told Elmore where exactly.

  “Our security chief will pick you up,” Elmore said curtly.

  “Thanks,” Reeder said, but Elmore clicked off halfway.

  Rogers picked up on that. “Benjamin’s majordomo?”

  “Real sweetheart. Somebody you might consider dating.”

  She crinkle-smiled and elbowed him.

  Perhaps a minute later, a tall man in a navy suit approached, earbud in, mic attached to his cuff. Short dark hair, brown eyes, angular no-nonsense features, the security man was someone Reeder knew well: former Secret Service agent Jay Akers. Akers, usually affable, wore a vaguely troubled look that few but Reeder would have picked up on.

  Still, Akers managed a smile. “Peep, how the hell have you been? Been too long.”

  They shook hands. Reeder wondered if perhaps Akers sensed he was on his way out as security chief, the Benjamin spot that Reeder had turned down. Too bad for Akers—he was a smart, decent guy and an able agent.

  “Jay, meet the FBI’s finest,” Reeder said, gesturing to his companion. “Special Agent Patti Rogers. Patti, Jay Akers—he and I worked presidential detail together, a lifetime or two ago.”

  Akers smiled, said, “No need for an introduction, Agent Rogers. You’re almost as famous as Peep here.”

  “Almost,” she said with her own little smile.

  Akers let out some air. “Better get you two inside.”

  As they headed up the steps, Rogers on his left, Akers on the right, Reeder said to the ex-agent, “So you’re head of security, huh?”

  “That’s the job description.”

  “Do I detect discontent?”

  “No, no. Everything’s fine.”

  Something in the man’s voice, however, said just the opposite to Reeder. So did the anxious micro-expressions that Akers never would have guessed he revealed.

  They were inside now, past the metal detectors, the crowd all around them as they made the shuffle toward the auditorium. He and Rogers had both dressed up somewhat for the evening, but around them was everything from near formal wear to baseball caps and running pants.

  Keeping his voice low, but up over the crowd murmur, Reeder asked, “Jay, what’s wrong?”

  “Who said something was wrong?” Akers said with a smile that said something was wrong.

  “Don’t shit a shitter, my friend.”

  The smile disappeared. “Call you tomorrow—we’ll get a drink. Catch up.”

  “Don’t blow me off, buddy.”

  “No. We should talk. We will talk.”

  Akers led them into the auditorium and the three went down the center aisle toward the stage.

  Reeder said, “Jay, if there’s something pressing we should . . .”

  “It’ll keep,” Akers said.

  The hall was festooned in red-white-and-blue bunting, seats filling up fast with such a cross section of Americans, the attendees might have been selected to represent every segment of American life. Had they been? Those pollsters of Benjamin’s at work, maybe?

  On stage, a simple podium was adorned with a seal not unlike the presidential one, but saying “Common Sense.” The backdrop of satin-looking curtains of red, white, and blue were draped elegantly. Between the patriotic curtains and the podium were risers arranged with chairs, which (with the front row on the stage floor) added up to five rows. That was where the rich friends would be seated, Reeder knew, and any true-believer celebrities in attendance.

  The hall had the political-extravaganza feel of a major political party convention. Above were nets brimming with balloons, as if Benjamin was about to win the nomination of some party or other. In a sense, maybe he would, since this appeared to be the de facto coronation of Benjamin as the Common Sense Movement candidate for president.

  The speech would be broadcast by all the news channels, and the networks, too—the latter had declined to interrupt their programming until Benjamin bought an hour of prime time. Adding in live Internet streaming, the expected audience was in the double-digit millions.

  In twenty-four hours—if Benjamin was as convincing a public speaker as he’d been in private at the Holiday Inn Express—everybody in America, and many worldwide, would know he was a serious political player. Those who hadn’t heard the speech live would catch YouTube highlights and hear water-cooler conversations and be caught up in the Big News that the Common Sense Movement had become.

  Impressive what a down-to-earth small-town former professor could pull off with a persuasive, folksy gift for gab . . .

  . . . and billions of dollars.

  Hell, at least Benjamin had earned them. And the bill of goods he was selling was, for a change, a damn good one.

  Akers led Reeder and Rogers over to a half flight of stairs up onto the stage at left. Looming over them was Frank Elmore, at the edge of the stage apron; he w
ore a dark-gray suit and a somewhat oversize American flag lapel pin, the scar on his cheek shining pink under the bright TV lights. On left and right, taking up some audience seating, were platforms on which were positioned manned TV cameras on tripods, the space also home to reporters seated at banquet tables.

  Reeder touched Akers’s sleeve. “Jay, we’re not seated up there on stage, are we?”

  “Why, yes.”

  “I’m not comfortable with that. My presence will be taken as an endorsement.”

  “Those are the seats reserved for you, Peep. Look, take it up with Frank. I have to go see if these amateurs they gave me to work with are at least correctly positioned . . . We’ll talk tomorrow at the latest.”

  “Counting on it,” Reeder said.

  Akers nodded and headed back up the aisle.

  Reeder said to Rogers, “Are you okay with this? They’re playing off who we are.”

  “We’re here,” she said with a shrug. “If we don’t like what we hear and see, there’s not going to be a muzzle on us. We can speak our mind.”

  “Okay.”

  They climbed the five steps and were met by Elmore.

  “Joe,” he said, shaking Reeder’s hand, with a smile that looked like it hurt, “Mr. Benjamin is very pleased you’re here with us tonight. We all are.”

  “Thank you, Frank. This is Patti Rogers, the FBI agent I worked with last year on the Supreme Court case.”

  He gave her a crisp nod but did not offer a hand. “Pleasure, Ms. Rogers. If you’ll come this way . . .”

  Elmore led them to the nearest two chairs, in the front row of those set up on the stage.

  “I don’t know about this,” Reeder said.

  Elmore shrugged, gave up another forced smile. “Mr. Benjamin said to make sure you had good seats. These are assigned to you, and we start in less than ten minutes, so making a change isn’t really possible.”

  Reeder flashed Rogers a get-me-the-hell-out-of-here look, but she only shook her head gently and took him by the arm. She deposited him in the seat nearer the podium and took the chair on the end for herself.

  Elmore said, “Some last minute things to do—if you’ll excuse me.”

  The majordomo didn’t wait for a reply, leaving so quickly Reeder half expected a vapor trail.