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I caught up with Margaret just down the hall, near the entrance to the Gerbil Tube that led to the admin building.
“Margaret,” I called. She kept walking.
“Wait.”
She didn’t turn.
“Executive Assistant Director Wellington.”
She stopped. Looked over her shoulder. Eyed me.
“A primate research lab?” As I joined her, I noticed Tessa at the far end of the hallway, picking her way toward me through the already forming crowd. “Why are we getting involved in this? Is it on federal property?”
“No, Agent Bowers, it is not.” I waited for her to elaborate, and at last she said, “A body was found.”
“I know that much, Margaret. But why would Rodale-”
“Because”-her voice was both hushed and laced with urgency-“the victim is Congressman Fischer’s daughter.”
“What?” Now she had my attention.
“House minority leader. From Virginia. Democrat. First District.”
“I know who he is.” I was processing the implications. Quantico is located in Congressman Fischer’s district, and he’d been outspoken lately on shrinking the size of the FBI by up to 20 percent because of what he called “bureaucratic redundancy.” He favored “a more progressive approach to curbing criminal behavior,” although he’d never specified exactly what he meant by that.
Congress’s budget debates had been going on all week on Capitol Hill, and since Fischer’s brother had been the vice president during the last administration, the congressman had clout and connections, and the last I heard he was gaining support for slashing the Bureau’s funding. Needless to say, he was not the most popular political figure around the Academy at the moment.
She looked at her watch. “I have two calls to make. Director Rodale reassigned Agent Hawkins to this case, so he’ll meet you at the scene. I’ll come as soon as I can.”
Normally, Margaret would work the strings on something like this from behind her desk, but with the inevitable media firestorm, I had a feeling she might see this as a chance to gain some political or administrative clout by being present at the scene near those television cameras.
She turned on her heels, strode away, and a moment later Tessa arrived by my side.
Obviously, I couldn’t take her with me to the crime scene, but the house where we were staying for the summer was in the opposite direction, so I didn’t have time to take her back there either.
I decided I could drop her off at a coffee shop or mall on the way. Not ideal, since I could be wrapped up for hours, but at the moment no better options popped to mind.
“C’mon.” I placed my hand gently on her shoulder and guided her toward a side door to the parking lot. “It’s time to go.”
“It’s bad, isn’t it?”
There was no sense trying to hide it. “It’s not good.”
It looked like she was going to ask more questions, but she remained silent. We’d nearly made it to the exit when I heard footsteps behind me. The sound of someone running.
I turned.
“Pat.” Cheyenne jogged toward us. “Is there anything I can do?”
“I wish,” I said, and I meant it. She was one of the best detectives I’d ever met. For a moment I thought of the Bureau’s Joint Op program of involving National Academy students in ongoing cases-both to train them and learn from them-but a pile of paperwork that would take hours to fill out stood in the way.
I wanted to ask her how she’d managed to wrangle her way into the National Academy, which typically involves a six-month application process, but that conversation could wait. I did, however, add, “I’m surprised to see you here.”
“I’m surprised to be here,” she replied ambiguously. The three of us reached the door. I pushed it open as Cheyenne nodded to Tessa and said warmly, “Ms. Ellis.”
“Detective Warren.” A hint of confusion. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Denver?”
“I had some personal leave coming, and they had a last-minute opening in the National Academy.”
The explanation was thin, making me even more curious.
The three of us stepped into the cloud-darkened evening.
Large round raindrops were plunking onto the pavement. Thunder rumbled overhead. The storm had arrived.
“Tessa,” I said. “Let me talk to Detective Warren for a second.” I tossed her the car keys. “I’ll be right there.”
After a glance at Cheyenne and then at me, Tessa went on ahead.
“Listen,” I said. “Things are-”
“I know you need to go.” Cheyenne cut me off. “I’ll explain everything later.”
I accepted that. “This looks like it might be messy.”
“Yeah, no kidding. Fischer’s daughter.”
“How did you-?”
Using her body to shield her phone from the rain, she held it up so I could see the screen. A video of a newscaster doing a remote in downtown DC was playing. Beside the reporter was the photo of an attractive woman in her early twenties. The name beneath it read: Mollie Fischer. “CNN, FOX, and CNS News are already there. Live feed on the Internet.”
“Wonderful.”
Lightning slithered and crackled across the sky, and Cheyenne’s eyes flicked toward it. “She was only twenty-two.” Her voice was soft and sad and I didn’t know how to respond. After a small moment she gestured toward Tessa, who was climbing into the car to get out of the intensifying rain. “You’re not taking her with you, are you?”
“I’ll drop her off somewhere on the way.”
Cheyenne and I started toward my car. “I can take her back to your place for you.”
“No, it’s okay. We’ll-”
“Pat.” Cheyenne laid her hand on my forearm. “You read too much into things. I just want to help. Just as a friend. Honestly.”
She was right; I was seeing ulterior motives in her offer and it bugged me that she’d nailed it. I felt a little embarrassed and yet slightly flattered that she could read me so easily.
Cheyenne removed her hand, waited for my reply.
Just let her help.
“Honestly, if you could take her home, that would be great.”
“Great.”
We jogged toward the car, and I opened the passenger-side door. “Raven, Detective Warren is going to give you a ride back to the house.”
With Tessa’s insatiable curiosity I expected her to ask to come along to the crime scene, which she did. “You know I can’t do that,” I countered. “Besides, there’s a dead body there and you might see-”
She swung her legs out of the car. “Yeah, I get it.”
Cheyenne started toward the south end of the parking lot. “My car’s over here.”
“I’ll see you at the house, Tessa,” I said.
“Okay.”
The two of them were hurrying toward Cheyenne’s car. “Hey, thanks again,” I called to Cheyenne.
“No problem,” she hollered back with a wave of her hand.
I got into my car. Flipped on the radio to listen for any breaking news.
And headed to the scene of Mollie Fischer’s murder.