the bar top and the fact that Feingold didn’t seem surprised by his appearance, Reid guessed he’d been forewarned of his arrival.
“I’m working on a book about the Cahill family. As lead investigator on the Capital Killer case, you’re on my interview list. You want a drink?” Feingold lifted his hand to signal the bartender.
“Not for me,” Reid said.
“Suit yourself.” Feingold shrugged thick shoulders under a tweed blazer. His balding pate reflected light from a wall-mounted television turned to C-SPAN. Accepting a refill from the bartender, he took a drink and wiped the foam from his mouth. “So how’ve you been,Novak? I contacted the VCU offices a few weeks back and was told you were on medical leave. You’ve been ill?”
“I’m better now.”
“But you’re not on the job yet, are you? You’re missing your firearm.”
Feingold had hangdog eyes and the heavy jowls of a chronic drinker, but Reid knew his mind was sharp as a scalpel. He’d covered the crime beat for the Washington Post for nearly three decades before leaving to pursue a career as a true crime author.
Reid redirected the conversation. “I understand you’ve been trying to make contact with Caitlyn Cahill?”
“Having her cooperation on the book would be a bonus.”
“She’s not interested.”
Feingold grinned. “What did she do? Make an official complaint? The Cahill name must still carry some weight if they’re letting her use FBI agents as messenger boys. Or is that just what they have you doing until SAC Johnston lets you off the porch?”
Reaching for a dish of salted peanuts, he popped a handful into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “But as long as you’re bringing it up, I’ll tell you. I’m writing the book with or without Ms. Cahill’s permission. I covered the Capital Killer investigation and her brother’s trial, and I have five cardboard boxes full of notes that I don’t plan to let go to waste.”
“Caitlyn’s been through enough. She doesn’t needto see a book about the worst part of her life on store shelves.”
“And that’s precisely what will make it a bestseller. The Cahills were Washington royalty before one of them turned into a hot, psychotic mess. But Ms. Cahill can relax—she’s going to come out looking like the only sane one in the family. The only moral one, too.” He crunched more peanuts, studying Reid with curiosity. “Why do you give a damn about Caitlyn Cahill, anyway? Her daddy nearly got you busted down to the Omaha field office, if I recall. There’s nothing in Nebraska to investigate but cow wrangling, Agent.”
Reid made no comment. Instead he said, “Caitlyn had a break-in at her home outside Middleburg a few nights ago. Nothing was stolen, although some files in her home office appeared to have been disturbed—”
“You think I’m breaking into homes now?”
“I think it’s a possibility.”
Feingold snorted. “Get back to me when you have some actual proof to back up that screwball theory.”
“It’s not unreasonable. You’re the one writing a book about the Cahills.”
“I’ll use one of your phrases, Agent. No comment.”
Reid massaged the back of his neck. He’d figured talking to Feingold wouldn’t glean much information, but at least he could apply some subtle pressure about leaving Caitlyn alone. Slapping the flat of his hand on the bar to signal his intention to leave, he stood.
“So Ms. Cahill won’t deign to give me an interview, and she sent in the Feds to make her point. Message received.” Feingold stifled a belch with a closed fist. “But what about you, Novak? I’ve got my digital recorder right here if you want to tell me a little about your infamous run-ins with Braden Cahill. Otherwise, I’ll just have to go with my third-party accounts—”
“See you, Feingold.”
“You don’t want to talk about the copycat?”
Reid looked at him. Feingold gave a knowing wink. “I heard the Bureau got an ID on the second
“I’m working on a book about the Cahill family. As lead investigator on the Capital Killer case, you’re on my interview list. You want a drink?” Feingold lifted his hand to signal the bartender.
“Not for me,” Reid said.
“Suit yourself.” Feingold shrugged thick shoulders under a tweed blazer. His balding pate reflected light from a wall-mounted television turned to C-SPAN. Accepting a refill from the bartender, he took a drink and wiped the foam from his mouth. “So how’ve you been,Novak? I contacted the VCU offices a few weeks back and was told you were on medical leave. You’ve been ill?”
“I’m better now.”
“But you’re not on the job yet, are you? You’re missing your firearm.”
Feingold had hangdog eyes and the heavy jowls of a chronic drinker, but Reid knew his mind was sharp as a scalpel. He’d covered the crime beat for the Washington Post for nearly three decades before leaving to pursue a career as a true crime author.
Reid redirected the conversation. “I understand you’ve been trying to make contact with Caitlyn Cahill?”
“Having her cooperation on the book would be a bonus.”
“She’s not interested.”
Feingold grinned. “What did she do? Make an official complaint? The Cahill name must still carry some weight if they’re letting her use FBI agents as messenger boys. Or is that just what they have you doing until SAC Johnston lets you off the porch?”
Reaching for a dish of salted peanuts, he popped a handful into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “But as long as you’re bringing it up, I’ll tell you. I’m writing the book with or without Ms. Cahill’s permission. I covered the Capital Killer investigation and her brother’s trial, and I have five cardboard boxes full of notes that I don’t plan to let go to waste.”
“Caitlyn’s been through enough. She doesn’t needto see a book about the worst part of her life on store shelves.”
“And that’s precisely what will make it a bestseller. The Cahills were Washington royalty before one of them turned into a hot, psychotic mess. But Ms. Cahill can relax—she’s going to come out looking like the only sane one in the family. The only moral one, too.” He crunched more peanuts, studying Reid with curiosity. “Why do you give a damn about Caitlyn Cahill, anyway? Her daddy nearly got you busted down to the Omaha field office, if I recall. There’s nothing in Nebraska to investigate but cow wrangling, Agent.”
Reid made no comment. Instead he said, “Caitlyn had a break-in at her home outside Middleburg a few nights ago. Nothing was stolen, although some files in her home office appeared to have been disturbed—”
“You think I’m breaking into homes now?”
“I think it’s a possibility.”
Feingold snorted. “Get back to me when you have some actual proof to back up that screwball theory.”
“It’s not unreasonable. You’re the one writing a book about the Cahills.”
“I’ll use one of your phrases, Agent. No comment.”
Reid massaged the back of his neck. He’d figured talking to Feingold wouldn’t glean much information, but at least he could apply some subtle pressure about leaving Caitlyn alone. Slapping the flat of his hand on the bar to signal his intention to leave, he stood.
“So Ms. Cahill won’t deign to give me an interview, and she sent in the Feds to make her point. Message received.” Feingold stifled a belch with a closed fist. “But what about you, Novak? I’ve got my digital recorder right here if you want to tell me a little about your infamous run-ins with Braden Cahill. Otherwise, I’ll just have to go with my third-party accounts—”
“See you, Feingold.”
“You don’t want to talk about the copycat?”
Reid looked at him. Feingold gave a knowing wink. “I heard the Bureau got an ID on the second
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