Feel free to do it more often.”
“Well, I wouldn’t turn down a nice bump in salary as a thank-you.”
“In your dreams. Got a brand-new toy for you, something really hot.” He tapped a file lying on his desk. “This came on a slingshot from HQ to the SAIC here and then on to me.”
Alex looked doubtful. “My load’s pretty full, Jerry. So long as people use money, other people will try and steal it or forge it.”
“Forget that for now. How about making a run at a homicide?”
“I don’t remember that being in our statutory mandate,” Alex said slowly.
“Check your badge and your paycheck. It says Homeland Security now and not Treasury, so we have lots of new goodies in our bag to hand out.” Sykes glanced at the file. “A man named Patrick Johnson was found this morning on Roosevelt Island with a gunshot wound in his mouth, a revolver and bottle of Scotch next to him and a suicide note in his pocket.”
“And he is?” Alex asked.
“Employed at N-TAC,” Sykes replied, referring to the National Threat Assessment Center. “In other words, he’s one of us. That’s where you come in.”
“But N-TAC’s not really part of the Service anymore, not after the intelligence shake-up. It’s with NIC now. Along with damn near everything else.”
“Right but we still have our fingers in that pie, and Johnson at least technically was a joint employee of the Secret Service and NIC.”
“Gunshot wound to the mouth, guy was probably drunk, revolver right there and a note. What’s to investigate?”
“Suicide is what it looks like so far, and it’ll probably stick. Since it occurred on federal property and he was a federal employee, the FBI and Park Police are investigating. But we want somebody looking out for our interests too. If it was a suicide, we can handle the spin okay. But if it’s something else, well, then, we need to run that down. That’s where you come in.”
“Why Roosevelt Island? Was Johnson a T.R. freak?”
“That’s for you to find out. But don’t let the Bureau run you off.”
“So why am I so lucky, Jerry?” Alex asked. “I mean isn’t this something for the Inspections Division to do?”
“Yes. But I like you,” Sykes replied sarcastically. “And after all that time on protection, you really need as much real work as you can get.”
“Funny, that’s what they said when I went
into
protection detail.”
“Whoever said life was fair?”
“No one who’s ever worn a badge,” Alex shot back.
Sykes took on a serious expression. “You’ve seen the kids running around here. They’re good and they’re smart and they work their butts off, but their average experience is less than six years. You’ve got three times that. And speaking of baby agents, take Simpson with you. Rookie needs some breaking in.”
“I’m curious,” Alex said. “Has Simpson got any strings upstairs?”
“Why?” Sykes asked, although Alex thought he saw a smile flit across the man’s face.
“Because the crap duty doesn’t seem to stick to that rook, that’s why.”
“All I can say is Simpson’s the blessed relation of some big muckety-muck, and people tend to give ‘
that rook
’ a little slack. Do not feel so inclined. Here’s the file. The crime scene awaits you. Go get ’em.”
As Alex rose, Sykes added, “The ninety-day report cycle is out on this one. We want daily
detailed
e-mails. And just so you know, they’ll be going directly to the SAIC and HQ.”
“Okay.”
“Like I said, Alex, this one is hot, treat it accordingly.”
“I get the point, Jerry.”
Alex returned to his desk, hung his jacket over his chair and opened the file. The first thing he encountered was a photo of Patrick Johnson looking very much alive. There was a hand-scribbled note that said Johnson was engaged to be married. The name and phone number of his fiancée were underneath this note. Alex assumed the woman had already been told of the man’s death. Johnson’s employment
“Well, I wouldn’t turn down a nice bump in salary as a thank-you.”
“In your dreams. Got a brand-new toy for you, something really hot.” He tapped a file lying on his desk. “This came on a slingshot from HQ to the SAIC here and then on to me.”
Alex looked doubtful. “My load’s pretty full, Jerry. So long as people use money, other people will try and steal it or forge it.”
“Forget that for now. How about making a run at a homicide?”
“I don’t remember that being in our statutory mandate,” Alex said slowly.
“Check your badge and your paycheck. It says Homeland Security now and not Treasury, so we have lots of new goodies in our bag to hand out.” Sykes glanced at the file. “A man named Patrick Johnson was found this morning on Roosevelt Island with a gunshot wound in his mouth, a revolver and bottle of Scotch next to him and a suicide note in his pocket.”
“And he is?” Alex asked.
“Employed at N-TAC,” Sykes replied, referring to the National Threat Assessment Center. “In other words, he’s one of us. That’s where you come in.”
“But N-TAC’s not really part of the Service anymore, not after the intelligence shake-up. It’s with NIC now. Along with damn near everything else.”
“Right but we still have our fingers in that pie, and Johnson at least technically was a joint employee of the Secret Service and NIC.”
“Gunshot wound to the mouth, guy was probably drunk, revolver right there and a note. What’s to investigate?”
“Suicide is what it looks like so far, and it’ll probably stick. Since it occurred on federal property and he was a federal employee, the FBI and Park Police are investigating. But we want somebody looking out for our interests too. If it was a suicide, we can handle the spin okay. But if it’s something else, well, then, we need to run that down. That’s where you come in.”
“Why Roosevelt Island? Was Johnson a T.R. freak?”
“That’s for you to find out. But don’t let the Bureau run you off.”
“So why am I so lucky, Jerry?” Alex asked. “I mean isn’t this something for the Inspections Division to do?”
“Yes. But I like you,” Sykes replied sarcastically. “And after all that time on protection, you really need as much real work as you can get.”
“Funny, that’s what they said when I went
into
protection detail.”
“Whoever said life was fair?”
“No one who’s ever worn a badge,” Alex shot back.
Sykes took on a serious expression. “You’ve seen the kids running around here. They’re good and they’re smart and they work their butts off, but their average experience is less than six years. You’ve got three times that. And speaking of baby agents, take Simpson with you. Rookie needs some breaking in.”
“I’m curious,” Alex said. “Has Simpson got any strings upstairs?”
“Why?” Sykes asked, although Alex thought he saw a smile flit across the man’s face.
“Because the crap duty doesn’t seem to stick to that rook, that’s why.”
“All I can say is Simpson’s the blessed relation of some big muckety-muck, and people tend to give ‘
that rook
’ a little slack. Do not feel so inclined. Here’s the file. The crime scene awaits you. Go get ’em.”
As Alex rose, Sykes added, “The ninety-day report cycle is out on this one. We want daily
detailed
e-mails. And just so you know, they’ll be going directly to the SAIC and HQ.”
“Okay.”
“Like I said, Alex, this one is hot, treat it accordingly.”
“I get the point, Jerry.”
Alex returned to his desk, hung his jacket over his chair and opened the file. The first thing he encountered was a photo of Patrick Johnson looking very much alive. There was a hand-scribbled note that said Johnson was engaged to be married. The name and phone number of his fiancée were underneath this note. Alex assumed the woman had already been told of the man’s death. Johnson’s employment
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