became...emotional...moody.”
I asked, “Why?”
“I don’t know why.”
True to her trade, Jennie leaned forward and said, “Describe moody.”
“Just...Look, I don’t know—distant, bothered, impatient...a little emotionally unstable.”
“And did you ask him what it was about?”
“Yeah, I asked. But Jason’s an increbibly private person. I gave him a month off to relax. He came back fine.”
Jennie thought about this a moment. She asked, “Had anything happened at work?”
“No, nothing to do with the job. It was something personal.”
Jennie looked at me as she asked Kinney, “Anything else?”
“Nothing.”
I said, “Thank you. You may go. But if you think of anything you missed, call us or we’ll have your balls.”
The second he was out the door, Jennie asked me, “Well...what do you think?”
“I think Agent Jason Barnes sounds like the ideal bodyguard for your national leader, your bank, or your virginal daughter. A religious zealot, pure of heart, devoted to God and country, probably never had an impure or ribald thought in his life.”
“You’re right. He doesn’t sound like a suspect.”
When I did not comment on this observation, she added, “Among my duties, I’m the FBI liaison to the Secret Service. I work with them all the time. I coordinate our joint operations and my office processes their background checks. Physically, mentally, and emotionally, they’re an extraordinary group. But they’re not all angels.” She added, “Barnes does sound like a model agent.”
“Sure does. Put an APB on him and get a search warrant.”
“Get— I’m sorry?”
“Nobody’s
that
perfect, Jennie. He’s hiding something.”
“I haven’t got a clue where you’re coming from.”
“Think about what his boss just told us.”
“His boss just told us he’s a golden boy. And I know for a fact he passed a number of very rigorous background checks.”
“So did I. And so did you.” I looked at her and added, “I know what I hid. Would you care to confess what you forgot to tell the background checkers?”
She thought about this a moment and then she replied, “Are you forgetting probable cause?”
“He’s on the security detail and he’s missing.”
She shook her head. “I could maybe twist that logic to justify an APB on the basis of a threat to his security. A search warrant has to be vetted by Justice, though. I’ll be laughed out of the building.”
“Good point.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Be sure to mention the very alarming phone tip you just got from the anonymous caller.”
“We don’t play it that way, Sean. This is the FBI.”
“Wow...the FBI. After the President’s dead, be sure to put that on your résumé.”
“There’s no need for sarcasm.”
“Nor is there a need for excessive moralism. Play this one any way that works, Jennie.”
“If one of the murder weapons turns up in his home, we’d be...in fact, the whole case would be—”
I reminded her, “You don’t have a case to protect. A team of possibly professional killers is hunting the President of the United States—focus on the problem at hand.”
In response to her still hesitant expression, I added, “These people aren’t playing by the rules. These people know no rules. In this game, color outside the lines, or you lose.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
J ENNIE PLAYED IT THE WAY THAT WORKED , AND THE POWERS THAT BE GAVE us the search warrant for Jason Barnes’s home in Springfield.
Springfield was a mere eight miles away, but it was rush hour, Washington traffic, and speed was critical. Jennie therefore ordered a helicopter, and voilà, one dropped into the parking lot, we climbed aboard, and off we went into the wild blue yonder. The pilot followed I-95 South to the Springfield exit, turned right, and we flew at low altitude over the endless patchwork of red-brick townhouse communities that is Springfield.
I haven’t got a clue how the pilot picked the right complex,
I asked, “Why?”
“I don’t know why.”
True to her trade, Jennie leaned forward and said, “Describe moody.”
“Just...Look, I don’t know—distant, bothered, impatient...a little emotionally unstable.”
“And did you ask him what it was about?”
“Yeah, I asked. But Jason’s an increbibly private person. I gave him a month off to relax. He came back fine.”
Jennie thought about this a moment. She asked, “Had anything happened at work?”
“No, nothing to do with the job. It was something personal.”
Jennie looked at me as she asked Kinney, “Anything else?”
“Nothing.”
I said, “Thank you. You may go. But if you think of anything you missed, call us or we’ll have your balls.”
The second he was out the door, Jennie asked me, “Well...what do you think?”
“I think Agent Jason Barnes sounds like the ideal bodyguard for your national leader, your bank, or your virginal daughter. A religious zealot, pure of heart, devoted to God and country, probably never had an impure or ribald thought in his life.”
“You’re right. He doesn’t sound like a suspect.”
When I did not comment on this observation, she added, “Among my duties, I’m the FBI liaison to the Secret Service. I work with them all the time. I coordinate our joint operations and my office processes their background checks. Physically, mentally, and emotionally, they’re an extraordinary group. But they’re not all angels.” She added, “Barnes does sound like a model agent.”
“Sure does. Put an APB on him and get a search warrant.”
“Get— I’m sorry?”
“Nobody’s
that
perfect, Jennie. He’s hiding something.”
“I haven’t got a clue where you’re coming from.”
“Think about what his boss just told us.”
“His boss just told us he’s a golden boy. And I know for a fact he passed a number of very rigorous background checks.”
“So did I. And so did you.” I looked at her and added, “I know what I hid. Would you care to confess what you forgot to tell the background checkers?”
She thought about this a moment and then she replied, “Are you forgetting probable cause?”
“He’s on the security detail and he’s missing.”
She shook her head. “I could maybe twist that logic to justify an APB on the basis of a threat to his security. A search warrant has to be vetted by Justice, though. I’ll be laughed out of the building.”
“Good point.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Be sure to mention the very alarming phone tip you just got from the anonymous caller.”
“We don’t play it that way, Sean. This is the FBI.”
“Wow...the FBI. After the President’s dead, be sure to put that on your résumé.”
“There’s no need for sarcasm.”
“Nor is there a need for excessive moralism. Play this one any way that works, Jennie.”
“If one of the murder weapons turns up in his home, we’d be...in fact, the whole case would be—”
I reminded her, “You don’t have a case to protect. A team of possibly professional killers is hunting the President of the United States—focus on the problem at hand.”
In response to her still hesitant expression, I added, “These people aren’t playing by the rules. These people know no rules. In this game, color outside the lines, or you lose.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
J ENNIE PLAYED IT THE WAY THAT WORKED , AND THE POWERS THAT BE GAVE us the search warrant for Jason Barnes’s home in Springfield.
Springfield was a mere eight miles away, but it was rush hour, Washington traffic, and speed was critical. Jennie therefore ordered a helicopter, and voilà, one dropped into the parking lot, we climbed aboard, and off we went into the wild blue yonder. The pilot followed I-95 South to the Springfield exit, turned right, and we flew at low altitude over the endless patchwork of red-brick townhouse communities that is Springfield.
I haven’t got a clue how the pilot picked the right complex,
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