Brian hooked his elbows on the chains of the swing, barely fitting onto the seat. “Her sons and grandsons all turned out great.” He squinted up at his uncle. “I guess odds were there’d be a screwup in the next generation, huh?”
“That kind of negative talk doesn’t help, but I understand it.” Rook ran a palm up the dented metal support. It’d been an old set when his grandmother had taken it off the hands of a friend whose grandchildren had outgrown it. Just a teenager himself, Rook had helped his father, a retired Secret Service agent, set it up. “I lost an informant today. A man I should have protected. I didn’t know he was in danger.”
“That sucks. What happened to him?”
“He was stabbed to death.”
“Ouch.” Brian grimaced. “I don’t like real violence.”
“Me, either.”
“But you’re an FBI agent.”
“I didn’t go into law enforcement because I like violence, Brian. I went in because it interested me and I thought I could do some good.”
“And because all Rooks are cops.”
He shrugged. “Maybe so, but at the time I thought that was more of a negative than a positive. When I started out in college, I didn’t have a clue what I’d be doing in six months, never mind ten years.”
“You didn’t know you’d go into law enforcement?”
“It was an option, but there were a lot of options.”
Brian shifted, the old swing set creaking under his weight. “I don’t even know what you majored in.”
“Political science.” Rook smiled. “Don’t tell Mackenzie. She’s a dissertation short of a Ph.D. in political science.”
His nephew grinned. “Imagine if you’d been her student.”
Probably not a good idea, Rook thought.
Brian pushed back in the swing, straightening his legs as his dark eyes focused on the wet grass. “Do you feel like a screwup because of what happened to your informant?”
“It doesn’t really matter, does it? I still have a job to do.”
“A job you’re good at.” Brian swung forward, the swing set sagging dangerously. “I’m good at video games.”
“When your father was nineteen, he was good at anything having to do with a motorcycle.”
“He never flunked out of college.” Brian pried himself out of the swing. “I’ll help you get rid of this when you’re ready. I’m heading home. You don’t need to worry about me, Uncle Andrew. My mom and dad don’t, either. I’ll figure things out.”
“Fair enough.”
“Hey, I got a job today – washing dishes at a restaurant near the International Spy Museum.” He grinned suddenly. “Maybe that’s what I’ll be.”
Rook raised an eyebrow. “A dishwasher?”
“Uh-uh. A spy.”
Plans afoot, Brian trotted off across the yard. Knowing his nephew, Rook wouldn’t be surprised if he did end up as a spy. The kid would be all right. His battles with his parents were normal fare. He’d never had to find his father bloodied by a malfunctioning table saw, out in the middle of nowhere.
As he headed into the house, two cars pulled into the driveway. They belonged to his brother Jim, a Secret Service agent like their father, and his brother Steven, an Arlington detective. Behind them came his brother Scott, Brian’s father and a prosecutor.
“Has something happened?” Rook asked when they got out of their cars en masse.
“Yeah,” Steven, the youngest, said. “To you.”
“I’m not bleeding.”
Finally, their father pulled in behind Scott’s car, and as he got out, Rook realized that Sean Rook was the spitting image of his eldest grandson, Brian, in another fifty years.
Scott clapped his younger brother on the shoulder. “You might not be bleeding, Andrew, but you’ve had a hell of a day. A murdered informant. No leads. That’s a tough one. We’re here for moral support.”
“Plus,” Jim said, “we want to know about the redheaded marshal with the freckles.”
He was outnumbered, one of the hazards of being back in Washington – and, he acknowledged, one of its benefits. His brothers and father would want to know everything he could legitimately tell them. They’d offer their opinions and advice, and they’d ask questions, take him through how J. Harris Mayer had started out with vague tales of blackmail and conspiracy and ended up knifed to death in a seedy rooming house studio.
But as he welcomed his family into his house, Rook decided his father and brothers would have an easier time understanding the circumstances surrounding his dead informant than his redheaded marshal with the freckles.
Twenty-Eight
Mackenzie drove around the block twice before the last of the unfamiliar cars in Rook’s driveway had departed. He stood at the screen door in the front of the house. He was dressed in jeans and looked more relaxed than she’d expected. Certainly more than she felt herself.
“I had to talk my brothers out of running your plates,” he said. “Suspicious vehicle circling the block.”
“Unknown, not suspicious. There’s a difference.”
“Not to them.” He pushed open the door. “They’ll be sorry they missed you.”