Definitely lethal.
Reacher said, “Something like that.”
“You’re a paralegal.”
“I only said that to get in the door. Actually I’m unemployed.”
“No, I mean you’re a paralegal. As of now. With my firm. Officially employed.”
“Is this an attorney-client thing?”
“I want you where I can see you,” Luong said. “Starting at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, at the precinct house on Indiana Avenue, Northwest.”
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 23, 0837 EST
SAME WINDOWLESS CELL. SAME AV gear, wall phone, table and chairs. Brennan was seated in one. Luong was beside her.
They’d been there forty minutes when Dupreau entered and tossed down a file. It landed with a tic and puff of stale air.
Dupreau stared at Brennan, skin sallow beneath the humming fluorescents. Brennan stared back, telegraphing the anger trip-wiring in her brain.
A few beats, then, “Thank you for coming.”
“I had a choice?” Controlled, calm.
Dupreau pulled out a chair and sat. Opened the file. Slowly sorted and organized the contents. Neither Luong nor Brennan was impressed. Both were familiar with the old trick.
Dupreau checked that the AV equipment was on and working.
“This interview will be recorded. For your protection and mine. Do you have any objection to that?”
“And if I did?” Brennan glared at the mirror, certain Szewczk was on the far side.
Dupreau hit a button. “Present at this interrogation are Special Agent Pierre Dupreau, Federal Bureau of investigation, Internal Security Unit, Dr. Temperance Brennan, and legal counsel, Veronica Luong.”
Dupreau provided the date and time, then drew a sheet from one of his stacks and pretended to read.
Brennan knew what he was doing. And why he’d left them cooling their heels. But the ploy wouldn’t work. She hadn’t become anxious or vulnerable as some suspects might. She’d grown furious. For Brennan, that translated into laser focus.
Dupreau laid down the paper.
Some interviewers like to put their subjects at ease, gain their trust, then take advantage. Knowing that wouldn’t work, Dupreau went straight for the kill.
“Calder Massee was a bird colonel in the United States Air Force, a career officer with access to highly classified information. Many believe he was executed for a crime he didn’t commit. He was wrongly suspected of being a traitor. They said he was actively engaged in spying for foreign governments. But he wasn’t. The suicide story was a government-backed cover-up for the mistake.”
“Many believe aliens landed at Roswell.”
“In 2012, you oversaw the exhumation and reanalysis of Massee’s remains.”
“I’m impressed. You can read.”
“This year marks the thirtieth anniversary of Massee’s death. Jonathan Yeow was about to go public with proof of your involvement in the whitewashing of his murder. We believe you killed him to prevent that happening.”
“Very creative.”
“Incompetence, complicity, greed. Doesn’t matter the reason. Exposure would ruin you.”
“Seriously. You should write a pilot, shop it to Hollywood.”
A long humming moment.
“According to the ME, Yeow died between midnight and seven Tuesday morning. Where were you during those hours?”
“Asleep in my room at the Marriott.”
“Can anyone verify?”
“That’s a rather personal question.” Icy.
“Murder is a rather personal crime.”
“I was alone.”
“Your prints were on the plastic bag used to asphyxiate Yeow. That bag came from a CVS pharmacy. You were caught on surveillance video at four fifteen Monday afternoon at a CVS pharmacy on Connecticut Avenue.”
“It’s illegal to buy toothpaste?”
“Did you retain the bag that held your”—Dupreau hooked quotation marks—‘toothpaste’?”
“I keep all my trash. Don’t you?”
“Can you explain how your prints came to be on that bag?”
“I cannot.”
“Dig deep.”
“Kiss my—”
Luong jumped in. “My client has a busy schedule. Can we move this along?”
“Your client’s attitude is causing me to lose patience.” Little eyes drilling Brennan. “You don’t want that.”
Brennan took a breath to respond. Luong hushed her with a raised palm.
“Have you anything else, Special Agent Dupreau? An eyewitness? Evidence of contact between Dr. Brennan and the victim? Cell-phone records? E-mails?”
“The investigation is ongoing.”
“Were Dr. Brennan’s prints found elsewhere at the scene?”
“What scene?”
“Any scene.”
No response.
“Was Dr. Brennan seen near Mr. Yeow’s home? Caught on Yeow’s security system? That of a bank? A school? A parking lot? A neighbor?”
Things moved behind the little eyes, but Dupreau said nothing.
“I take that to mean no,” Luong said.
“The investigation is ongoing.”
“I see. Will you be charging my client at this time?”
No response.
“I thought not.” Luong rose. Brennan rose. “My client has nothing further to say.”
Luong grabbed her briefcase, Brennan her purse. Both headed for the door.
Dupreau spoke to their retreating backs. “Dr. Brennan.”
She turned, one hand on the knob.
“Until further notice, you are to remain in Washington.”
“I’ll cancel my trip to Chernobyl.”
They left Dupreau gathering his meaningless papers.
REACHER WAS IN THE HALL. Luong left Brennan standing on her own for a minute. She walked over and Reacher said, “How was it?”
Luong said, “It was good, but not real good. I’ve seen people go to prison for less. Sometimes things go crazy. Nothing you can do.”
“But they still didn’t arrest her.”
“Not yet.”
“Got any paralegal work for me?”
“Yes,” Luong said. “You know the law from a cop’s point of view. You’ve got to stop her giving them a reason. You’re her personal legal counsel. Don’t let her say the wrong thing.”
Luong walked away, and Reacher stepped across the hall to where Brennan was waiting.
She said, “What?”
He said, “Apparently I’m your personal legal counsel.”
She didn’t reply. Just walked. Reacher followed. They exited onto the small red plaza. The sky was leaden and appeared to be contemplating snow. Maybe sleet.
Brennan thumbed her phone for an Uber. The app promised Miguel in a Honda in seven minutes. He pulled up in six. They were back at the Marriott by ten.
Neither Brennan nor Reacher had eaten. Both were hungry. They crossed the football field lobby and found a restaurant that was serving breakfast.
Every table was full, but two women were leaving. Each wore a pantsuit made of polyester born at the dark end of the spectrum, solid shoes. Each carried a canvas bag bearing the AAFS logo and wore a neck lanyard dangling a badge. One identified its owner as S. Miller, the other as T. Southam. Colored ribbons hung from the badges. Miller had more than Southam.
Brennan ordered a cheese omelet. Reacher got pancakes with eggs and bacon. Both asked for plain coffee. Which seemed to disappoint Marsha, the waitress. Her badge was bronze and pinned to her ample chest.
“What is it you intend to do, Mr. Reacher?” When Marsha was out of earshot.