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Clint Cross’s service photo is on top. He’s young—maybe Sheridan’s age. He’s tall and well built, presumably from genetics and not his diet. In his photo, he’s standing beside an American flag, wearing the Goodwill suit that’s still hanging in his closet. He isn’t smiling, and while he was probably trying to look serious, he looks like he’s playing dress-up with his dad’s clothes.
His file is more redactions than content. Page after page of blacked-out text. This is useless. All I can glean from this shit pile are dates. Clint was recruited to the CIA out of college in Seattle eight years ago. And six months ago, he was moved to the director’s personal task force.
“What was Clint working on?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Director—”
“Only President Walker knew the details. He classified it. His eyes only.”
“You briefed the vice president this morning.”
Liu swallows. He stares over my shoulder, looking as if he might be sick. “Vice President Marshall is the acting president now. He has to know.”
“And McClintock and Director Britton? Were they listening?”
“No. I only spoke to the vice president.”
Sheridan and I share another long look. He’s moving through Clint’s PlayStation hard drive, snapping photos of every screen with his cell phone.
“What can you tell me, Director? Why are you here?”
Liu’s jaw tightens before he speaks. “Clint was the best intelligence analyst I ever met. He saw patterns no one else did. He applied mathematics theory to human intelligence, psychology to signals intelligence. He could pull secrets from thin air. He came to me six months ago with a concern. Something was bothering him, he said, and he slept at his desk for three weeks until he chased it down.”
“What was it?”
Liu shakes his head. “I’m not going there, Agent Theriot.”
“I need to see his desk. I need access to everything he touched, everything he was working on during the past six months.”
“There’s nothing to see. He worked out of a loft in Chinatown. I kept him separated from headquarters once he came to work for me.”
“Why? You didn’t trust him?”
“On the contrary. I couldn’t take the risk that anyone would find out what he was doing. I didn’t want him to be a target.”
“Is that what you think happened? That Clint was targeted?”
“I can’t imagine anything else. He wasn’t capable of treachery or violence.”
Sheridan, still on the PlayStation, speaks up. “Respectfully, sir, that’s not what I’m seeing. He’s got some gruesome stuff saved here.” Sheridan flips through a carousel of saved clips, some from video games, some from YouTube. Brutal Takedowns. Instant Kill Shots. The Ukraine Liberation followed by three Russian flag emojis. Z Is the Way.
“I knew Clint,” Liu insists.
“Knew? Meaning he’s dead?”
“At this point, I’m not hopeful that he’s alive.”
“Tell me everything. You worked with him for six months? How closely?”
“I didn’t spend every day with him. He briefed me once a week, always in person, always at his off-site office. I got the impression he didn’t have much social interaction.”
We’re ankle-deep in Clint’s shithole of an apartment, the stench thick enough to burn my eyes. “Putting together intelligence like that is what they pay you the big bucks for, sir.”
“And the New Orleans Police Department is where you learned all about constitutional procedure, right, Theriot? I noticed the warrant you left on the door on my way in.”
I hold his stare. No warrant. Not today. This isn’t going to trial. I’m not searching for a conviction—I’m searching for Brennan.
