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Chapter 59
It didn’t takelong for Bobby to get nervous hanging around the DC police’s off-site building. There were just too many FBI supervisors and people who would ask questions about me. I’d noticed that Bobby was helpful and supportive, unless it interfered with his ambition. Finding a fellow FBI agent’s killer would go a long way toward propelling him to the top. And I was sure he didn’t care if I figured it out or he did, as long as he got the credit.
I was good with that. But I wasn’t about to send some mentally incapacitated homeless man to jail just to make it look like we’d solved the crime. That’s not how cops make their reputation.
Bobby broke off his conversation with a group of DC police supervisors and returned to me. He tugged at his collar and tie. Not a sign of inner peace.
I said, “Is that your Rodney Dangerfield impersonation?”
“Who?”
“Great stand-up comedian. Been in some classic movies.”
Bobby gave me a blank stare.
“Easy Money. Caddyshack.” After still no response, I said, “Are you more of a superhero-movie kinda guy?”
Bobby leveled a look at me. “I am a raised-by-Indian-parents kinda guy. The only movies I’ve seen are historical or documentary. The only TV shows I was allowed to watch played on PBS. Now, if you’re asking me about a writer, I’ve read them all. My parents would make me read a book before I could even go out and play soccer.”
I said, “Truthfully, I don’t know whether to feel sorry for you or give your parents a prize.”
Bobby glanced around the parking lot and said, “Let’s go somewhere we can talk in private.”
“Follow me,” I said. About five blocks away I had noticed two picnic tables in a shaded spot beside a convenience store/gas station.
I hustled inside while Bobby stayed in his car on his cell phone. The place was only two rows of junk food and a couple of big freezers. Merchandise was stacked from the floor to the low ceiling. Everything from cases of beer to portable Bluetooth speakers. The young woman behind the counter never looked up from her phone. I grabbed my traditional grape Gatorade and a big bottle of water for Bobby. I motioned to him that I was headed to the picnic tables.
Someone had put a flat-screen TV in the window facing the picnic tables. With the closed-captioning on, I didn’t mind having a few minutes to watch the prelude to the local news. It was just tilting into late afternoon, and the traffic was picking up.
I found a clean corner of one of the picnic benches. A lot of people clearly ate their lunch here every day. Only about half of them cleaned up after themselves.
Bobby finished his call and sat down across from me with his hands folded on the table. I handed him the water bottle, and he stared at me like he was about to give a confession.
Finally, Bobby said, “What you did wasn’t cool.”
“You mean keep someone from being wrongfully charged with murder?”
“You know exactly what I mean. You’re supposed to be an observer. You were present as my guest. Anything you say or do in a situation like that reflects on me. When this is over, you can just go back to New York and the life you have there. Some of us have to stay in DC and work with these cops on a daily basis.”
I understood what he was saying. Most cops would. They have their way of doing things and I have mine. I refused to apologize for doing the right thing. But I understood why Bobby was angry. And he had expressed it pretty clearly.
I looked at the younger FBI man and said, “So what does this mean going forward?”
“There is no ‘going forward’ as far as you and I are concerned. We can talk on the phone. Maybe even chat in person. But I’m not going to take you to any crime scenes or interviews. And—I can’t stress how important this is—I don’t want to know about it if you talk to Justice Steinberg. Or his wife. Or his sister. That can be your part of the investigation. The FBI has already spoken to them. I doubt our agents pushed any of them particularly hard. I can see the value in you talking to them. But I can’t see losing my job over it. So not only will this give me plausible deniability. I also can outright deny any knowledge of your dealings with the Steinbergs.”
I made the calculated move to keep quiet. People hate awkward silences, and they fill in the gaps by putting forward how they really feel. I didn’t have to wait too long.
Bobby blurted out, “This doesn’t affect how I feel about you. You’re a sharp detective. Clearly you’re a loyal friend. But I can’t risk it anymore.”
I slowly nodded my head and said, “I understand.”
Bobby took a swig of the water I’d bought him. Then he looked down at his phone. The guy got more texts than a teenager on a Saturday night. I took the opportunity to look up at the TV.
It was midway through the local afternoon newsbreak. I saw protesters in front of the Supreme Court Building. I looked more closely and realized from The Burning Land T-shirts that the group was stirring up shit. The closed-captioning confirmed it.
I watched carefully for a few seconds, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jeremy Pugh or one of the others I might recognize. The closed-captioning mentioned that the anarchist group was protesting a Supreme Court ruling about schools requiring vaccinations for students.
As they were interviewing one of The Burning Land protesters—a woman, about twenty-five, with a spear tattooed on the side of her face—I looked past her to the people swarming the front of the Supreme Court Building. That left those who worked inside only one exit route.
This would be my best chance of finding Justice Robert Steinberg.
