The men looked at each other briefly before nodding.
When Reynolds got back to her office, a man was waiting to see her.
“Paul.” She nodded at him as she sat down.
Paul Fisher rose and closed the door to Reynolds’s office. He was her
liaison at Headquarters. He stepped over a pile of documents as he sat
back down. “You look like you’re overworked, Brooke. You always look
like you’re overworked. I guess that’s what I love about you.”
He smiled and Brooke caught herself smiling back.
Fisher was one of the few people at the FBI whom Reynolds looked up to,
literally, as he was easily six-foot-five. They were about the same
age, although Fisher was her superior in the chain of command and had
been at the Bureau two years longer. He was competent and assured. He
was also handsome, having retained the tousled blond hair and trim
figure of his California days at UCLA. After her marriage had started
to disintegrate, Reynolds had imagined having an affair with the
divorced Fisher. Even now, his unexpected visit made Reynolds feel
fortunate she’d had the opportunity to go home, shower and change her
clothes.
Fisher’s jacket was off, his shirt draped gracefully over his long
torso. He had just come on duty, she knew, although he tended to be
around at all hours.
“I’m sorry about Ken,” he said. “I was out of town, or I would’ve been
there last night.”
Reynolds played with a letter opener on her desk. “Not as sorry as I
am. And neither of us is anywhere near where Anne Newman is on the
sorry meter.”
“I’ve talked to the SAC,” Fisher said, referring to the special agent
in charge, “but I want you to tell me about it.”
After she told him what she knew, he rubbed his chin. “Obviously the
targets know you’re on to them.”
“It would seem so.”
“You’re not that far along in the investigation, are you?”
“Nowhere near referring it to the U.S. attorney for indictment, if
that’s what you mean.”
“So Ken’s dead and your chief and only witness is MIA. Tell me about
Faith Lockhart.”
She glanced up sharply, being equally disturbed by his choice of words
and the blunt tone he had used to say them.
He stared back at her, his hazel eyes holding a definable measure of
unfriendliness, Reynolds concluded. But right now, she knew, he was
not supposed to be her friend. He represented Headquarters.
“Is there something you want to tell me, Paul?”
“Brooke, we’ve always shot straight with each other.” He paused and
tapped his fingers against the arm of the chair as though trying to
communicate with her in Morse code. “I know Massey authorized some
leeway for you last night, but they’re all very concerned about you.
You need to know that.”
“I know that in light of recent developments.”
“They were concerned before this. Recent developments have only
heightened that level of concern.”
“Do they want me to just drop it? Christ, it could implicate people
who have government buildings named after them.”
“It’s a question of proof. Without Lockhart what do you have?”
“It’s there, Paul.”
“What names has she given you, other than Buchanan?”
Reynolds looked momentarily flustered. The problem was Lockhart hadn’t
given them any names. Yet. She had been too smart for that. She was
saving that for when her deal was completed.
“Nothing specific yet. But we’ll get it. Buchanan didn’t do business
with local school board members. And she told us some of his scheme.
They work for him while in power, and when they leave office he lines
up jobs for them with no real duties and mega-dollars in compensation
and other perks. It’s simple. Simply brilliant. The level of detail
she’s provided us could not be made up.”
“I’m not disputing her credibility. But again, can you prove your
case? Right now?”
“We’re doing everything we can to prove it. I was going to ask her to
wear a wire for us when all this happened, but you can’t rush these
things, you know that. If I pushed too hard, or lost her confidence,
we’d end up with nothing.”