Page 10 of The Grave Artist (Sanchez & Heron #2)

“Sit.”

Jake took the chair at the small conference table in Eric Williamson’s office. Sanchez sat beside him. They had just returned from the Hollywood Crest Inn and had been interrupted by a summons from Mouse once again as they’d been entering information on the digital murder board.

The supervisory special agent flipped through papers and set them down in an orderly pack, like a huge deck of cards. “You two ready to brief me?”

Sanchez paused. “Ready as we can be. On a case that’s about three hours old.”

Implying that they were being interrupted from an important task for one far less so.

A cool glance in return, as if he’d caught the tacit criticism.

Very little got past Eric Williamson.

“Where’s Detective Tandy?”

“Frank’s back in his office,” Sanchez said, “at Robbery Homicide.”

Suddenly the monitor on Williamson’s wall brightened to life, at the same time that a blue light on a camera above it began to glow.

Did Williamson sigh?

To Jake’s surprise—and dismay—filling the screen was the clean-shaven, narrow face of Stan Reynolds.

He was the one they were to brief.

A word, if it were a word, came to mind: Ugh.

The deputy secretary of Homeland Security was bathed in light, then not, then bathed again, and Jake realized he was on an airplane. A government one, of course. Reynolds would not demean himself with public transport, even in first class.

“Eric,” he said, eyes swiveling to Williamson. Then: “Agent Sanchez. And Professor Heron. Our intrusionist. That is quite a job description. Could one major in it? Ha.”

Jake gave a polite—and completely inauthentic—smile.

While someone else might have doffed their suit jacket on a flight, Reynolds still wore his.

And a white shirt and dark, unstylishly narrow tie, maroon, which was held in place with an accessory you never saw anymore either: a bar, clasping it to the shirt.

The getup was, if nothing else, unique, which meant it was a display of power—that elusive magical substance Reynolds had surely been obsessed with collecting throughout his career, all the more so since being passed over for permanent director of DHS.

Williamson voiced the question on Jake’s mind: “Where are you, Stan?”

“Jetting to, jetting fro. I actually was taking some hard-earned time off when I got a call from the director. Apparently a Senate subcommittee wants a little explanation about our doings.”

I-squared had been approved at high levels—the White House was Jake’s guess.

Since Congress had not been involved in its creation, there were some grumblings that the executive branch had usurped the legislative by whipping up yet another outfit that would be standing in line, cup in hand, for limited tax dollars at budget time.

Reynolds sipped coffee from a china cup. Was he not worried about the combination of brown liquid, white shirt and turbulence?

“I’ll do an admirable job defending the team, though. I’ve got my cheerleading moves down. Not. To. Worry.” He suddenly dropped the smarmy attitude that was his trademark. “I’m serious, Eric. I’ve been prepping all night.”

Since they were on a secure video call, with high-def cameras going both ways, Williamson did not cut a glance toward Sanchez and Jake, though it felt like one was almost forthcoming.

This was curious news. Reynolds was going to bat for I-squared?

He had opposed it from the moment Williamson had drafted his white paper for the Department of Justice, proposing an operation like it—then dubbed Project X—to take on just the sort of enemies that the Honeymoon Killer represented.

After all, organized terror attacks in the country ranged from 9/11’s more than three thousand fatalities to a few dozen every year.

On the other hand, twenty-five thousand people were murdered annually in America by solitary or small groups of actors.

Did his willingness to uphold I-squared under a barrage of queries at a congressional hearing suggest a change of heart?

Maybe so.

Jake and Sanchez had just had a big win in that criminal investigation involving Tristan Kane, which, not to be too cynical about the matter, Reynolds might be happy to coattail on. Whatever his motive, it was good their nemesis might be warming to their pilot program.

“So, now tell me where we are in this present case of yours.”

Sanchez gave an update, some of which Reynolds would know, but it never hurt to repeat yourself when dealing with government minions.

The unsub they were dubbing the Honeymoon Killer had struck twice in Italy and once here.

The deaths were meant to look like accidents, but it was now clear they were homicides—the team had eased beyond Declan’s 96.

5 factor. They had learned of the overseas crimes by scraping data from the press, largely.

A request for information from the Italian authorities had not been answered yet.

Williamson hoped for a response any day.

Reynolds jotted notes. He looked up. “The congressional oversight committee will want to know why this is a national security threat and not an ordinary psychopath.”

Sanchez was bristling, Jake noted. She said coolly, “You get killed by an ordinary psychopath, it’s pretty much the same as getting blown up by a White supremacist. And the country’s psyche takes pretty much the same hit.”

Reynolds conceded. “Of course.”

Williamson added, “National security is at risk. And when word gets out, weddings and other events will be canceled. The consequences will be logarithmic.”

“Interesting,” Reynolds mused. “I never thought something like this could be so disruptive.” He was interrupted briefly as a flight attendant brought him a fresh cup of coffee. “Thank you, my dear.” He sipped.

Sanchez continued to tell him about the status of the investigation. “We’ve been canvassing those at the wedding. We have some video captures. We’re trying to track down potential witnesses.” She shrugged. “HK—”

“Who? Oh, Honeymoon Killer. Got it.”

“He’s unique. Never heard of anything like this.”

Reynolds was looking thoughtful. “What on earth is his motive for targeting newlyweds?”

“Unknown,” Sanchez said. “Is the purpose social disruption? Or is that a by-product? He’s a serial actor, sure, but not for classic serial killer motives—sexual gratification in the case of male, revenge or money in the case of female—statistically speaking, anyway. For this case, we need more facts.”

“And you, Master of Intrusion? What are your thoughts?”

“He was savvy enough to dodge security and video. Not easy nowadays. Highly intelligent.”

“Fair enough.” Reynolds was jotting again.

“All right. Grist for the mill of Congress.” A frown.

“Their questions can be so tedious. They positively make love to the cameras. Oh, one thing ... don’t know if it means anything, but I mentioned it to Eric.

The victim? He worked for the Government Accountability Office.

Any chance he was targeted because of that by a foreign state actor?

He spotted something on a spreadsheet that a contractor or—heaven forbid—a turncoat government employee didn’t want found? ”

Ah, the elusive Russian spy, Sergei Ivanov, had made a reappearance, Jake thought wryly.

“We looked into that,” Sanchez said. “He wasn’t doing anything critical. He was working on audits for the Parks Department.”

“Parks, ah. Of course, could be a clever cover.” He let that linger. “Any connection with Italy?”

“None that we could find. And Declan was full-on deep dive.”

“All right. I’ll toss it in the unlikely pile.

Just as important to eliminate suspects as discover them.

Well, you folks are doing a stellar job.

And I’m sure our congressional colleagues will get tired of the whole thing in record time and move on to something else that’s pointless to everyone except glassy-eyed C-SPAN addicts.

” He dabbed at his lips with a dainty napkin.

“One other thing, Jake. I appreciate your information about my emails and encryption. I’ve learned my lesson. ”

Jake nodded in response. This seemed like a whole new Stanley R. Reynolds. And, in fact, his diagnostic bot had not found evidence that the misstep was a PPI that had let a virus into their system.

Reynolds then looked out the window with a distressed expression. “We’re about to land. I’m a bit of a nervous Nellie on planes. Gravity and all that, so I’ll disconnect and hold on to the armrests for dear life. Thank you, gentlemen and lady. I’ll let you know how the inquisition goes.”

The screen showed the message: The meeting has ended.

“Well, shit,” Williamson muttered. “Can you believe that?”

Sanchez scoffed. “Not the Reynolds we know and hate.”

“I thought he wanted to toss us in the dustbin of bureaucracy,” Williamson said. “Now he actually used the word ‘cheerleading.’”

In a cool, analytical voice, Jake said, “Let’s accept that Reynolds still is a two-faced, power-hungry narcissist—”

“Don’t sugarcoat it, now,” Williamson said as he chuckled.

Sanchez continued his thought: “Which means he sees I-squared as a way to get noticed. Does it really matter if he’s a champion because he loves us or he’s using us? I don’t think so.”

“Maybe you’re right.” Williamson’s expression grew concerned.

“Congressional hearings. Those are always trouble. So much grandstanding and political gamesmanship just for the sake of constituents back home—and for voters in the next election cycle. Just once I wish a witness would say, ‘In response to your self-interested and simpleminded question, Senator, why don’t you answer mine ? Would it have killed you to do the research a middle schooler would do, so that you could ask something intelligent?’”

Jake had to smile. Sanchez did too.

Then her phone hummed with a text. She glanced at the screen and blinked.

Jake noted her entire demeanor change. “Sanchez?”

“What?” Williamson asked impatiently.

She got to her feet. “Ben Sutton? Anthony Brock’s best man.

He’s at the memorial service at Cedar Hills.

A friend from the wedding party told him there’s somebody there who he thinks was in the upper garden not long before Brock died.

He’s acting funny, staying out of sight, or trying to. White male, thirties.”

She fired off a text. “I’m telling Ben not to give anything away, or approach, but just keep an eye on the guy until we get there.” Without further words to her boss, she strode out the door, Jake following.

He glanced at his phone for the location of Cedar Hills. They would be there in twenty minutes.