Page 22 of The Grave Artist (Sanchez & Heron #2)

Eric,

Good news from the Eastern Front! Have had some chin-wags with the powers that be, and it looks like Congress is on our side. Going to move forward with I-squared. Make it official. Assume you want to keep your present status as lead, so they’ll need some signatures.

Somebody is coming by your office today. Can hardly believe they want to move as fast as we do.

Lots of chatter about your recent big win!

Congressional Liaison in LA will be in touch.

BTW: One can complain about pollution in the City of Angels, but did you know that Washington DC literally was a swamp once! And I’m not speaking of politicians and lobbyists. Ha.

Thanks, Eric. Talk soon.

SR

Eric Williamson read the text once more—yes, the highly encrypted text. Stan Reynolds had indeed learned his lesson about security from Heron.

So it was going to happen.

“All right, Eric, what’s that Cheshire grin all about?”

Williamson looked up from his desk to see his assistant in the doorway. Destiny Baker wore a perfectly shaved buzz cut that emphasized a perfectly shaped head and face, and the smile was remarkable, set off by the stunning crimson hue of her lipstick.

“I wasn’t smiling.”

“You weren’t frowning and for you that’s a smile.”

Williamson had no problem with her quirky nature. Baker set the standard for personal assistantness.

“Looks like it’s happening.”

She blinked. “My God. Official?”

“Official.”

“So I don’t have to start an online Etsy business to make ends meet?”

“Your employment wasn’t in danger ... at least not much.” Now he offered a true, if brief, grin.

“Congratulations, Eric.”

Nothing jokey now. She opened her mouth to say more but was interrupted by a trilling phone.

Williamson momentarily closed his eyes and rested the back of his head against the massive chair, a black leather swivel rocker that he’d purchased out of his own pocket because there was nothing in the government warehouse that could handle his bulk.

The pleasure he felt was diminished by the news that HK had attacked and severely injured Frank Tandy, whom Williamson had worked with several times in the past. He placed a call to Tandy’s captain at LAPD, who told him she had spoken to the hospital, but had no updates about his condition.

She added that she would look for another gold shield to serve as liaison, but for the time being, the LAPD and I-squared would have to work independently and share information as needed.

He told her he would keep her informed and they disconnected.

Baker appeared once more at the door. “Congressional Liaison office. Somebody’s coming by with paperwork.”

“When?”

“Probably ten or fifteen.”

“How did they know for sure I was here?”

Baker shrugged. “They know everything , Eric. Key cards, all that. The US Congress doesn’t have time to waste. If they’re coming to get your signature, they’re going to know exactly where you are.”

“I’ll need to draft a memo to everyone. Could you hang around—”

“Not going anywhere till I see a congressional ass in this doorway. I wonder if they look like everyone else’s ass.” She zipped back to her desk.

Williamson picked up his landline phone.

He had never in his life asked a secretary or PA to “get so-and-so on the line for me.” It was demeaning to everyone.

He aimed a blunt finger toward the speed-dial list. The names beside the buttons were printed in his own clumsy script—a hand injury had forever affected his writing.

One might think it was from eight years of line- and quarterbacking football, or eight years as a field agent, but that would be wrong.

He hit button number one.

A ring, then: “Honey!” Camille’s breezy voice was sweet and satin smooth, utterly disarming to defendants on the stand—who, upon hearing it, expected a shy schoolteacher when it came to cross-examination.

They got instead breathtaking speed and precision of delivery, as she wielded verbal knives with which she cut their legs—and the foundation of their case—out from under them.

“All good?” she asked.

Both parents spent equal time marshaling, nurturing, educating and chauffeuring the four boys—with the help of an impeccable nanny. A call to his wife during office hours, a rarity, might have to do with a problem at school, a medical issue or the like.

“Fine.” A pause. “I just heard. Looks like it’s going to happen.”

He offered no further explanation. Sure enough, Camille instantly understood.

“Oh, my!”

“A congressional aide or somebody is on the way over here with the paperwork.”

“So I-squared will be permanent?”

“That’s right.”

Camille said, “Is this where I mention that you’ve damn well earned it?”

“That’s what the script calls for. Along with how wonderful I am in general. And an irreplaceable asset to King and country.”

“Handsome too,” Camille said coyly.

“Forgot that one.”

“What, the best part?”

Williamson wondered how his agents—say, Carmen Sanchez—would react, hearing him talk like this. Like a normal husband. And not the gruff bull he was in the office.

Camille asked, “What’re the details?”

“Don’t know yet. My request for expansion’s still on the table.”

I-squared’s temporary pilot program was authorized for two operatives—Sanchez and Heron—and access to HSI support, like tactical and forensics. Williamson had originally requested dozens of agents and an entire division of HSI personnel.

Maybe the new Stan Reynolds had twisted arms and made that dream come true.

He said as much to Camille.

“Stan? Playing your wingman?” Her voice exuded astonishment.

“Miracles happen. Chill that champagne we’ve been saving.”

“Eric, we’re not saving it. It sits there because you don’t like champagne.”

“It’s great—if you mix it with a little Jefferson bourbon.”

“Ouch.”

“Better go. The emissary will be here soon.”

“Emissary. That makes it sound special. And it is, Eric. You should be proud. Love you.”

“Love you too . . .”

After disconnecting, he sat back. He knew he should get to work on the stack of files heaped on his desk, but he simply stared out the window at the shipyard.

His massive right hand clenched and relaxed.

Some days it was better than others. He’d tried to correlate the pain to the weather.

That didn’t seem to be the case. Sometimes it hurt worse when he was stressed out.

But that of course lacked any basis in medicine.

Essentially, his hand hurt when it decided to hurt.

He scanned his desktop. Those file folders sitting there—twenty-seven of them—contained details of the cases that his agents in Homeland Security Investigations were running.

HSI’s jurisdiction ran parallel to that of the FBI and other law enforcement agencies, but it specialized in crimes with an international element.

The files were representative of the cases HSI handled: human trafficking, child exploitation, weapons, corruption in labor organizations, financial fraud, computer crimes and—being with the Department of Homeland Security—big T. Terrorism.

Williamson didn’t deny the importance of HSI’s work—it was the backbone of the organization—and his department’s arrest record and the more-important conviction-to-arrest ratio were the envy of every federal LEO in the country.

Yet when he’d ascended to his current senior position, he did so with the awareness that there was a gap in HSI’s mission. And that awareness on his part could be traced to, of all things, a song.

Shall we gather at the river?

Where bright angel feet have trod,

with its crystal tide forever

flowing by the throne of God?

The hymn, more memorable for its tune than lyrics, revolved through his mind like a carousel’s organ music several times a week. And what had seated it there was a performance he had attended three years, five months and four days ago.

That day in early October, he and Camille and their three children were in the second-to-last pew on the right side of the modest Ezekiel Brethren Church in Inwood. They’d been late—shoes had gone missing, and the youngest had further delayed them with a last-minute bathroom stop.

Upon arriving, they found a pew and sat in their accustomed order: Marcus, Eric, Aaron, Peter, then Camille, who together with Henry counted as one because she was not due for another two months.

The choir—and yes, they were astonishing, the bass especially—had just struck up the melodically infectious river-gathering song when Williamson noticed that the door behind him—the front door—had opened, painting the interior in a brief swath of cool white light.

He leaned over to Camille and whispered, “So we’re not the last in.”

“Points are still deducted for being penultimate ,” she joked and sat back, resting a hand on her belly. Henry apparently liked the music too and was, maybe, kicking out the beat.

Yes, we’ll gather at the river, the beautiful, the beautiful river ...

The late entry, standing in the aisle just behind their pew, was a young White man in jeans, a dark-green windbreaker and a baseball cap with no logo.

That he was White was not unusual. The Ezekiel Brethren congregation was only about 80 percent people of color. Williamson knew most of the parishioners well, but he didn’t recognize the newcomer.

There were plenty of seats, but the man continued to stand in the middle of the single aisle, gazing about, searching for congregants he was supposed to meet, Williamson assumed. He concentrated on his own singing. Reverend DeKalb encouraged everyone to join in.

A full two minutes passed and still the young man did not sit, and Williamson noted something—he believed he noted something. As the man scanned the church, he was not looking at the clusters of White congregants but only those of color—Black and a few Latino families.

The beautiful, the beautiful river ...

And then it happened.

The man crouched, and Williamson recognized the way his hand disappeared into his jacket in a way that meant only one thing—he was cross-drawing a weapon.