Supreme Justice by Max Allan Collins Read Free Book Online

all too well. But we’re talking about stalking a sitting Supreme Court justice in Washington, DC. You think a bunch of Middle Eastern types wouldn’t raise any suspicion in DC? As paranoid as this city is? With all this Supreme Court–sanctioned racial profiling going on? I don’t buy it.”
    Fisk said, “They could have used sympathizers, or non–Middle Eastern Muslims. The Boston Marathon bombing comes to mind.”
    Reeder said, “It does, but that goes to my point. These al-Qaeda types are grandstanders. That bunch likes big targets, lots of people. This is a single target—one important man.”
    Fisk was nodding.
    Reeder asked them both, “Has anyone taken credit for the killing? You know damn well that half a dozen Islamic fundamentalist groups would be bragging this up already, if they were behind it.”
    Sloan said, “No. None has. Point taken.”
    With another razor-blade smile, Fisk said, “It sounds to me like Mr. Reeder is just the kind of consultant our task force can use.” Her tone said the meeting was over. “Thank you for accepting this position. Do we need to talk compensation?”
    “Director, I’m sure you know your history.”
    That made her frown in confusion. “How so?”
    “It’s a tradition that goes all the way back to President Wilson. I’ll be a dollar-a-year man on this one.”
    That made her smile, and she extended her hand again. They shook, and something like warmth was in the woman’s eyes. That warmth left as she turned toward Sloan, to whom she did not offer a hand to shake.
    “And Agent Sloan,” she said, “speaking of dollars? I am well aware that buck will stop at this desk. But if it stops here in a way that displeases me, do I have to tell you where that leaves the leader of this task force?”
    “You do not,” Sloan said with the world’s smallest smile.
    Soon Reeder and Sloan were on the third floor, Reeder following Sloan down another seemingly endless corridor as unspecific as something out of a dream—it felt like the elevator was back there somewhere, maybe a block away. Then Sloan turned into an alcove and pushed through double doors.
    Reeder had expected the typical sea of cubicles, and surely this vast space had been used in that fashion at one time. But right now the expanse had been converted to a command post. Around a central conference table, agents at laptops were hunkered at phones, spiral pads nearby. Wall-mounted bulletin boards kept track of local and cable news, and bulletin boards bore pictures, maps, notes, and more.
    Maybe twenty metal desks were scattered around, in no particular setup, some being used, others not. Each one had a computer and a monitor, cords and wires crisscrossing the floor like a nest of snakes.
    No one looked up when Reeder and Sloan entered. The only one of a dozen or more worker bees who Reeder recognized was his pal Carl Bishop of DC Homicide. In shirtsleeves and tie, holstered gun on his hip, the brawny, bald detective stood in front of a bulletin board, studying it hopelessly like an anthropologist on Easter Island.
    “I’ve seen better organized Chinese fire drills,” Reeder said.
    “No argument,” Sloan said. “This is what happens when you bring all the great law enforcement agencies into one place—utter chaos. But remember, we’ve only been a team for about . . .” He looked at his watch. “. . . thirty hours.”
    “Well, any group is only as good as its leader.”
    Sloan grinned. “Screw you, Peep.”
    The SAIC walked to the conference table, and when everyone had noticed their top dog was among them, they quieted down and looked up.
    “Ladies, gentlemen,” Sloan said, “this is Joe Reeder, president of ABC Security, former Secret Service agent.”
    Bishop gave him a nod and a grin, but the rest seemed as unimpressed as soldiers at the front taking in their rookie replacements. One cute brunette squinted at him like she’d just spotted a flying saucer out a car window.
    Sloan was saying,