Supreme Justice by Max Allan Collins Read Free Book Online Page B

post.
    That Sloan had given his friend this chance at redemption reflected well on the man, though she figured neither of these friends looked at it that way.
    Anyway, Rogers didn’t give a shit what anybody said—not the other agents, not even Sloan, for that matter. She had been assigned Reeder as her temp partner, and she would work with the guy. Any opinions about him would be made starting here and now—on the job. Based on his performance, she would decide whether or not he was the son of a bitch everybody but Gabe Sloan said he was.
    Speaking of Sloan, he was making his way to the head of the table gradually, moving from one agent to another, gathering individual progress reports. But shortly it would be time for the briefing.
    She glanced at the desk next to her, where her new partner was watching her. He was what they once called “ruggedly handsome,” and distinctively so with that white hair and matching eyebrows. Nice tan, too.
    “What?” she asked. “Something in my teeth?”
    He shook his head.
    “What, then?”
    “Nothing,” he said.
    Then it hit her.
    “Stop reading me,” she said.
    “Who says I am?”
    “I do.”
    “Okay, Patti. Or do you prefer Patricia?”
    “Everybody calls me Patti.”
    “That doesn’t mean you prefer it. What’s your story?”
    “I have a story? Why don’t you tell me?”
    “Midwest. Small town. Farm girl? Figured early on the farm-wife routine that was fine for your mom, God bless her, just wasn’t for you. Education was a way out. Iowa State? No, University of Iowa. ROTC?”
    “What are you, a male witch?”
    “Psych major? Thought so. Three years active duty . . . Marines? Army. Obviously an MP.”
    “Why obviously?”
    “You’re in law enforcement. Still in the reserves.”
    “Okay. I admit it. I’m impressed.”
    “Don’t be.” He grinned at her. “Sloan told me all this, the other day, when he said he was thinking of teaming us up.”
    She couldn’t stop herself from grinning back at him. “Why, you son of a bitch . . .”
    “That’s not much of a read, Patti. Most of the other agents in this room could tell you that . . . Looks like our big chief is ready for his powwow. We better get over there.”
    Rogers and Reeder, along with other deskbound participants like Homicide Detective Bishop, stood behind those seated at the conference table. This made her feel like an onlooker, but she was confident Sloan would not consign her—or, for that matter, his pal Reeder—to grunt work.
    Seated at the conference table over to her right was FBI computer expert Miguel Altuve; short, pudgy, in shirtsleeves (his suit coat over his chair back), bow tie a clip-on, longish dark hair parted in the middle, Miggie could hardly have looked less imposing. But he could do more damage with a laptop than most agents could a firearm.
    At Miggie’s left were a pair of clean-cut Secret Service agents, their backs rod straight as if even sitting down they were guarding a president. In their dark suits with jackets off, they looked like very well-armed Mormons. Senior Agent Alan Stein had short dark hair and that average look and body type the Secret Service sought. Rogers could offer no evidence that the agent knew how to smile. His partner, Anthony Ho, was tall, muscular—probably a workout junkie. Ho smiled on occasion. Rare occasion.
    Did you get written up when you smiled in the Secret Service? she wondered. The FBI had a reputation for being humorless, but was Animal House compared to this repressed lot.
    Over at the table to Rogers’s left sat the only other woman in the room, Homeland Security Agent Jessica Cribbs. Taller and trimmer than Patti, Jess had a long brunette ponytail that Rogers secretly coveted. Given that they were members of the same gender minority, at least in federal law enforcement, the two had become friendly, if not quite friends, over the past three years or so.
    Jess’s partner, beefy, well-dressed Walter Eaton, stood just behind