Savich grinned at her, controlled a sudden skid in the snow that would have slid them into a fire hydrant. “The thing is, Frank is good. I’m counting on him for his input. But he’s old school, believes in rank and seniority, regardless.”
Sherlock eyed an SUV negotiating a corner some twenty feet ahead of them, and thought about the turf wars. Most of the old guard had retired in recent years. Under the leadership of Director Mueller, the FBI had reevaluated, reassigned, and refocused itself, placing anti-terrorism and homeland security squarely at the top of its priorities. All agencies had been ordered by the President to communicate, to work together and share information—a concept that was finally catching on. But there were egos and old rivalries at play, so the going could still be tough.
Director Mueller was overseeing this extraordinary case himself, with his second in command, Jimmy Maitland, who was Savich’s boss. Both would keep the waters calm, at least on the surface.
CHAPTER 10
HOOVER BUILDING
“I’D LIKE TO KNOW why the hell you’re heading this investigation, Savich.”
Reassured by Frank’s show of consistency, Savich said easily, “I’m not. Director Mueller and DAD Jimmy Maitland are. I’m lower down on the chain.”
Neither Director Mueller nor Jimmy Maitland was there as yet, so Frank Halley could vent. Frank had collared Savich the moment he and Sherlock had walked into the large conference room on the fifth floor, blocked him off from the other fifty or so agents who stood around in groups. The large room was buzzing with conversation before the meeting, about the dozens of interviews that had already been conducted during the past nine hours, the newest available reports.
“Yeah, so you say, but not as low as the rest of us. You’re the one handing out interview assignments, speaking to Officer Biggs, coordinating the whole direction we take. Why have I been passed over?”
No, Sherlock thought, there was no shortage of egos and turf, not in any organization in the world. Given the sheer size and bureaucracy of the FBI, they weren’t doing so badly, really. She patted Frank’s arm. “Dillon’s doing the major interviews because he’s the best, Frank. If you’ve got a problem, take it up with the director. Otherwise, I’d suggest you get a grip and pull your nose back in joint, or I’ll have to haul you down to the gym and wipe up the mat with you.”
It was hard, even for a veteran of nearly twenty years, to be mad enough to want to tear a strip off Sherlock. He grinned down at her, this small faerie with her marvelous curling red hair, and he just couldn’t help himself. “You’re half my size. You really think you could take me?”
“Curious, are you? We’ll have to give it a try sometime.” She gave him her brightest smile. “Now, listen up. You really want to do all the paperwork, interface with the media? That’s nuts. You’re vital to this investigation, Frank. Get in the field, that’s where you’re best, that’s where the action is. It’s where we’re going to try to spend most of our time.”
But he still couldn’t let go of it. “It isn’t right, Savich. It should have come directly down to me, I’m the next in command. This should be my deal.”
Sherlock, who’d turned to speak to another agent, said from just behind Frank’s left elbow, “It’s whoever’s deal Director Mueller wants it to be. You’ve got to hang it up, Frank.”
Frank waved his hand. “Boy, the first thing I’d do is wipe up the floor with Marshal Halpern at the Supreme Court. Actually when I was interviewing her, it was hard not to do a slam dunk with her head. Can you imagine? One of her own police—that idiot Officer Biggs—going out for a smoke, letting himself get taken down like that, like an agent right out of the academy.”
“That’s the truth,” Sherlock said and imagined that Marshal Halpern was probably so defensive when Frank went after her that he didn’t get anything useful out of her.
“Ah,” Savich said. “Here are the bosses. Let’s get ourselves seated. We’ve got lots to talk about, lots of plans to make.”
Frank didn’t want to sit down, didn’t want to do anything but break both of Savich’s arms, but in a moment of stark clarity, he knew he’d have to fall into line. He’d been raised in the Bureau to do just that. But it was very hard for him this time. A Justice murdered in the Supreme Court library, it was an incredible thing to happen. The Supreme Court, that prissy Greek temple sitting on the crest of Capitol Hill, was supposedly one of the most easily secured buildings in Washington. Here he was, Special Agent Frank Halley, one of the top guys in the Criminal Investigation Division, and yet Director Mueller had placed Savich, with his dinky computer-based unit, over him.