And three more. Two women in their thirties who chatted noisily on their way into the office, speaking a brand of Spanish even Sheffield, who was halfway fluent, could not begin to decipher. Those two were from the Office of the Inspector General, young ladies no doubt recruited from the top of their respective law school classes, who reported to the attorney general about such matters as integrity, efficiency, and effectiveness in operational situations. OIG was looking for criminal misconduct. Not just a demotion or a turd in Sheffield’s file, but real, actual jail time.
Then there was a gentleman in his late sixties wearing a bow tie and suspenders with his silver hair in a braided ponytail. Hippie inquisitor from the Security Division. A polygraph guy and cyber-expert whose job was to ferret out unreliable employees, ones dabbling in espionage or using their Web access to commit crimes, leak information, or download off child-porn sites.
One by one, Magnuson’s men and Frank’s SWAT guys had been parading by Sheffield into his office, looking worried when they entered and more worried when they exited. A lot of tight faces and sweat-stained shirts. No one spoke to him or looked his way.
“They’re rubbing your nose in it,” Marta said quietly after Pipes, the barf beamer, had gone into the office and shut the door. “Make you sit here, outside your own office, them inside. They could use the conference room, but, no, this is for humiliation.”
“I’m aware of that,” Sheffield said.
“And it doesn’t piss you off?”
“Is this conversation being recorded?”
Marta made one of her faces, squinching at a putrid smell.
Pipes left; Dinkins came in a few minutes later.
He stopped and said to Frank, “We’re still on for Friday, right? The force-on-force?”
“Don’t know if we’ll have jobs on Friday, Dink.”
“Oh, come on. It’s not that bad.”
“That what you’re hearing from the others, it isn’t that bad?”
“The shit’s going to fall on Magnuson, that’s how I’m hearing it.”
The door to Frank’s office opened and one of the Latinas said, “You Dinkins?”
When Dinkins was inside, Marta said, “They’re Brazilians, those two. In case you were wondering. Knew each other in Rio. Both unmarried. That’s Portuguese they’re speaking.”
“You’re a font of information.”
“And Zach called, wanted to talk to you face-to-face.”
“I don’t know a Zach.”
“Agent Magnuson.”
“You’re first-naming with this guy?”
“I first-name with all the handsome men around here. Except you.”
“Why’d he want a face-to-face?”
“Didn’t say. Maybe to get your stories straight before all this started. It was early this morning. I told him to call your cell, but he’d tried and you had it turned off as usual. So I told him where you lived; he said he might just drive out to the Key and speak to you before the day got started.”
“Well, he didn’t make it.”
Another half hour passed. Marta was typing, Sheffield on his phone, surfing the Net, shopping for outdoor light fixtures, something to illuminate the bases of the palm trees around the Silver Sands. He was giving serious consideration to some solar-powered tiki lights that flickered yellow. Very retro. Give the place a Beach Blanket Bingo vibe. Which got him thinking about Annette Funicello, Sandra Dee. Then he was exiting the light-fixture site and typing Nicole McIvey’s name into the search box, something he hadn’t done till now. Not wanting to invade her privacy, and, hell, truth be known, he didn’t want to find out something that cooled his feelings toward her.
But after her performance at the Four Seasons, then last night, her self-preservation speech, distancing herself from this shitstorm, the cooling was in process.
He found her professional listings, scanned for anything he didn’t know. Just the usual stuff, college degree, then her jobs. Hired at GAO, General Accounting Office, about as boring as it got. Then the jump over to NIPC, guarding the nation’s infrastructure. After that, her pay grade made a steady upward push, reaching GS-10, then leveling off. Shifting to the South Florida division a couple of years back, and after that, still no promotions. Seemed odd she’d moved up so fast, then stalled out, as if she’d lost her drive. Or maybe not. Maybe it was just the economy, things slowing down, federal budget cuts, shrinkage.
“Can I speak to you, Agent Sheffield?”
Frank bobbled his phone, nearly sent it flying.
Angie Stevens, the cybergeek, had sneaked up on him and was standing so close, her skirt was brushing his shirtsleeve.