“I think this is a good time to take a break in these proceedings,” he says. “Chief Wilder, let’s put a pin in this for the moment. Take the night, and let’s all just calm down so we can have a civil and productive conversation. We’ll reconvene tomorrow morning at ten.”
Getting to my feet, I glare daggers at Graves as I gather my things. I slip it all into my messenger bag and sling it over my shoulder, then turn and storm out of the hearing room without another word. I somehow doubt tomorrow will be any more civil and productive than our session was today. As I walk through the halls of the Justice Department, heading for the parking lot, eager to get the hell out of there, for the first time since I arrived in DC, my heart flutters with concern.
For the first time ever, I’m seriously worried about my career.
The Vibe, Dupont Circle District; Washington, DC
I drain the last of my scotch, then signal the waitress for another. After having to deal with all that garbage in my hearing today, I think I’ve earned a few drinks. In fact, I think I’ve earned the right to get completely smashed if I want to. Maybe if I’m nursing a wicked hangover, I can get through tomorrow without going bananas on Graves again. The waitress drops off my drink and gives me a small smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. It reminds me of the sort of look people might give somebody who’s about to walk the green mile that ends with me getting a pink slip and a boot out the door. Or… maybe I’m projecting.
Leaning back in my booth, I close my eyes and let the music wash over me. The Vibe is a nice place but doesn’t have the same sort of feel the Emerald Lounge does back home. It feels buttoned down and corporate but is trying too hard to be hip and edgy. It doesn’t have that wild and uncontrolled air I like to feel when I’m in a jazz club. I like jazz clubs that are a little raw. A little grimy. And I’m sure the lack of grittiness has everything to do with the prissy and painfully proper K-Street and Capitol Hill types that crowd around the tables and booths.
As unappealing as the rest of the club is, the quartet on stage is good, and I find myself lost in the rhythm, the problems of the day slowly flaking off and blowing away. Good music and a good drink have incredibly underestimated restorative powers. But that restoration of my mind and mood is interrupted when I feel somebody sliding into the booth across from me. My eyes fly open, and I sit up straight, ready to tear somebody a new one for interrupting my much-needed moment of Zen. The words wither and die on my tongue, though, when I see who’s sitting there staring back at me.
“Deputy Director Church. Wh—what are you doing here?” I stammer.
“I heard what happened in your hearing today and figured you’d probably be needing a drink tonight,” she replies. “Or maybe ten.”
The corner of my mouth quirks upward. “Fair. But I suppose the better question is, how did you find me here?”
“Well, I may not be a fancy profiler, but back in the day, I was a pretty good field agent. I always had a knack for being able to find people.”
Church signals the waitress to bring more drinks to our table, and I sit back again, absorbing a feeling of the surreal. To be honest, it’s kind of a fangirl moment for me since I’ve long been an admirer of hers. She’s a strong, intelligent woman who’s cut her own path through the male-dominated hierarchy that continues to permeate the Bureau and has ascended to a position of real power. How can I not admire that?
At the same time, though, I temper my fangirling with the reality of the world we exist in. Lauren Church has ascended to the position she’s in because she’s tough, no-nonsense, and most of all, because she can be as cold-blooded and ruthless as any man. Maybe even more. She’s gotten to where she’s at because she plays the game hard. She knows how to pull the right strings and maneuver people around the board. And above all, she knows how and where to bury the bodies of those who either no longer serve her purpose or stand in her way—former ASAC Vincent DeClerk being exhibit A.
Admirer of hers or not, I’m realistic enough to know that I’m only as useful to Church as the next thing I can do for her. Ours is a symbiotic relationship of sorts… though from her end, it’s more take than give. But having somebody like Church in my corner, backing and protecting me, is never a bad thing regardless of how long of a shelf life our pseudo-symbiotic relationship has. Having the people aligned against me in the cutthroat, backstabbing world of Bureau politics knowing I’ve got Church backing me might make them think twice before baring their blades.
“I guess your network of eyes and ears in DC is as impressive and well-informed as the rumors say it is,” I say.
“It is. But it also helps to know your target before you go hunting them.”
“How so?”
“I know you’re a lover of jazz music—because of your parents, I believe. I also know when you’ve had a tough day, you like to unwind with jazz and a glass of scotch,” she tells me. “All I had to do was find the spot with the best live jazz and best scotch within walking distance of the Hay-Adams where you’re staying while you’re in town, and voilà, here I am.”
I stare at her blankly for a minute, my arm resting on the table in front of me. A wry smile tugs at the corners of my mouth, and I shake my head, then take a quick swallow of scotch to hide my surprise. I’m impressed. Church sits back with a look of smug satisfaction on her face.
“How’d I do?” she asks.
“Maybe you should have been a profiler. You seem to have a certain aptitude for it,” I say.
She shrugs. “I’m not too humble to say I was good at my job. But I’m afraid I’m a little too old to be out in the field kicking in doors anymore.”
I scoff. “Hardly.”
The woman is in such good shape, she looks like she could still blow doors off their hinges if she were so inclined. I think what she actually meant to say was that her focus isn’t on fieldwork anymore but on climbing the ladder of power. She’s never said as much, but she is a woman with her sights set firmly on the Director’s chair. I can see that in her eyes as well as her behavior and her demeanor. I’ve got little taste for politics, but that doesn’t mean I’m ignorant of them. I’m smart enough to see the wheels of power turning behind the scenes and to know that Church is one of those who’s got her hand on the levers.
By gathering people around her—people like me and my team—who deliver results on high-profile cases, she is basking in that halo effect and strengthening her base. With every big case closure she’s related to, she’s accruing more power and esteem for herself. She’s polishing her own reputation and leadership as she puts herself in as solid a position as she can to make a run at the big chair. It’s smart. She’s got her eye on the big picture and is doing everything she can to amass as much power and control as she can before making her move.
I typically don’t tolerate being used for somebody else’s ends and don’t like being a pawn in somebody else’s game. I’m a lot of things, but a useful idiot is not one of them. However, I’d be lying if I said my relationship to Church doesn’t come without some benefits. Being on the side of somebody like Church who has a clear vision and a belief in the work we’re doing is worth it. She has the power to give us the resources we need as well as the autonomy I want to operate. What she did to help us down in Atlanta is proof enough of that.
It’s for reasons like those that I’m on board with her. It’s why I’m willing to play her game. And it’s also why I feel it’s as close to an even give-and-take relationship with a Bureau power broker that I’m ever likely to get.
The waitress stops at the table and drops off three fresh glasses of scotch. “You double fisting it tonight, Deputy Director?”
Before she can answer, though, a man slips into the booth next to Church. Standing six-two with wavy hair the color of chestnuts, hazel-colored eyes, and almost classic Kennedy-like features, he’s instantly recognizable to me. He’s normally smiling and seems to be in good humor, but tonight, his face is stern, his thin lips a tight slash across his face, and his eyes are filled with brooding tension.
“Senator Barlow,” I say. “I didn’t know you were joining us this evening.”
“Believe me when I say I wish I didn’t have to,” he replies. “No offense.”
“None taken,” I say, then turn to Church. “I’m suddenly getting the feeling that you didn’t go to the trouble of tracking me down just to make sure Deputy Inspector Graves didn’t rough me up too much today.”
“As always, your instincts are spot on,” Church says, her expression growing grim.
A few people glance our way, but for the most part, despite being as well-known as he is, not many in the crowd inside the lounge seem to recognize Senator Barlow. Or maybe they just don’t care. He’s a strikingly handsome man who’s so camera-friendly that he seems to be on television more than some celebrities. The networks can’t get enough of him. It’s strange that nobody is approaching him. But then, I don’t really know how things work in the Beltway, so maybe there’s some unwritten rule about badgering government officials in their downtime or something.
Most believe it’s only a matter of time before Barlow announces his run for the presidency. And as I look at him sitting beside Church, I realize she’s found her path to the Director’s chair. Presidents get to name their own FBI heads, and it’s obvious these two are good friends. I don’t need to know their biographies to see there’s some history between these two. But if and when Barlow runs for the presidency, if he wins, it seems certain that Deputy Director Church will be on the shortlist to remove that pesky “Deputy” from her title and become the first female Director of the FBI.
“So, if I may ask, what is this meeting—which I assume is being kept secret from the people in your offices—all about?” I ask.
“You were right,” Barlow says to Church. “She’s perceptive.”
“Everything I’ve told you about her is true, Elliot,” Church replies.
