D.C. Dead (Stone Barrington 22)

“Come in, Holly,” Lance responded.

She opened the door and entered.

“And have a seat,” Lance said.

Holly handed him the envelope.

“Something to brighten my day, I hope,” Lance said. He seemed in a good mood. “What is your take on whatever this is?”

“I have no take,” Holly said. “No point of view, no recommendation. Nothing.”

Lance peered at her over his reading glasses. “That is very unlike you,” he said.

“The letter presents the situation as well, or better, than I could. It is not particularly flattering to either of us, and it is, of course, self-serving of the writer, but you have to see its contents. Go ahead, read it.”

“Right now? It’s a busy morning.”

She wanted to see his face when he read it. “I think right now would be the best time.”

“So it’s time-sensitive?”

“Read the fucking letter, Lance,” she said, as evenly as she could.

Lance gave her a long look, then turned his attention to the letter. He read it slowly and occasionally winced or glowered or lifted his eyebrows. He finished it and laid it on his desk. “Has this been processed?”

“It has had the usual scrutiny inbound; it did not appear to have been opened.”

“Have you taken any steps to process it further?”

Holly shook her head slowly. “No. Process it, if you like, but I can recite the report now.” She looked at the wall above Lance’s head. “‘This document has been processed to the fullest extent by this department. It is written by hand, in felt-tip ink, on widely available twenty-five-percent cotton paper and presents no fingerprints, fibers, DNA, or any other evidence that would profit from further analysis.’ In short, it’s clean.”

Lance leaned back in his chair, rested his feet on his desk, and ruminated for a moment. “I am having lunch—let’s see, the day after tomorrow—with the director of Technical Services. I will suggest to him that I have a well-qualified officer in my bailiwick who cannot be promoted further, and that it is my belief that he would make a fine addition to the Tech Services team. If that doesn’t work, I’ll speak to someone in analysis, and if that doesn’t work, you will reassign Mr. Bacon to a subordinate position at a station in an uncomfortable climate, remote from suitable women or other entertainment.”

“I understand. And derinate pothen what?”

“Would you be willing to replace Bacon on his current assignment?”

“I would not,” Holly replied. “Not under threat of transfer, of discharge, or of death. I would rather eat my gun than pursue this any further.” Lance began to speak, but Holly held up a hand. “And let me say this, before saying nothing further: his allusion to the hornets’ nest is a threat, and not an idle one, and I do not think now is the time to provoke him.”

Lance returned his feet to the floor and the letter to Holly. “All right, shred this and put the paper in a burn bag. Recall Mr. Bacon and his team for reassignment, and see that each of them is individually debriefed in such a way that he would not dream of speaking to anyone, even in his prayers, of his past duty with regard to this person.

“When Mr. Bacon returns to this office I will see him, if I have been able to procure for him a decent reassignment. If not, you will throw your body across my office door, see him in my stead, and give him his new assignment and a month’s paid leave during which to contemplate his f

uture with

the Agency. Also, place the ad in the Times. Is there anything else?”

“Shall I notify the director?”

“You shall not. I shall do that at an appropriate time. Good day.”

“Good day, Lance,” Holly said, rising and returning to her office. Her forehead was damp, as were her armpits and her crotch, but she felt the relief of having dodged a hellfire missile aimed at her head.

24

HOLLY PLACED THE AD IN THE TIMES, THEN COMPOSED AN e-mail to Todd Bacon at an e-mail address that required a ten-digit password to access. “Call off your party immediately, as the guest of honor is permanently unavailable. You and the kids come home and see me at seven A.M. Friday. Bring your own breakfast. Barker.”

She looked at Teddy’s letter for a long minute, then disobeyed orders: she made a copy and put the original in her briefcase, then she shredded the copy, emptied the shredder into a burn bag, and gave it to her secretary for disposal. She was determined that this was not going to come back and bite her on the ass.