“I don’t think so,” I told him. “We’re not reporting to Security Administration & Operations. We’re reporting to a task force.”
“Oh.” He seemed startled. “You don’t do court security?”
“Not as our main job,” Ian said. “We’re not security officers, we’re inspectors.”
It was a gray area.
Kage had us both coded as deputy US marshals, but technically, as neither of us supervised anyone and because we worked with WITSEC as well as with the organized crime units and drug enforcement, we were inspectors. It was only important when we left home, because it let other marshals know what we could be counted on to do.
“Oh, okay,” Padgett—his name tag read—was still surprised. “I didn’t know we had any openings currently.”
“You don’t,” I said quickly. “We’re on loan, we’re not here to stay.”
He seemed relieved, and I understood. If you were in court security, you wanted to move up, to get into the field, to be Tommy Lee Jones in The Fugitive, even though the issues with that flick were endless. It was the same with all kinds of TV shows and movies; it was impossible to get every little detail right. I had dated a sailor once who explained in excruciating detail all the things that were wrong with The Hunt for Red October and he thought that I should turn it off and hate it on general principle because of those inconsistencies. He went home and there was no second date. I loved what I loved, and whether or not it was wrong changed nothing.
“We’re going to the second floor, right?” Ian asked, returning my thoughts to the task at hand, that of us finding out whom we reported to. We had a name, Brooks Latham, and that was all. “That’s what we were told.”
“Yeah, you can take the elevator or the stairs,” Padgett replied amiably.
Amazing how nice people were when they knew you weren’t after their job.
As soon as we reached Latham’s office, I realized considering all the people in the room, all the different white boards, and the configuration of the clustered desks, that we were looking at not a single task force, but many.
“Help you?” a man asked as he strode over to us where we stood beside a cubicle wall.
“I’m Morse,” Ian said quickly, “and this is Smith. We’re supposed to see Latham.”
“Commander Latham,” he corrected.
“Commander Latham,” Ian parroted.
“Let me get him.”
We would not be invited into the main area until we had passed muster. And while I understood, at home we were never all about who had the biggest dick. We were a warm, welcoming bunch. Except for Ian.
There was a shrill whistle, and we both looked up as an older man gestured at us from an office in the back.
Ian groaned under his breath. “I love being called like a dog.”
“At least it’s air-conditioned in here,” I offered, pointing out a plus.
He was not impressed.
Latham held the door open and closed it behind us, not moving, staring, taking us both in.
“What kind of background do you guys have? I haven’t had time to read your sheets.”
Ian described how we’d both been marshals for three years, told him I had been a police detective and that he was Army Special Forces.
“You a Green Beret?”
“Yessir.”
He nodded, clearly in awe. “So you’re used to doing things by the book.”
I was so proud of myself for not laughing my ass off.
Latham turned to me. “The detective piece will help. This is a highly transient state, so running down people fast is important.”
“We’ll do all we can to help, Commander,” I affirmed.
“Excellent,” he responded, offering me and then Ian his hand. “Now let me tell you a little bit about how we work.”
Brooks Latham was in charge, and we would report to him, but he was simply a senior inspector, not a chief deputy like Kage.
“Normally here you’re not going to be with the same partner every day, or even on the same team. We tend to mix things up, depending on individual strengths and what’s needed on a certain op.”
We were both silent, waiting. He was not saying anything either of us liked so far.
“Are you guys partners in Chicago?”
“We are,” Ian told him.
“Great, that helps. I’ve had some trouble matching people up.”
“Not an issue with us,” Ian assured him.
He gave us a smile. “You guys hungry at all? I could feed you lunch before I give you the rest of the tour. You like Greek?”
We both did.
Crazy Jim’s was close to the courthouse, and since it smelled fantastic as soon as we walked in, my appetite jump-started. We both had pita subs—Ian a steak picado and me a chicken feta—and we shared a goat cheese salad that got hoovered down in no time.
“You guys always eat like this?”
Ian and I exchanged glances. “Normally we eat way more,” I clarified. “But since you were buying, we figured we’d go easy on you.”