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news. The good news, however, is that you will only have to answer to Special Agent Sloan . . . and to me.”
    “Director Fisk,” Reeder said, “a lot of people are going to be unhappy with you.”
    She shrugged. “Only behind my back.”
    That got a grin out of Reeder. “It would be a pleasure working for you, Director Fisk. An honor.”
    “Good. As you may know, SAIC Sloan is heading up the task force.”
    Sloan said to Reeder, “Every agency in DC wants a piece of this—a chance to grab the credit for bringing in this killer.”
    Fisk said, “The FBI—thanks to you, Joe—is at the top of this particular food chain, having been in on the investigation at the start.”
    Actually, he thought, by that logic, DC Homicide would be at the top of the food chain. Not damn likely.
    She was saying, “Homeland Security, your old colleagues at Secret Service, the Supreme Court Police, DC Homicide . . .”
    She’d finally gotten to them.
    “Why, by the end of the week, I wouldn’t be surprised if we didn’t have NCIS and Coast Guard representation.”
    Sloan laughed at that—more than it deserved, but she was the boss.
    The SAIC said, “Director Fisk, the first question that comes to mind is the one any homicide investigator would ask in this situation: Who might want this victim dead?”
    She folded her hands as if about to say grace. “Joe—what’s your response to that?”
    Reeder shrugged. “How about white supremacists? Killing an African American justice wins their cockeyed cause a hell of a lot of attention.”
    With a glance at the Director, Sloan said, “Including unwanted attention from us.”
    “Well worth the hassle,” Reeder countered, “because others with the same racist outlook will see the murder as a victory.”
    “All right,” Fisk said. The fingers of one hand drummed quietly. “Who else?”
    Reeder opened his hands. “How about far-leftists fed up with Venter’s extreme right-wing stance?”
    She nodded.
    He pressed on: “Or antigovernment terrorists? And God only knows what there might be in Venter’s personal life.”
    “You might have something there,” Fisk said with a finely arched eyebrow. “Inappropriate behavior with female office clerks was an issue in Justice Venter’s confirmation hearings.”
    “Not the makings of a murder motive, though,” Reeder said. “Not the way this one went down, anyway.”
    Fisk said, “You’re missing the most obvious explanation, Joe.”
    “Religious extremists,” Sloan put in.
    Nobody wanted to say Muslim anymore, even behind closed doors.
    But Reeder came close: “Islamic fundamentalists. I agree—high on the list of possibles. Venter made no secret of his Born-Again Christianity. That makes him an excellent candidate for al-Qaeda attention.”
    Fisk asked Reeder, “Is that your instinct here?”
    “Not necessarily. Whoever pulled this off . . .” He shrugged again. “. . . a lot of planning went into the thing. Starting with knowing where and when Venter would be in a very public place.”
    “Terrorists like public places,” Sloan said.
    “Yeah, but Islamic terrorists want to kill many, not just one. The man with the machine gun could have mowed down everybody in the Verdict. Why would a terrorist, wanting attention and credit, go to the trouble of making a killing look like a robbery gone out of hand?”
    Fisk was nodding again.
    Reeder continued: “Some fairly sophisticated surveillance on Venter is involved here. Did he go to that restaurant bar regularly? Was this his night of the week there or something?”
    It was Sloan’s turn to shrug. “Unknown as yet. Still digging. But it certainly wasn’t his first time at the restaurant.”
    Fisk said absently, “ I’ve been to that restaurant.”
    Sloan shifted in his chair and frowned at Reeder. “Surely you aren’t saying that Islamists aren’t capable of that type of domestic intelligence gathering?”
    Reeder shook his head. “No, 9/11 proved the opposite