"Should we find any, I'll call immediately. Promise."
"Come on. I shouldn't need to remind you about chain of custody issues."
"I . . ." Bian paused and looked at me: Cop-to-cop, she was getting the crap kicked out of her.
This sounded like a good time for a little expert legal advice-- meaning vague, selective, and possibly misleading advice. I turned to Bian and asked, "Your office--is it an investigative agency or a law enforcement office?"
"Both--I have the power to make arrests, as well as the legal authority to refer for prosecution."
"Well, there you have it." I turned to Enders. "Just sign an evidence transfer statement, from you to her. Right?"
"And if it don't stand up in court, I'm left holding the bag. The county prosecutors here are real . . . Look, I'm two years short of retirement. I don't need trouble."
"I'm a government lawyer. Trust me."
Maybe that was a poor choice of words. He replied, "I don't even know who the hell you are. You claimed to be FBI, then CIA, now you're a lawyer. You better figure out who you are before you start offering advice."
Bian assured him, "He is a lawyer, Barry. Also an Army lieutenant colonel . . . a JAG officer."
My identities and jobs were switching so fast, poor Enders looked like he needed a flowchart to keep me straight. I explained, "Look, Detective, it's no different than forwarding samples to a state forensics facility or an FBI lab. Major Bian has an investigative specialty--to wit, a security clearance--that affords her the ability to examine and interpret evidence neither you nor your department possess."
I was making this up, of course. It did sound good, though, and Enders seemed to be impressed by my grasp of legal technicalities, or my inventive bullshit, which are actually the same thing. Still, he insisted, "I'm going to see what's inside that briefcase."
Bian started to object, before I said, "Fine. He's doing his job. Let's just make sure there's no cover sheet that says Top Secret."
I walked to the bed, bent down, and picked up the briefcase. As I mentioned, it was a valise-style case--so no lock, just a brass clasp that I undid then peeked inside.
There were no loose papers, certainly no Top Secret cover sheets, nor did I see a helpful and illuminating suicide note, just a slim gray Gateway laptop computer and a thick store-bought address book. I carried the valise over to Enders and allowed him to peek inside and observe the contents.
Bian, peering over his left shoulder, predictably concluded, "Looks innocent enough."
Enders asked, "Is that an office or a personal computer?"
"I'd have to turn it on to tell," Bian replied. "But not in your presence. It's irrelevant, anyway."
Bian reached into her pocket and withdrew her business card, which she thrust into Enders's hand. "If this causes you problems, Barry, refer them to me."
I said to Enders, "When you get the results from forensics, call. Also, we'd like to know if the gun belonged to Daniels or somebody else."
He looked at me and replied, "I can't tell you how fucking pleased I am to be of service."
"Incidentally, we were never here."
"You know what?" he replied. "I wish that were true."
In the parking lot, Tran and I decided that as she had arrived in her own car and I in a government sedan, we would depart together in mine. The subtext here: Neither of us trusted the other alone with the briefcase. Also my car, a big blue Crown Victoria, used taxpayers' gas. This is called interagency cooperation.
As soon as we were seated and buckled in, she said, "Don't take this the wrong way . . . but your place or mine?"
"I'm driving. Mine."
"I knew you had an ulterior motive."
"What did you expect? I'm CIA."
I put the car in gear, backed out of the parking space, and headed east in the general direction of Crystal City, specifically toward the large brick warehouse where my office is located.
I should mention that the Office of Special Projects is located not, as you might expect, at the sprawling headquarters at Langley but in the aforementioned warehouse. The warehouse is a front, or in the lingo of the trade, an offsite, with a sign out front that reads "Ferguson Home Security Electronics." A double entendre is supposed to be located in there somewhere. Don't ask.
I was still new to all this, but as I understand it, OSP handles important projects for the Director that are highly sensitive and confidential in nature.