the neighborhood, because now, an hour after Romantic’s report about the gunshot, the street remained utterly quiet.
Hanley punched in the keypad code at a side door, then disabled the alarm with the same codes he’d given Hightower, and they entered the large residence.
Hanley was armed; he’d pulled his holstered .45 from his side table before leaving his house in Woodley Park, and now he held it at the low ready.
Brewer did not have a gun. She had been trained on them, but she wasn’t a shooter, and she thought Hanley looked ridiculous right now with his weapon: overweight, hair still slightly askew from his bed, wearing a raincoat though there wasn’t a hint of precipitation.
His weapon out in front of him like a jackass.
She knew he’d been a Green Beret, twenty-five years ago or so now, but he didn’t look to her like he’d used the weapon for anything more than a prop to make himself look tough since he’d left the Army, and she was not impressed.
Brewer walked behind Hanley as he stalked through the house, clearing from room to room. Finally they made it upstairs, worked their way through the bedrooms and bathrooms down a hall, and entered the master bedroom.
Suzanne flipped on the overhead light, then gasped.
Lucas Renfro lay with his feet on the floor at the foot of the bed and his torso back over the covers. Blood splattered the sheets, the pillows, and the headboard, and the man’s eyes were open in death.
A black steel revolver lay on his crotch, both his left and right hands positioned next to it.
Neither Hanley nor Brewer bothered to check for a pulse. A significant portion of his brain was exposed.
Hanley turned away to check the bathroom and the closet for threats.
Brewer just stood there. Her face made of stone. She hid it well, but she was immediately devastated by Renfro’s death. Not because she was sad or sickened, but because it negatively affected her own prospects. Just the previous afternoon she’d let Renfro into her confidence, trying to orchestrate Hanley’s fall from grace. And now Renfro, her only way out of this morass of black ops and dirty work, had been taken from her.
She recovered somewhat, knowing she had to show Hanley she was focused on the matter at hand, not on her own rise through the Agency ranks. “You think Renfro knew Romantic was outside and about to come in?” It was the only thing that made sense to her.
Hanley returned. Said nothing, just kept looking at the dead man, the blood, and the rest of the room.
Brewer added, “I would say it’s safe to assume that Palumbo, Karlsson, and Wheeler are off the hook. I honestly didn’t think there was any way Renfro would be the mole, but I don’t see how there could be any other explanation for this.”
Hanley knelt down, looked at the man’s feet. He wore no shoes or socks.
Brewer watched her boss while he stood back up and walked around the room, slowly and silently.
She said, “I told Romantic, all things considered, this isn’t a bad outcome to this situation.” Hanley did not reply, just kept scanning. “I mean, no trial, no discovery process that could jeopardize operations, no publicity to this other than a few easy-to-deal-with articles about a CIA exec committing suicide. This is much more controllable than Renfro trying to make a run for it or having his day in court.”
She wasn’t feeling her words, just bolstering her cover. The last thing she wanted Hanley to suspect was that she’d had a clandestine meeting with Renfro, the man she now felt sure was a turncoat against the Agency and the United States.
But Hanley made no reply.
Brewer stared at him as he leaned over the body. She said, “I don’t understand, Matt. I thought you’d be pumping your fists in the air. You hated Renfro, you said yourself he was a threat to Poison Apple, and he was obviously the traitor who has been getting Operations and Support officers killed.”
Finally Hanley turned to her. “So . . . what you’re saying, Suzanne, is that you’re buying all this?”
Brewer did not understand. She walked to the foot of the bed and stood next to Hanley, shoulder-to-shoulder, looking over the body. “Buying it? You don’t think he shot himself? It looks pretty plain that he did. Hell, Matt, Romantic had eyes on the house. He didn’t see anyone coming or going after the wife left town.”
A dubious look came over Hanley’s face.