picture of the woman was emerging.
She said, “Nice office, Chief Roscoe.”
“Thank you,” Roscoe said. She didn’t invite Kim to dispense with the formal title.
Sergeant Brent came back with the ID wallets. He was lanky, with red hair and a freckled face. He seemed young for his job. He put the photocopies on Roscoe’s desk and handed the originals back to their owners. His forearms below his uniform shirt’s short sleeves were covered by a wild tangle of red hair. Even his fingers were freckled.
“Any chance we could get a cup of coffee?” Gaspar asked him.
Brent looked to his boss. Roscoe nodded.
“How do you like it?” Brent asked.
“Four sugars,” Gaspar said.
Brent looked horrified, as if no real man, let alone an FBI Special Agent, would so pollute a cup of joe.
“What?” Gaspar said. “I have a sweet tooth. Something wrong with that?”
Brent seemed to realize Gaspar was baiting him. He grinned, and Gaspar added, “And maybe a couple of jelly donuts?”
Brent laughed out loud. Roscoe sat quiet. Brent turned to Kim for her order. She said, “You wouldn’t have chicory coffee, would you?”
His freckled face reflected genuine sorrow. “I wish we did, ma’am,” he said. “I haven’t had chicory since my Louisiana grandma died.”
“Don’t worry. Regular black will be fine for me.”
As if to compensate for his chicory failure, Brent asked, “Want a jelly donut, too?”
“You’re a bad influence, I can tell,” she said. He bowed his head shyly. He was just a kid. Early twenties, max. She said, “But if only all men were so thoughtful,” and shot a mock glare at Gaspar.
“You’re killing me, boss,” Gaspar said.
Brent left, and Roscoe said, “OK, you made a friend there. Mission accomplished. Nicely done. But I’m older and wiser. How can I help you?”
No one spoke, and Brent brought the coffee and donuts and left again, closing the door quietly behind him. Kim lifted her mug and took a deep, appreciative whiff before she sipped and held on for a second sip.
“How can I help you?” Roscoe asked again.
“This is great coffee,” Kim said, still stalling. She flashed through what she knew about Roscoe, searching for a non-threatening opening.
Gaspar picked the wrong one.
He asked, “You got kids?”
The question pushed Roscoe’s hot button. Kim saw it happen. Roscoe’s carotid pulse thumped hard on the side of her neck. Kim counted twenty-five beats in ten seconds, 120 beats a minute. Fast, like she was sprinting toward a fire.
Professional tone steady, Roscoe said, “Look, if you’re going to be in town a while, you can take me out for a drink after work one day and try your very best bonding techniques. But until then, I’m busy, as I believe I mentioned. So don’t try to butter me up. If you’ve got some bad news, just hop right to it, OK?”
Kim responded before Gaspar could jump the rails again. She said, “This is not a law enforcement visit, Chief. We’re hoping you can give us some direction, that’s all. Because we don’t know where to start, actually. We’re looking for information.”
As bland as possible, just a favor, one officer to another.
Roscoe asked, “What kind of information do you need?”
Kim saw wariness in those big, dark eyes. Pulse still pounding. But tone not so hostile. Maybe a little progress.
“Agent Gaspar and I are assigned to the FBI Specialized Personnel Task Force.”
“Which is what?”
Roscoe’s pulse slowed a few beats. Kim counted twenty in ten seconds. Still rapid, but better. Like calming any wild thing, Kim sought to lull through non-threatening routine. Since 9/11, law enforcement personnel never resisted any halfway plausible FBI request, whether they understood its basis or not. Few outside the agency knew its inner workings or expected transparency in the relentless war on terror.
“We conduct candidate background investigations. It’s our job to build the file. Supplement sketchy records. Get a clear picture. So the folks upstairs can make informed decisions.”
“I was asking what kind of specialized personnel you’re dealing with.”
Still wary. Had this woman been burned before? Kim counted fifteen pulse beats in ten seconds. Better.
“Potential candidates to serve in situations where no current FBI expertise exists.”
“Such as?”
Roscoe was pressing harder than cops usually did. Kim might have done the same, but only if she had something to hide. She said, “I can’t speak for the entire SPTF, but I’ve worked up files for interpreters of uncommon languages, for example. Or forensic accountants in niche businesses. Or scientists who can identify obscure chemicals. Things that don’t require permanent expertise inside the bureau.”
“Routine, then.”
“Mostly.”
Roscoe nodded. She didn't ask why the FBI had failed to make an appointment to see her. There should have been an appointment, if the meeting was routine. Instead she said, “I gather these candidates don’t have security clearances already?”
Which was an astute question. Reacher had a security clearance once, according to his file. Beverly Roscoe and Lamont Finlay had one, too. As did Daniel Trent, Roscoe’s husband, for that matter.
“Usually not,” Kim replied. She watched the pulse in Roscoe’s neck now at a steady five to six beats in ten seconds. Resting pulse rate lower than fifty-five under normal conditions. Good for a woman of Roscoe’s age.
As a test, Kim added, “When an existing security clearance is available, it makes our job easier, of course. Then all we need to do is update.”
The pulse jumped to one-twenty again. Whatever Roscoe concealed burrowed deep into its hiding place, but it didn’t feel safe there.
“As I said, I’m happy to help if I can,” Roscoe said. Then she hesitated, just slightly, but Kim noticed the held breath before the question. “Who is it you’re interested in?”
Kim glanced at Gaspar. He signaled agreement with a slight nod. They’d get nowhere with Chief Roscoe today unless they could shake her loose a little. If they had to come back another time, she’d have her answers sanded to smooth uselessness.
Now or never.
“We’ve been asked to conduct a background check on an army veteran,” Kim said, slowly, watching Roscoe’s demeanor closely. Almost like the children’s game of hot, hot, cold, but the method depended less on what Roscoe said and more on how she reacted. Standard interview techniques Kim had applied a thousand times. If Roscoe was worried about anyone not an army veteran, she should relax a bit.
But she didn’t relax.
Gaspar bluffed. “We know he came to Margrave about fifteen years ago. Maybe he lives here now. Law enforcement might have had some contact with him.”
Pulse elevated and steady at one-twenty. Something Gaspar had said had alarmed Chief Roscoe further. Good.
Roscoe said, “Our population has grown quite a bit because of sprawl out of Atlanta. But I’d know anyone who’s lived here more than a few months. What’s his name?”
The way she inquired, the tension she carried in her eyes and shoulders, the timing, her failure to breathe. Pulse at one-twenty-five. Very concerned. But the greater Atlanta area boasted a significant veteran population. She could be worried about someone else entirely.
But Kim had noted that fifteen men were referenced in the materials received from the boss. And only two women: Reacher’s mother, now dead two decades.
And the first source: Beverly Roscoe.
Not identified by her married name, either. Roscoe, not Trent. The name she had when Reacher swept through
