WEDNESDAY
November 27
Washington, D.C.

Ben Garrison pretended to keep his cool while he sat and waited in the middle of the twelfth precinct, handcuffed to a fucking chair. Officers shoved their way around him, ignoring him. A stoned, toothless hooker kept smiling at him from across the room. She even winked at him once, uncrossed her legs and gave him a Sharon Stone view of her merchandise. He wasn’t impressed.

His wrists itched under the too-tight handcuffs. The chair’s wobbly legs drove him nuts, and he shoved it back against the wall, drawing scowls from the two bastards who brought him in. He still couldn’t believe Racine would do this. Who would have thought she had it in her? Oddly, it only made him want to fuck her all the more.

He returned from Boston to find two of the District’s finest waiting for him at his apartment. At first, he thought Mrs. Fowler was having him evicted, especially if she smelled the fumigator crap he had left for the cockroaches to enjoy. And if the little bastards had escaped into the rest of the building, the poor old woman probably would have a coronary. But, no, it wasn’t Mrs. Fowler. It was Racine. What a surprise. The little cunt had a game plan all of her own. And part of it, obviously, was to make him wait.

Well, he refused to let her ruin his lucky streak, especially after he had just spent the morning blowing away Britt Harwood with yet another Garrison exclusive. Ben smiled. Not much Racine could do about the photos that would be in this evening’s Boston Globe.

Hell, he had done what he wanted with the prints, so, no, he didn’t mind sharing them with Racine. He had planned to, anyway. She couldn’t blame a guy for wanting a little treat in return.

“They’re ready for you, Garrison,” one of the thick-necked Neanderthals in blue said as he undid one handcuff to release Ben from the chair, then quickly snapped it onto his wrist again. When Ben stood, the guy grabbed his elbow and led him down the hall.

The room was small, with no windows and several pockmarks in the bare walls, some small enough to be bullet holes, a couple of large ones that looked like someone had tried to put a fist or head through the plaster. The room smelled like burnt toast and sweaty gym socks. The officer sat him down in one of the chairs that surrounded the table. Then he did his little weaving trick again with the handcuffs and the steel folding chair.

Ben wanted to point out that if he really wanted, he could fold up the chair and simply take it with him, maybe even knocking some heads with it on his way out. But now probably wasn’t a good time to be a smart-ass, so he sat quietly, expecting to be in for another wait.

Surprisingly, Racine came in within minutes, stopping to consult the Neanderthal at the door before she even acknowledged Ben’s presence. She was followed in by an attractive dark-haired woman in an official-looking navy suit. He thought he recognized her. Surely, he’d remember. What a treat! Two police babes.

Racine looked pretty good, too. If she wanted to look butch, she would need to try harder. Although he had to admit her spiky blond hair looked like she had just gotten out of the shower, and she had no fashion sense. Today she had on blue jeans and a sweater that he wished was tighter. But with no jacket—thank goodness—it was still a rush seeing her in the leather shoulder holster with the butt of her Glock tucked nicely under her left breast. Yes, indeed, he could already feel the effect. Poor Racine. She probably thought hauling him in here would be some sort of punishment.

The Neanderthal brought in Ben’s duffel bag and set it on the table. Then he left, closing the door behind him. Racine pulled out a chair and put up one foot, trying to look tough. The other woman leaned against the wall, crossed her arms and began examining Ben.

“So, Garrison, glad we could finally arrange that little meeting you wanted,” Racine said. “This is Special Agent Maggie O’Dell with the FBI. Thought maybe you wouldn’t mind if we made this a threesome.”

“Sorry, Racine. If this is your idea of intimidation then you’re gonna be really disappointed when I tell you you’re giving me an incredible hard-on.”

She didn’t blush, not even slightly. Maybe Detective Racine was tougher than Officer Racine.

“This case is a federal investigation, Garrison. It could mean—”

“Cut the crap, Racine,” he stopped her, glancing at O’Dell, who stayed put, looking official while she continued to lean against the wall. He knew who the real power broker was, so when he spoke again, he addressed O’Dell. “I know you just want the photos. I always intended to hand them over.”

“Really?” O’Dell said.

“Yeah, really. I have no idea what Racine misunderstood. Probably all that sexual tension from not knowing who or what to fuck this week.”

“Oh, I think you’ll certainly feel fucked, Garrison, when we’re through with you,” Racine said without so much as a blink, playing out her role as the bad cop.

O’Dell, also, remained cool and calm. “You have the photos with you?” she asked, nodding at the duffel bag.

“Sure. And I’m more than willing to show them to you.” He lifted his hands and clanked the handcuffs against the steel chair. “Hell, I’ll give them to you. As soon as all the charges are dropped, of course.”

“Charges?” Racine glanced at O’Dell, then back at him. “Did the boys give you the impression you were under arrest? I’m sure you must have misunderstood, Garrison.”

He wanted to tell her to go fuck herself, but instead he smiled and held up his hands again for her to remove the cuffs.

O’Dell reached over and knocked on the door, bringing in the thick-necked cop to unlock the handcuffs. Then he left again, without a word to either woman.

Ben rubbed his wrists, taking his time before he pulled over the bag and began digging through his equipment. He didn’t want them messing with his stuff. He set his camera, lens and collapsible tripod out on the table. Then he removed a couple of T-shirts, a pair of sweatpants and a towel to get the manila envelopes at the bottom. He opened one and spilled its contents on the table: negatives, contact sheet and the prints Harwood’s people had developed and given him copies of. He laid five eight-by-tens on the table, putting them in chronological order for the full effect.

“Jesus!” Racine said. “Where and when was this?”

“Yesterday. Late afternoon. Boston.”

From one of the other envelopes, he pulled out several prints from the Brier girl’s crime scene along with about a dozen from Everett’s rally in the District. One showed Everett with a young blond-haired girl and Ginny Brier, alongside two of the same boys in the Boston photos. He slid them across the table.

“Pretty easy to recognize some of these good Christian boys,” Ben told them. “When I was at the District rally, Saturday night, I heard them talking about some kind of initiation they were planning in Boston Common on Tuesday. I played my hunch that it might be something interesting.”

“Funny how you didn’t mention that to me. You didn’t even mention that you had been at that rally,” Racine said.

“Didn’t seem important at the time.”

“Even though you knew you had photos of the dead girl attending the rally?”

“I took lots of photos over the weekend. Maybe I didn’t know exactly what or who I had shot.”

“Just like you didn’t know that you hadn’t turned over all the film you shot at the crime scene?”

He smiled again and shrugged.

“Was Everett in Boston?” O’Dell asked as she picked up each photo, carefully scrutinized it, then moved on to the next.

“No sign of him, but I heard them talking like maybe he was.” He pointed to Brandon in several of the Boston photos and in the District one. “This one seemed to be in charge. They were all drunk. You can see in one of the photos that they had beer bottles and were spraying the women.”

“I don’t believe this,” Racine said. “Where were the cops?”

“It was a Tuesday afternoon. Who knows? I didn’t see any around.”

“And you just watched?” O’Dell was staring at him now as if she was trying to figure him out.

“No, I took pictures. It’s my job. It’s what I do.”

“They were attacking these girls, and you just stood around and took pictures?”

“When I’m behind the lens, I’m not there as a participant. I’m there to record and capture what’s going on.”

“How could you do nothing?” O’Dell wasn’t going to give it up. He could hear the anger in her voice.

“You don’t get it. If I had put down my camera, you wouldn’t have these fucking photos so you can now go out and charge these motherfuckers.”

“If you had put down your camera and tried to stop them, maybe we wouldn’t need any photos. Maybe those girls wouldn’t have had to go through this.”

“Oh, right. Like this is my fault. Let me tell you, it takes a lot more work and planning to make news happen, Ms. FBI Agent. I record the images. I capture the emotions. I’m not a part of what happens. I’m a part of the instruments. I’m fucking invisible when I’m behind the camera. Look, you’ve got your photos. I’m outta here.”

He grabbed his duffel bag, stuffed his camera and lens inside and started to leave, expecting one of them to stop him. Instead, they were both busy examining the photos. Racine was already jotting down notes.

Fuck them! If they didn’t get it, he didn’t need to explain it. He left, a bit disappointed that even the Neanderthal wasn’t around for him to shove or at least flip off. Guess Racine won this round.