Supreme Justice Read Online Free Page A

shooting.
    No.
    Reeder knew with deadly certainty that he wasn’t watching a robbery at all; he was witnessing a cold-blooded execution. He shook his head in disbelief.
    The urge was to call Bishop right away, but he made himself take a step or two back. He watched three more times, and the longer he studied the video, the more he realized that he’d been right from the start.
    Last night, at the Verdict Chophouse, a sitting Supreme Court justice had been assassinated.

“ There is no friend like an old friend, who has shared your morning days, no greeting like his welcome, no homage like his praise .”
Oliver Wendell Holmes, Associate Justice of the Supreme Court.
Section 5, Grave 7004, Arlington National Cemetery.

THREE
    When he called Bishop’s cell, Reeder got relegated to the homicide detective’s voice mail. No way he was leaving this kind of message. He phoned the precinct, was told Bishop was unavailable, and left word for the detective to call him ASAP.
    But as the time neared to meet his daughter for dinner, Reeder had still heard nothing from the DC cop.
    When caller ID finally flashed Bishop’s number, Reeder jumped on it.
    “Where the hell have you been?” Reeder asked.
    “Serving and protecting,” Bishop said, with barely any sarcasm.
    “Don’t give me a high-priority errand and then go out of pocket.”
    “You are such a pleasure to know, Peep. Look, the Feds are here, and they’ve already ‘cooperated’ our asses into following them around like beaten puppies.”
    Not quite under his breath, Reeder said, “Shit.”
    “Shit indeed. Do you have something that could get me back in the game?”
    Obviously he did, but should he share his take on Venter in the security footage now that the FBI would be on the receiving end? Anybody from the Bureau who knew him from White House days still viewed him as a selfish prick, even a traitor. And many agents considered kinesics smoke-and-mirrors bullshit.
    But he knew he was right, and if he didn’t share that knowledge, the FBI would come out of the gate on the wrong track—searching for armed robbers was a far different task than searching for professional assassins.
    “You still there?” Bishop asked, at last.
    “Oh yeah,” Reeder said.
    “Okay, then, Mr. Hot to Fuckin’ Trot. What did you see on that security video that mere humans might miss?”
    “. . . You may not want to mention where you got this.”
    “Got what ?”
    “It wasn’t a robbery.”
    “How could it not be a robbery?” Bishop demanded. “Nearly everyone in the place got cleaned out. That is by definition —”
    “It wasn’t just a robbery. I think the holdup was a blind.”
    “For what?”
    Nothing to do but to dive right in. “Henry Venter,” Reeder said, “was the target.”
    “Of the robbery?”
    “Of an assassination.”
    Phone-static silence separated them like an electrified fence.
    Finally, Bishop managed, “You mean . . . they took the place down just to get to Venter. To make a hit seem like collateral damage.”
    “Why aren’t you chief, with a mind like that?”
    “Screw you, Peep. Can you prove this?”
    “It’s an opinion.”
    “An informed opinion. An educated goddamn opinion from an expert who—”
    “Who nobody in federal law enforcement would piss on if he were on fire.”
    The electricity-charged silence was back.
    “But you are an expert in the field,” Bishop granted, “and former Secret Service. Is what you saw enough for me to kick this to the Special Agent in Charge?”
    “It’s a risk. If your SAIC is somebody who has me on his shit list, my opinion may send him in the robbery direction out of sheer spite.”
    “Well, maybe we drew a lucky card this time. The SAIC is Gabe Sloan. Don’t you two go back a ways?”
    That they did. In fact, if Reeder had one friend in the FBI, it was Gabriel Sloan.
    A relieved Reeder said, “Better lucky than smart. Absolutely you can tell Gabe. He believes in me, and he believes in