The next morning, one of her agents, Janice Garcia, brings them both sugary lattes. Not because Janice wants to sidle up to the unit's new chief but because the barista screwed up her order, and the spare coffee gives Janice a pretext to walk into Kate's office uninvited.
Janice lobbied for over a year for the position that Kate was given in under a month. Janice is older, more seasoned. Her features are square but not unattractive. Kate pretends not to hear the men in the office joke about a brewing catfight. The louts must be disappointed that Janice is more interested in doing her job than clawing out Kate's eyes. Janice walks over the latte to Kate's desk so that she can peer over Kate's head at the dual monitors.
"Weather patterns in South America and…" Janice pushes her glasses up over her head. "Some shitty subdivision. What's any of this got to do with Avery Vasser?"
Avery Vasser. Seven-years old, impossibly cute. And very, very white. Avery's hair is/was the color of wheat and eyes are/were bluer than the open desert sky. Missing for 10 days, and Kate does not hold the faintest hope the little girl is still alive.
"It's got absolutely nothing to do with Miss Avery." Kate tries not to smile over the lukewarm coffee. Her unit is supposed to be investigating a child prostitution ring, but the 24-hour news cycle demanded the Bureau announce it was providing assistance to the Avery Vasser case. On what jurisdiction? Kate doesn't ask, and jurisdiction matters less to her every day.
Janice studies the monitors again. "So, ok, spoiler alert—looks like it's raining heavily over half of South America. But, why are you so interested in that house? Don't tell me you're stalking your ex on the taxpayer's dime?"
Kate shoots her a look that says don't get too familiar too fast. I am not your friend. Instead, she says: "How about you and me head over to that house? Just a little friendly knock and talk?"
Janice straightens up and crosses her arms. "On what grounds?" Janice, like Reggie, went to law school. Search and seizure is like bread and butter to Janice.
"Chatter through the grapevine, a reliable confidential informant," Kate says. "Don't worry, I won't be kicking in doors. I'm not having an acute SWAT withdrawal." Janice doesn't budge, so Kate tries another approach.
"Look, the Avery Vassers of the world will always have someone looking for them. What about the other kids—too poor, too brown—who no one even missed? That house?" Kate jerks her thumb at the static image on her monitor. "I say we pull at that thread and see what unravels."
Kate stops herself from espousing some bull shit about shaking the tree and creating chaos.
"You've got no grounds—"
"I'm familiar with the concept of probable cause," Kate says coolly.
"Yeah, well, get familiar with the concept of getting a warrant. Everybody here knows how those inter-agency task forces roll in El Paso." Janice gets up to leave. She looks over her shoulder at Kate.
"You go down that road? Your case is only as solid as your Confidential Informant. I've never met a solid CI. Anyway, you're welcome for the coffee."
IV.
Matt Graver sits in the middle of an alphabet soup clusterfuck. Heather from DOJ glowers at Pete from DEA, like seriously? Your head was too far up your ass to know what the fuck…
Then Donnie from ATF grabs another bagel from the center of the conference table. Kinda wish I'd been invited to the party…
Dave Jennings with FBI—and who the fuck invited him?—If I had known an agent under my supervision was involved in an illegal extradition…
And, Matt, he's the lone Company Man. His ID badge says DOD but everyone knows he's with the Agency. His phone buzzes incessantly. He doesn't turn it off for this meeting—mostly so Heather knows far more people need to speak with him than her. At this moment, Steve Forsing seems more needy than usual. Mattie—need to talk. Mattie—it's hitting the fan, call or text. Mattie—it's about your birddog.
Shit. Steve should be holding down the fort in Cartagena. If he can't? Alejandro never met a power vacuum he didn't love.
Matt shoves another bagel in his mouth—the caraway peppercorn one that nobody else would touch. My Bird Dog? Matt feels like a stilted prom queen. Alejandro has not answered his calls, messages, signals in weeks.
And then some fucking kid, probably a fucking intern with more political connections than brains says: the signatures don't match.
Heather's face turns up into a smile so wide it threatens to bust open her face. She's been waiting for this, for Matt and Steve to completely screw the pooch on "Operation Soldado."
He feigns indignation. "If you are suggesting that a completely legal, completely on the books—"
Dave Jennings furiously shuffles pages back and forth, back and forth. "That's not Kate Macer's signature," he declares. Dave holds two pages in front of his face, and when he lowers them, Matt can't tell if Dave looks relieved or triumphant.
"I can't tell you how many of Kate's reports I've approved…I know her signature." Dave smiles like one of his girls had just graduated college.
Heather takes in Donnie and Pete, their collective exhale that the shitstorm is not directed their way, yet. Heather's closer to fifty than forty, but her freckles make her seem younger than her cynicism. Matt thinks she's happier about his latest fuck-up than the birth of her son.
"You two fuckers run around like you are the god damned Dukes of Hazard of Juarez Valley…yeah, this is what happens. Hear that? That's the sound of funding for your precious Soldado drying up."