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HAVING DECIDED TO IGNORE Agent Morgan’s absurdity, Detective McGee pulled Sergeant Pisano back and politely informed the federal pig that he could threaten them, but she knew he couldn’t kick the MPD off the case no more than she could him. It was really a moot point to make. Working in tandem to solve the crimes that he gripped their city was far more important than measuring who had the bigger political phallus.
Walking outside of the Elberg house about a half-hour later a whole throng of the press was being fed by FBI Agent Morgan. Detective McGee made a beeline towards him.
“We are undoubtedly looking into ties between Chief Judge Weston and Senator Elberg,” the agent had said.
“Excuse me, Agent Morgan?” Detective McGee called over the reporter’s shouts. “Can I have a word with you, sir?”
He nodded, turning back to the press corps.
She said, “Now,” rocking back on her heels.
Agent Morgan produced a wide smile. “Of course,” he said.
“Pardon me, ladies and gents.”
Together they walked towards the house to put distance between them and the media.
“What now, Detective McGee?” he said, stopping.
In a whisper, because she had no idea how far the presses microphones could pick up sound, “You need to carefully vet who, if any reporters you talk too.”
“Are you telling me how to do my job?” he said. “I’m not getting you.”
“You get me. You’ve been in Washington long enough. Don’t give me that dumbfounded mug. Certainly, I had your bio and resume sent to me. No way was I working with some amateur on this. I know most of those clowns over there. Jack Moore is from the Post and he badly wants a spot in a comfy chair on the set of Good Morning D.C., but he lacks the talent and the face. He smears our department with force. The cute black one is Brandy whatshername from New York. She’s with the Times, and guess what, the only reason she’s here is because the man, David Thurman, that we have in custody is represented by her boy toy. There’s already been a leak. We cannot afford one that will drip right into the hands of defense counsel.”
He looked at her as if she was speaking-in-tongues at a church deep in Tennessee.
“Please tell me your department had nothing to do with the media finding out that we had Thurman in custody?”
“We didn’t,” he said, stepping back, “and don’t be accusing—”
“Man, shut the fuck up,” Detective Bald Eagle said. “I’ve had it up to here,”—she bent down and held her hand just above her ankle— “with you. Any higher and I’m going to forget which side you’re on.”
“You two are a really good tandem.” He smirked.
“Look, the last thing any of us needs is to be seen beefing outside of a dead senator’s home with the media recording our every hand gesture, our body language, and possibly recording our faces to later try to read our lips,” Detective McGee said. Turning to face Agent Morgan, she said, “We don’t need misinformation or any information spreading wildly thanks to those dishonest assholes. Just please let us stick to the daily press briefings, where we carefully feed the media what we want the public to know.”