“Some things are human nature,” I said. “The urge to protect those you work with.”
“Sure, it’s a fair concern.”
I waited to see if he would say more. After a moment, he did.
“How about this?” he suggested. “You keep the case with your team, but have your finger on speed dial. My number specifically.”
I was surprised by this response, which only made me more convinced that Kemp was also concerned someone in his organization might tip off a weapons company.
“Okay,” I said. “Call you before it heats up?”
“Not a minute too late,” Kemp said. “Can I trust you on that?”
“Absolutely.”
“When you ring me, I’ll have an agent ready.”
“And if it turns out there’s a domestic manufacturer involved?”
“If it’s S&W or Remington?” Kemp shrugged. “Congress is gonna shit a purple Twinkie. Convene hearings and drag their execs in. But there’s foreign companies making guns here, too. German subsidiaries. Czech firms.”
“And if the whispers turn out to be nothing?”
“If you’re satisfied, and I am, too? Then no harm, no foul. I’m not angry about spending a few hours on this.”
When we finished, Kemp offered me a ride to the airport. As he drove, he asked about my mother’s status; Poulton must’ve informed him.
“You got other family?” he followed up.
I was sure Kemp had done reconnaissance on me, and it didn’t take much work to find out that I had sent my own wife away, a woman whose father was a legendary federal agent.
“I’m divorced,” I said. “One daughter.”
He pulled up to the curb at Dulles. “Well, let’s keep the next generation safe. If anything comes up, you text me direct, y’hear? Not a minute too late.”
I nodded and thanked him for the ride. Then grabbed a flight to Gainesville, where I took an Uber to the Shilo police station twentymiles away. It was 8:45 p.m., and Camila’s bedtime was approaching fast. I called her, walking through the parking lot as we spoke.
“Where are you?” my daughter asked.
“A small town,” I said. “An hour from my old office.”
“Are you coming home?”
“Not tonight,” I said.
It was Thursday, and Camila’s science fair was the following night. She hadn’t yet asked if I’d be back in time, but with our current case volume, the answer didn’t look good.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“ReadingRamona,” she said. “Grandma says if I read three chapters, we can do karaoke.”
Camila had read the Beverly ClearyRamonabooks when she was five, and I knew they were comfort food more than hard reading.
“What are you going to sing?” I asked.
“Pfft,” she said as if the answer was obvious. “Taylor.”
“And your nana?”
