Page 108 of His Wall

Harlow came in last.

She was in a Bureau windbreaker over a navy turtleneck. Her hair was pulled back. She walked the perimeter of the apartment slowly. The bullet hole in the wall behind the couch. The plaster on the floor. The acquisition documents scattered across the coffee table where the lawyer had dropped them when she had hit the wall. The gunman's gun on the floor by the kitchen counter where Leah had kicked it.

She stopped in front of Leah.

Leah was standing at the kitchen counter with her weapon now holstered at her hip and her badge in her left hand at her side. Her chin was a quarter-inch up. Her shoulders were squared. Her gray eyes were on Harlow's face.

She was waiting for the reprimand.

I had been at this firm for ten years and I had stood in front of regulators waiting for reprimands. I knew the posture.

Harlow looked at her for a long second.

"Calder."

"Ma'am."

"You went into a residential structure with a confirmed armed shooter without authorization. Without backup. In direct violation of my order to hold your position. Do you understand the disciplinary review you have triggered?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Do you regret the decision?"

"No, ma'am."

Harlow held her eyes for one more beat.

The corner of her mouth moved. The smallest amount.

"That is the agent I have been waiting to see, Calder."

Leah blinked.

"Ma'am."

"Write it up. Every detail. I want it on my desk by morning. The conduct review will go through channels but the case is clean. The principal is alive. Weiss is in custody. The judge's protective umbrella collapses by morning. You did the job."

She turned to me.

"Mr. Cross. We will need a statement from you tomorrow. Today, technically. Field office at ten."

"I'll be there."

"Good."

She walked out.

The forensic team finished their photographs. The agents at the door coordinated the lobby. The last man out gave me a card with a name on it and said anything else, call me directly. The door closed behind him.

The apartment was quiet.

Leah was in the middle of the living room with her holstered weapon at her hip and her badge in her hand and the half-undone knot of her dark hair and the plaster dust still on the shoulder of her gray sweater.

The vinyl was still spinning. The Goldberg Variations Conrad had put on at one in the morning. I crossed the room. I lifted the needle. The room went silent.

I turned around.

She had not moved.