They walked through the precinct doors and stopped.
The bullpen was gone.
Where McGee's desk had been — where she'd sat for a couple of weeks, where she'd briefed Hannah, where they'd talked until past midnight — there was now a row of FBI workstations. Monitors, cables, agents in windbreakers. A big board on the wall with photos, timelines, red string.
Her desk was gone. Her chair was gone.
Someone had set up a coffee station where the filing cabinets used to be.
McGee just stood there. This was her place. Now she was a visitor.
A couple of weeks as a detective, and the system had already erased her. She stood among the FBI workstations, a consultant in her own case, and felt the water close over her head.
She found Fredericks by the new coffee station, holding a paper cup like he didn't know what to do with it.
"Captain." She heard how she sounded — like a kid. "They took my desk. Come on. Where am I supposed to go? What the heck?"
Fredericks looked at her. He looked tired. Like a man who'd been told he wasn't in charge anymore and was trying to be okay with it.
"McGee." He put a hand on her shoulder. "Just find a place to sit. There's going to be a briefing."
That's it. That's all he had.
McGee looked around for a chair that wasn't someone else's. She found one in the back, near the wall. She sat down.
Hannah sat next to her.
---
A man took the front of the room. Late forties, maybe early fifties. Gray hair combed straight back. A suit that cost more than McGee's car. He didn't smile.
"I'm Special Agent Mark Anderson. As of 0600 this morning, the FBI has full jurisdiction over the Fauwks investigation." He looked around the room. His eyes passed over McGee without stopping. "This is now a federal task force. I run it."
He clicked a remote. Photos went up on the big screen.
"Three victims." Kane's office. Walker's bedroom. Daniels on the cross. "All staged. All killed by injection after approximately three hours of conscious paralysis. The suspect calls himself Fauwks. He wears a Guy Fawkes mask."
Click. The ballroom. Rows of bodies in chairs, facing an empty stage.
"Then he changed the game." Anderson's voice didn't change. "Sixty-three donors, gassed at a fundraiser. Senator Mike Langley —" click, the bull outside the stock exchange — "found here."
He let the images sit.
"Three individual murders. Then a mass casualty event. The suspect is escalating. Our job is to stop him before he does it again."
McGee's hands were clenched in her lap. She didn't realize it until she felt Hannah's hand cover hers.
Just a tap. Light. Quick.
Hannah didn't look at her. She was watching Anderson, same as everyone else. But her hand stayed there for a moment.
*You're still here. You're still part of this.*
McGee unclenched her fists.
---
Anderson looked at her. Actually looked at her, for the first time.
"Detective Summers. You spoke to him directly. In the alley. Stand up and tell us what he said."
Every head turned.
McGee stood. Her legs felt unsteady, but her voice didn't.
"He offered me a choice. He said I could arrest him, right there — or I could follow a lead and try to save people. He gave me a riddle. A time, a place." She paused. "I chose the lead."
She told them about the ballroom. The sixty-three bodies. The empty stage. Langley on the bull.
"They were already dead when we got there. There was never a deadline. The gas was released hours before." She looked at Anderson. "It was all a setup. He wasn't trying to kill those people — he already had. He was playing me."
Silence.
Anderson didn't sit down. He looked at McGee — really looked at her.
"Detective. In that situation, everyone in this room would have done exactly what you did. You had a chance to save lives, and you took it. That's not a mistake. That's not your fault."
The room was quiet.
"Thank you," he said. And he meant it.
McGee felt something loosen in her chest. Something she'd been carrying since the ballroom — since she realized she'd been played — started to ease.
She nodded. Couldn't quite speak.
She sat down. Hannah squeezed her hand — this time it said good job.
For the first time all morning, McGee felt like she belonged in the room.
---
Anderson turned back to the board. The moment was over. Back to business.
"Assignments." He pointed to different sections of the room. "Team one — ballroom forensics. I want every fiber, every print, every trace. Team two — the gas. Where did he get it, how did he deploy it, who sold it to him."
He looked at Hannah and McGee.
"Agent Ray. Detective Summers." He tapped Langley's photo. "You're on the senator. Background, connections, schedule, security detail — I want to know how Fauwks got to him and why. Everything."
"Briefing's over," Anderson said. "Move."
The room erupted into motion. McGee stood up — and realized she still didn't have a desk.
She found Hannah by the big board, studying Langley's photo.
"So," McGee said. "The senator."
"Yeah." Hannah didn't look away from the photo. "Let's go to his campaign office. He's got one downtown."
"His staff would know his schedule. Who had access."
"Who knew where he'd be that day." Hannah finally turned. "Come on. Let's go talk to some politicians."
They headed for the door. McGee glanced back at the room — at the FBI agents settling into her bullpen, at Anderson already on the phone.
Then she followed Hannah out.
Chapter 19