Edge

Aaron Ellis refers to us that way in budgetary hearings, which I find a bit embarrassing, but apparently it plays well on the Hill). The State Department’s Diplomatic Security and the Secret Service guard U.S. officials and foreign heads of state. Witness Protection cloaks the noble or the infamous with new identities and turns them loose in the world. We, on the other hand, handle situations only when there’s an immediate, credible threat against a known principal. We’ve also been called the ER of personal security.
    The criterion is vague but, given limited resources, we tend to take on cases only when the principal is involved in matters like national security—the spy I’d just delivered to the CIA gentlemen yesterday—or public health, such as our job guarding a whistle-blower in an over-the-counter tainted-drug trial last year.
    But the answer became clear when Teasley gave the cop’s bio. “Detective Ryan Kessler, forty-two. Married, one child. He works financial crimes in the district, fifteen years on the force, decorated. . . . You may’ve heard of him.”
    I glanced at my boss, who shook his head for both of us.
    “He’s a hero. Got some media coverage a few years ago. He was working undercover in D.C. and stumbled into a robbery in a deli in North West. Saved the customers but took a slug. Was on the news, and one of those Discovery Channel cop programs did an episode about him.”
    I didn’t watch much TV. But I did understand the situation now. A hero cop being targeted by a lifter like Henry Loving . . . Westerfield saw a chance to be a hero of his own here—marshalling a case against the primary, presumably because of some financial scam Kessler was investigating. Even if the underlying case wasn’t big—though it could be huge—targeting a heroic D.C. police officer was reason enough to end up on Westerfield’s agenda. I didn’t think any less of him because of this; Washington is all about personal as well as public politics. I didn’t care if his career would be served by taking on the case. All that mattered to me was keeping the Kessler family alive.
    And that this particular lifter was involved.
    “Alors,” Westerfield said. “There we have it. Kessler’s been poking his nez where it doesn’t belong. We need to find out where, what, who, when, why. So, let’s get the Kesslers into the slammer fast and go from there.”
    “Slammer?” I asked.
    “Yessir,” Teasley said. “We were thinking Hansen Detention Center in D.C. I’ve done some research and found that HDC has just renovated their alarm systems and I’ve reviewed the employee files of every guard who’d be on the friendly wing. It’s a good choice.”
    “C’est vrai.”
    “A slammer wouldn’t be advisable,” I said.
    “Oh?” Westerfield wondered.
    Protective custody, in a secluded part of a correctional facility, makes sense in some cases but this wasn’t one of them, I explained.
    “Hm,” the prosecutor said, “we were thinking you could have one of your people with them inside, non ? Efficient. Agent Fredericks and you can interview him. You’ll get good information. I guarantee it. In a slammer, witnesses tend to remember things they wouldn’t otherwise. They’re all happy-happy.”
    “That hasn’t been my experience in circumstances like these.”
    “No?”
    “You put somebody in detention, yes, usually a lifter from the outside can’t get in. And”—a nod toward Teasley, conceding her diligent homework—“I’m sure the staff’s been vetted well. With any other lifter, I’d agree. But we’re dealing with Henry Loving here. I know how he works. We put the Kesslers inside, he’ll find an edge on one of the guards. Most of them are young, male. If I were Loving, I’d just find one with a pregnant wife—their first child, if possible—and pay her a visit.” Teasley blinked at my matter-of-fact tone. “The guard would do whatever Loving wanted. And once the family’s inside there’re no escape routes. The Kesslers’d be trapped.”
    “Like petits lapins, ” Westerfield said, though not as sarcastically as I’d expected. He was considering my point.
    “Besides, Kessler’s a cop. We’d have trouble getting him to agree. There could be a half dozen cons he’s put inside HDC.”
    “Where would you stash them?” Westerfield asked.
    I replied, “I don’t know yet. I’ll have to think about it.”
    Westerfield gazed up at the wall too, though I couldn’t