Don't Know Jack Read Online Free PDF Page B

Gaspar.
    “You’re killing me, boss,” Gaspar said.
    Brent left, and Roscoe said, “OK, you made a friend there. Mission accomplished. Nicely done. But I’m older and wiser. How can I help you?”
    No one spoke, and Brent brought the coffee and donuts and left again, closing the door quietly behind him. Kim lifted her mug and took a deep, appreciative whiff before she sipped and held on for a second sip.
    “How can I help you?” Roscoe asked again.
    “This is great coffee,” Kim said, still stalling. She flashed through what she knew about Roscoe, searching for a non-threatening opening.
    Gaspar picked the wrong one.
    He asked, “You got kids?”
    The question pushed Roscoe’s hot button. Kim saw it happen. Roscoe’s carotid pulse thumped hard on the side of her neck. Kim counted twenty-five beats in ten seconds, 120 beats a minute. Fast, like she was sprinting toward a fire.
    Professional tone steady, Roscoe said, “Look, if you’re going to be in town a while, you can take me out for a drink after work one day and try your very best bonding techniques. But until then, I’m busy, as I believe I mentioned. So don’t try to butter me up. If you’ve got some bad news, just hop right to it, OK?”
    Kim responded before Gaspar could jump the rails again. She said, “This is not a law enforcement visit, Chief. We’re hoping you can give us some direction, that’s all. Because we don’t know where to start, actually. We’re looking for information.”
    As bland as possible, just a favor, one officer to another.
    Roscoe asked, “What kind of information do you need?”
    Kim saw wariness in those big, dark eyes. Pulse still pounding. But tone not so hostile. Maybe a little progress.
    “Agent Gaspar and I are assigned to the FBI Specialized Personnel Task Force.”
    “Which is what?”
    Roscoe’s pulse slowed a few beats. Kim counted twenty in ten seconds. Still rapid, but better. Like calming any wild thing, Kim sought to lull through non-threatening routine. Since 9/11, law enforcement personnel never resisted any halfway plausible FBI request, whether they understood its basis or not. Few outside the agency knew its inner workings or expected transparency in the relentless war on terror.
    “We conduct candidate background investigations. It’s our job to build the file. Supplement sketchy records. Get a clear picture. So the folks upstairs can make informed decisions.”
    “I was asking what kind of specialized personnel you’re dealing with.”
    Still wary. Had this woman been burned before?  Kim counted fifteen pulse beats in ten seconds. Better.
    “Potential candidates to serve in situations where no current FBI expertise exists.”
    “Such as?”
    Roscoe was pressing harder than cops usually did. Kim might have done the same, but only if she had something to hide. She said, “I can’t speak for the entire SPTF, but I’ve worked up files for interpreters of uncommon languages, for example. Or forensic accountants in niche businesses. Or scientists who can identify obscure chemicals. Things that don’t require permanent expertise inside the bureau.”
    “Routine, then.”
    “Mostly.”
    Roscoe nodded. She didn't ask why the FBI had failed to make an appointment to see her. There should have been an appointment, if the meeting was routine. Instead she said, “I gather these candidates don’t have security clearances already?”
    Which was an astute question. Reacher had a security clearance once, according to his file. Beverly Roscoe and Lamont Finlay had one, too. As did Daniel Trent, Roscoe’s husband, for that matter.
    “Usually not,” Kim replied. She watched the pulse in Roscoe’s neck now at a steady five to six beats in ten seconds. Resting pulse rate lower than fifty-five under normal conditions. Good for a woman of Roscoe’s age.
    As a test, Kim added, “When an existing security clearance is available, it makes our job easier, of course. Then all we need to do is