Page 87 of Secret Service

While he’s upstairs, I move to the foyer. I flip the switch for the light over the stairs, but it stays dark. There’s sunlight brightening the space this time, enough for me to see that the bulb is intact.

Sheridan comes down like a herd of elephants. He’s got a spare suit, boxers, and a T-shirt crumpled in one hand. He’s red, though, flushed from his neck to his ears.Does he know his memory card is missing?

“Boost me up so I can reach the light bulb. And give me your boxers.”

He goes an even darker shade of maroon as he passes me a pair of plaid boxers and then bends his knee to make a step. When I climb on him, he grabs my leg behind my knee, anchoring me against his shoulder.

His boxers cover my hand as I unscrew the light bulb. My guess was right—it was already half out of the socket.

“Bring me down. Can you find a pencil? A wood one, not mechanical.”

He sets off with a nod and returns a minute later brandishing a pencil with the eraser chewed off.

Henry smokes cigars on his patio, and even though the patio is destroyed, his lighter is right where he left it, on the brick casing surrounding the window.

“Hold this.”

Sheridan takes back his boxers and the light bulb like he’s holding a baby bird.

He’s silent as I set the pencil on fire, burning away the wood until all that’s left is the graphite core. I blow away the last of the flames and shake off the charcoal, then grind the graphite until I have a pile in my palm. Voilà, homemade fingerprint dust.

I tell him how to hold the bulb by the threads and spin it as I shake the dust over the glass. He listens and follows my directions exactly.

We both see it at the same time: a fingerprint, perfectly captured on the side of the bulb, right where someone would squeeze if they were unscrewing it from the socket. It’s too sharp to be old. This is fresh. Brand new.

“Holy shit,” Sheridan breathes.

There’s only one reason for this bulb alone in the whole house to be half-unscrewed: someone wanted to keep the entryway dark.

If anyone arrived while whoever was tossing Henry’s place was still around, a dark foyer at the bottom of the stairs would be a perfect kill zone.

“Call Detective Hudson from Uniformed. I need him out here immediately. Tell him to bring his M-RID and come alone.”

* * *

Hudson showsup in less than twenty minutes. He had to have come code three from headquarters, but when he pulls into the neighborhood, his unmarked cruiser is quiet and the red-and-blues are off. He pulls in behind my SUV in a blocking maneuver, penning us into Henry’s drive.

Sheridan and I are sitting on the tailgate. I’ve ditched my suit jacket and dress shirt, and I’m down to the old T-shirt I kept in the bottom of my locker, the one that’s too snug after too many runs through the wash. Sheridan’s jacket is off, his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and the top two buttons of his dress shirt are open. His balled-up tie is shoved in his pants pocket.

“What’s this all about?” Hudson asks, standing inside the V of his open driver’s door with his arms propped on the frame. Wariness pulses from him.

I don’t blame him for that. In his shoes, I wouldn’t trust me right now, either. The rumors must be running hot and heavy through the ranks, especially after my closed-door chewing out with Vice President Marshall.

“In a few minutes, we’re going to report a break-in at a Secret Service PPD agent’s residence. We’ll need a full uniformed response.”

“Uh-huh. This break-in, it wouldn’t have been done by the two of you, would it?”

“No. We have a lead on who it was, though.” I hold up the graphite-covered bulb. In the sunlight, the fingerprint is like a crater on the moon: obvious, huge, and almost textbook-perfect. “Someone loosened it on their way in. Did you bring your M-RID?”

Hudson nods. He still doesn’t move. His fingers move over each other as he purses his lips.

If I need to, I’ll take the M-RID from him by force.

Hudson isn’t a bad guy. He’s in a shit position right now, and that’s my fault. I’m putting him in the jam and turning the screws. Either he disobeys a superior officer, or he rolls the dice when it comes to the congressional inquiry. How much loyalty do I have from my people?

Hudson pops his trunk and slams his door. He grabs what looks like a laptop bag and brings it to the SUV, setting it between Sheridan and me.

While the M-RID boots up, Hudson processes the print. He takes photos from every angle, enough to digitally reconstruct it, if necessary, then transfers the print onto clear stickyback. He’s a pro, and he gets a clean, clear transfer on his first try.

---