for more than a decade of working together. Eisenhower was an excellent administrator who’d never lost the touch of a field man. And he had the confidence to tolerate the idiosyncrasies of a brilliant subordinate, which he knew Broker to be. He’d brought Broker in as a deep undercover, unknown, in the beginning, even to his own investigative unit, answerable only to himself. But he didn’t understand Broker.
John had done his time working undercover. A good undercover man should be able to fool the assholes, who were not thinking too clearly to begin with. But Broker could fool anybody, even very smart people. And he did it by boldly being himself, which is to say, by being blunt as a locked safe. Sometimes John thought Broker was really presenting his true undercover act when he was in an office, like now. And this disquieted John.
Not even scary J.T. Merryweather, who had partnered with Broker in St. Paul, who was as remote and hostile as a man could be, and who was the only human that Broker minimally confided in, knew the whole story behind Phil Broker.
Several years back, in St. Paul, John had asked a sharp, no-nonsense, female FBI psychologist, who had dated Broker, why she thought he was a cop and where he got his style. The woman, who profiled criminal pathology for a living, had obviously thought about this before and took her time responding.
John Eisenhower, who had graduate degrees in criminology and sociology hanging on his wall, was still disturbed and intrigued by her answer, which he remembered almost verbatim: “Broker got stung somewhere in his background and will not discuss it. Period. As to why he’s a cop—that’s easy. Phil’s a fugitive from modern psychology. He’s a romantic primitive who loves to hunt monsters. He expects them. Monsters were in the fairy tales he’d been taught as a child. Grendel in Beowulf was not a victim of domestic abuse or faulty nurturing. He’s a cautionary totemic being, representing evil, greed, violence, and excess. He believes in monsters because only heroes can stop them. So he can’t conceive of living without a weapon and pair of handcuffs in case he encounters one in the checkout line at the grocery.
She’d thrown in a bittersweet spark of intuition: “In a world of monsters, boys can climb the beanstalk and sail for Treasure Island and contend for the hand of a princess. And what are monsters anyway…except adults as seen through the brave eyes of a child.”
The moment passed. Eisenhower resumed his practical gaze and said: “We pulled a background check on the girl. She won a Silver Star and a Purple Heart in the Gulf. So that’s Nina Pryce.”
Broker nodded. “I was in the army with her father.”
Conversation paused a beat. The only thing Eisenhower knew about Broker’s army time was typed in impressive blank verse on his DD214. “Just bad timing, the way she turned up, huh?” he asked, but his eyes said, Broker, you’ve been out there too long running your lone wolf number. The girl was a slip .
He rose to his feet and clapped Broker on the shoulder. “The girl and the thumb threw a funny bounce into things. Your act is blown.”
Broker shrugged. “We’ll see.”
Eisenhower nodded. Decided not to push it. “Get lost, heal up. You going up north?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s your dad doing?”
“Okay.”
“I’ll tell BCA to send your checks to Devil’s Rock. Rodney and his crew were good for thirty machine guns statewide. A new record for you. Good job, Broker.”
Nina and J.T. were waiting in the hall outside the office. Merryweather’s droll sneer approximated a smile. “Day is getting closer. Somebody like John’s going to put you in one of these office chairs, put you back in uniform, put you through die-versity training and get you trampled by the poe-litically correct pygmy armies like the rest of us.”
“I love you too,” said Broker.
“Don’t forget to write.” J.T. blew a kiss. He shook Nina’s
John had done his time working undercover. A good undercover man should be able to fool the assholes, who were not thinking too clearly to begin with. But Broker could fool anybody, even very smart people. And he did it by boldly being himself, which is to say, by being blunt as a locked safe. Sometimes John thought Broker was really presenting his true undercover act when he was in an office, like now. And this disquieted John.
Not even scary J.T. Merryweather, who had partnered with Broker in St. Paul, who was as remote and hostile as a man could be, and who was the only human that Broker minimally confided in, knew the whole story behind Phil Broker.
Several years back, in St. Paul, John had asked a sharp, no-nonsense, female FBI psychologist, who had dated Broker, why she thought he was a cop and where he got his style. The woman, who profiled criminal pathology for a living, had obviously thought about this before and took her time responding.
John Eisenhower, who had graduate degrees in criminology and sociology hanging on his wall, was still disturbed and intrigued by her answer, which he remembered almost verbatim: “Broker got stung somewhere in his background and will not discuss it. Period. As to why he’s a cop—that’s easy. Phil’s a fugitive from modern psychology. He’s a romantic primitive who loves to hunt monsters. He expects them. Monsters were in the fairy tales he’d been taught as a child. Grendel in Beowulf was not a victim of domestic abuse or faulty nurturing. He’s a cautionary totemic being, representing evil, greed, violence, and excess. He believes in monsters because only heroes can stop them. So he can’t conceive of living without a weapon and pair of handcuffs in case he encounters one in the checkout line at the grocery.
She’d thrown in a bittersweet spark of intuition: “In a world of monsters, boys can climb the beanstalk and sail for Treasure Island and contend for the hand of a princess. And what are monsters anyway…except adults as seen through the brave eyes of a child.”
The moment passed. Eisenhower resumed his practical gaze and said: “We pulled a background check on the girl. She won a Silver Star and a Purple Heart in the Gulf. So that’s Nina Pryce.”
Broker nodded. “I was in the army with her father.”
Conversation paused a beat. The only thing Eisenhower knew about Broker’s army time was typed in impressive blank verse on his DD214. “Just bad timing, the way she turned up, huh?” he asked, but his eyes said, Broker, you’ve been out there too long running your lone wolf number. The girl was a slip .
He rose to his feet and clapped Broker on the shoulder. “The girl and the thumb threw a funny bounce into things. Your act is blown.”
Broker shrugged. “We’ll see.”
Eisenhower nodded. Decided not to push it. “Get lost, heal up. You going up north?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s your dad doing?”
“Okay.”
“I’ll tell BCA to send your checks to Devil’s Rock. Rodney and his crew were good for thirty machine guns statewide. A new record for you. Good job, Broker.”
Nina and J.T. were waiting in the hall outside the office. Merryweather’s droll sneer approximated a smile. “Day is getting closer. Somebody like John’s going to put you in one of these office chairs, put you back in uniform, put you through die-versity training and get you trampled by the poe-litically correct pygmy armies like the rest of us.”
“I love you too,” said Broker.
“Don’t forget to write.” J.T. blew a kiss. He shook Nina’s
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