out.
I noticed he was wearing a different suit. So while I'd been doing sing-alongs with Barry Manilow and writing my name on the carpet, this jerk-off had been at home resting up.
'I will give you some advice,' Agent Nix said in a reasonable, but bland voice. 'Tell us everything you know. Hold nothing back. You are at the beginning of a dangerous adventure. How it ends is going to be entirely up to you.' Then he favored me with a sleepy-eyed half smile.
'I really need to go to the can,' I said.
'Come on.'
He turned and I had a weak moment where I was tempted to kick his skinny butt up between his ears. But I held off. It was a good thing I did, because two identically shaped androids were waiting in the hall just out of sight.
The four of us marched down the corridor toward the men's room. I saw a window. It was dark outside. We'd been picked up at 9 A. M. and sunset was four-thirty, so doing the math, I'd been here a minimum of eight hours.
After I used the facilities and washed up, I followed Agent Nix to a large set of double doors on the east end of the building. He led me inside a huge office, with an acre of snow-white, cut-pile carpet under expensive antique mahogany furniture. The U. S. and California State flags flanked each side of a Victorian desk big enough to play Ping-Pong on.
I'd seen the man standing in the center of the room waiting for me before, but only on television. He was in his late fifties, tall and handsome, with silver hair and a patrician bearing. He was flanked by two assistants-gray men with pinched faces. Everyone wore crisp white shirts, and a blue or a red tie. Patriotism.
'I'm Robert Allen Virtue, head of California Homeland Security,' the tall, handsome man said. 'I hope this hasn't inconvenienced you too much.'
'Only if you don't like Barry Manilow,' I replied.
Chapter 27
I waited a few feet inside the plush office and tried to work out a good strategy to use on this guy.
Robert Allen Virtue was a political heavyweight who was chosen by the governor of the state of California and anointed by the U. S. Secretary of Homeland Security. He had a law degree from Princeton and dangerous connections in the political community.
I, on the other hand, was a Detective III in a city police department with a junior college education. My only dangerous connections were a sorry bunch of dirt bags I'd put in jail. Adding to my dilemma was a pile of anger I didn't quite know what to do with. Survival instincts told me Robert Virtue was not a profitable adversary for me. He could sink me with one torpedo.
'I'm sorry for the long wait,' he said, equitably. 'I was in Sacramento and couldn't get down here before now.'
He pointed to a chair that had a black briefcase on it. 'Just move that case and have a seat,' he said.
'I'd prefer to stand.'
'I'd like you to sit. Please,' he said sternly, as if even this small challenge to his will was annoying to him.
I decided to save my shots and not get into it over trivial bullshit. I picked up the briefcase, which was surprisingly heavy, put it on the floor beside the chair and sat.
'Where are Detectives Broadway and Perry?' I asked.
'For now, let's stick to you.'
'Alright. What do I have to do with Homeland Security? I'm a homicide detective working a serial murder.'
'There are things going on in this world that would appall even you, and I'm sure you've seen your share of atrocities. A life-or-death espionage game is being played in the streets of most major U. S. cities every day. In Los Angeles we have one of the most vigorous contests. Unfortunately, you got mixed up in this because someone in the foreign intelligence community elected to hide a political killing in your grisly serial murder case.'
He crossed to his desk and picked up a blue LAPD folder. I recognized it as a Professional Standards Bureau file with my name on the cover. Under Title 2 of the Police Bill of Rights, that folder, which contained all the complaints ever filed against me, was a confidential document and could only be accessed with my written permission. He set it down without mentioning it, just showing it to me to let me know he could cut right through my wall of rights anytime he chose.
'You are to turn the Andrazack killing over to me, and agree to no longer pursue it. He's not in your murder case. He was an alien intelligence officer in this country illegally, who also had a high threat assessment rating.'
Virtue seemed to know all about my investigation. I only ID'd Andrazack twelve hours ago, and the identification was supposed to be under a CTB Cone of Silence. I couldn't help but wonder how he came by his information.
'Mr. Virtue, excuse me, but despite the dead man's nationality or illegal immigration status, I don't think my bosses will want this investigation removed from the Fingertip case. It's certainly possible that he could have stumbled into the wrong place and was targeted by our unsub. Beyond that, the man was murdered in Los Angeles. Shot in the head, mutilated, then dumped into the L. A. River. That certainly makes it a city case. If it's not going to be worked by LAPD, who's going to handle it?'
'I will,' he said, and gave me his warm political smile, acting as if he had just decided we were going to be buddies after all.
'You will,' I repeated. 'Personally?'
'Well, not personally, but I'll put someone from the local office of the FBI on it.'
'Excuse me again, sir, but the Bureau doesn't have jurisdiction. Since this is an L. A. street crime, Homicide Central represents a better option.'
Now he was getting frustrated. 'Homeland Security and the FBI will take the case as a matter of national security,' he said flatly.
'I see. Okay, well, then I'll need to hear that from my supervisor. I can't just walk away from an active case I've been assigned to. Somebody from my division has to give me the nod.'
Virtue had again picked up the blue folder and was tapping that Bad Boy file on his fingertips letting me know what an asshole he thought I was being. 'Let me make that call then. Excuse me.'
He turned and walked into an alcove where there was a secure communications hookup. A big black box scrambler sat next to a digital phone. He dialed a number.
While he talked softly into the instrument, I made a little trip over to his I Love Me wall. A mahogany-framed plaque announced his graduation from Princeton. Another frame displayed his graduation diploma from the FBI Academy at Quantico. He'd been in the January class of '68. I remembered hearing that Virtue was once a Cold War warrior for the FBI. There were fifty or more pictures of R. A. Virtue shaking hands with world leaders, national sports celebrities, actors, and U. S. politicians. I saw shots of him standing with President Jacques Chirac in Paris and with former USSR President Brershnev in Lenin Square. There was one of him with Jimmy Carter in an African village, surrounded by children with distended bellies. I moved further down the wall where a few big-game shots were displayed. Guys with two-day growths wearing fur-lined vests, smiled vacantly at the camera with large bore rifles broken open over Pendleton sleeves. All of them were grinning proudly while some freshly slain longhorn sheep or elk looked into camera with that same startled look you find on old people in wedding pictures. In one of these shots I saw a narrow-shouldered man with orange hair. I leaned closer.
Agent Underwood of da motherfucking FBI.
'Okay, your chief and the head of your Detective Bureau, whom I'm told is also your wife, are on the way over,' Virtue said as he reentered the room. 'Apparently they want to do this in person so they can get a case transfer form signed for legal reasons. You can wait in the outer office.'
I exited into the waiting room and sat on a chintz sofa, fuming while picking imaginary lint off my jacket. The
