North of Montana

shirt and tie, no matter what the occasion or weather, giving rise to rumors of tracheotomies and bullet wounds and cancer scars.… But he still smokes cigars so either he’s got a death wish or, like the rest of us, he holds out for being a maverick in his own way.

It is ten thirty and below us the blocky low cityscape of Los Angeles is lit by a dazzling milky white haze that will burn off to clear skies and seventy-five degrees by noon. By coincidence Duane and I are both wearing navy blue suits with white shirts, which makes us look like a pair of airline reservation clerks.

On the coffee table there are souvenirs of Galloway’s days in New York City, including a model of the Statue of Liberty and a four-inch oval brass seal of NYPD Detective Division.

Galloway picks it up and worries it in his hand. I ask what it’s for.

“It’s a belt buckle. They couldn’t afford to give me the whole belt.”

He refers to a file on his lap. He has come around the desk, management style, positioning himself near us to show we are all equal, comfortably sitting with legs crossed, an unlit cigar between his teeth.

“Going back to this bust at the bank … it looks like Ana did quite a noteworthy thing. She ascertained there was a felony in progress, single-handedly isolated and subdued the subject so that he could be arrested without incident by LAPD.… And then”—he shakes his head and laughs—“the schmuck turns out to be good for six other robberies!”

He laughs and laughs. He laughs until he coughs and turns red in the face.

Duane Carter is not even smiling. He is leveling that eerie killer look at Galloway. I remember Donnato telling me about their rivalry and feel a chill, wondering if Galloway feels it, too.

“Special Agent Grey failed to call for backup assistance, thereby endangering herself and the public,” says Duane.

Galloway wipes his eyes. “You’re right. Calling in a 211 in progress would have been the approved procedure.”

His arm is dropped over the side of the chair but he’s still holding the heavy belt buckle, fingering it with implacable cool. They are locked on to each other now.

“He’s right on a technicality.” I am swinging my leg impatiently. “He’s not right to deny me a transfer because—”

“I said at the beginning that you both have a point,” Galloway interrupts sharply. “Stop pouting, Ana, it’ll give you worry lines and you’re much too young and pretty.”

He raises his eyebrows, daring me to call him on it. Instead I take a cue from his own behavior and laugh. More of a snort, actually, but at least I’m not pouting.

“I’m going to allow Duane’s addendum to stand.”

Meaning it will be a part of my personal file forever. Other people down the line will read it, not know the facts, and assume I screwed up. The unfairness of it propels me to my feet.

“That is just plain wrong!”

“Nobody says you have to agree.”

“I don’t agree. I disagree in the strongest terms and I’m certain the EEOC will back me up.”

I stop breathlessly. The power has shifted with dizzying speed. Now they’re both watching me, secure in their chairs, while I’m stamping my foot in the middle of the room.

The worst of it is Duane Carter looking at me with pity.

“Well, if you’d calm down and cool out,” Galloway continues, “I’ll tell you the rest of my decision.”

I back down into the chair.

“I’m going to let the addendum stand … but I am also going to approve Ana’s request for transfer.”

“Excuse me,” says Duane, “but ain’t that just the teensiest bit disingenuous? How can you do both?”

“I’m approving Ana’s transfer on a contingency basis. If after a trial period it looks like she can handle it, then we’ll go ahead and move her up to Kidnapping and Extortion.”

“What a complete pile of steaming horseshit.”

In my opinion it is a masterly compromise.

“What’s the contingency?” I ask eagerly.

Galloway gets up and goes back to the desk, puts the half-chewed cigar in an ashtray with two other soggy butts.

“I’m going to put you on a drug case. See how you do.”

I’m leaning forward in my chair ready to jump up and sprint for it, whatever it is.

“This came to me through the Director’s office. It’s what they call ‘high profile.’ ”

I can’t tell if Galloway is smiling because he’s giving me a gift or because he finds the words “high profile” particularly amusing, worthy of an ironic twist. In the meantime, Duane’s face is turning so dark it is almost the color of his navy blue suit.

“Jayne Mason is alleging that her physician got her addicted to prescription drugs.”

There is a moment of stupefied silence. We were expecting Colombians, Mexicans, Crips, and Bloods.

“You’d have to be on Mars not to know Jayne Mason was in and out of the Betty Ford Center,” Galloway continues. “Well, now she claims she’s an addict because of this shyster M.D. named Eberhardt.”

Duane: ‘What’s the Bureau’s jurisdiction?”

“She claims the drugs he gave her came from Mexico.” Galloway tosses a file at me.

“Mighty thin,” observes Duane.

“Look at Title 18 of the Federal Code, Drug Abuse Prevention, or maybe 21, Wrongful Distribution.”

I am speechless.

I know perfectly well that I am obligated to tell the Special Agent in Charge immediately of my conflict of interest concerning this case. That my alleged cousin, who died under mysterious circumstances, worked for this very Dr. Eberhardt.

“Sounds like a case of medical fraud to me,” Duane persists, “which would put it under the jurisdiction of the White Collar Crime Squad, am I wrong?”

“Like I said before,” Galloway repeats sternly, “this came from the Director’s office.”

He has made the political significance clear to both of us.

“I will handle it with discretion.”

“Fuck discretion,” Galloway grunts. “Just get to the fucking bottom of this so I can appear halfway fucking intelligent.”

We file out. Duane is already through the doorway when Galloway touches my shoulder lightly. I turn. The cigar is back in his mouth.

“There’s no reason to file that lawsuit now, am I right?”

“I think you’ve been very fair.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Duane is waiting for me in the hall.

“Prestige case,” I say, tossing my hair.

“Dog case,” he replies with a great big happy smile and strolls away.

It doesn’t matter what Duane Carter thinks, this is my chance to advance a dozen squares on the achievement chart or even rocket off the chart — Jayne Mason, it has to be big — and the fact that I have prior knowledge of the players involved has pivoted in my mind from being a conflict of interest to an incredible advantage.

I am thinking about that day in the alley behind the orthopedic office when I saw Jayne Mason and the accused doctor together. She was dressed in red, breaking out of his grasp, striding toward the limousine. Now I remember something else. A fanciful detail. The doctor had been holding a rose. A yellow rose on a long stem. After the limo disappeared, he tossed the rose into the trash and the heavy door snapped shut behind him.

NINE