He wanted to hurt them.
They stood in Marilyn Polanski’s kitchen, the five of them, away from the civilians and Donovan’s team. The two unknowns had been introduced as Crow and Panitch-both, as Donovan had suspected, from D.C. They looked like twins, with their close-cropped haircuts and charcoal gray suits. Pursuant to departmental mandate, they oozed superiority.
“And I assure you,” Robledo went on, “we aren’t here to muck up this investigation.”
Muck? Donovan thought. Who the hell says muck? “Then why are you here?”
Doyle took his turn. “We’ve given you a lot of leeway, Jack. Let you run with the ball even when there was a clear conflict of interest.”
“Conflict of interest?” Donovan said, his voice rising. “Is that what you’re calling this?”
Now Crow chimed in. “With all due respect, Agent Donovan, there’s no need to be argumentative.”
Donovan turned. “How’s this for argumentative?” he said. “Fuck you.”
Then he lost control.
Grabbing Crow by the lapels, he jerked him forward. Crow’s eyes got big and the others were on top of Donovan in a flash, hands locking on to his arms, dragging him toward a chair, Robledo shouting, “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” as Donovan struggled to break free.
They sat him down, hard, the chair groaning beneath him, and somewhere in that moment he found his balance and immediately stopped struggling.
“All right, all right!” he said. “I’m okay.”
They released him, breathing hard, suits rumpled, ties askew.
Crow carefully straightened his jacket, then cleared his throat. “Feeling better now?”
Donovan looked up at him. “Why don’t you ask Sidney? He seems to have a pretty good handle on my state of mind.”
Quick glances around the room.
“I think you’ve already answered any questions we might have,” Crow said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Now Panitch spoke up, delivering what sounded like a well-rehearsed speech. “The bureau has specific standards and procedures, Agent Donovan, and you’ve violated a number of them. First, you assault a suspect, then a police officer, then you drive so recklessly you almost get yourself killed-”
Not almost, Donovan thought.
“-and now you attack a superior officer. We understand that you’re under a lot of stress. Anyone in your position would be-which is why we’re willing to overlook a few transgressions. But policy clearly dictates that we do what we should have done hours ago and remove you from this case.”
“In short,” Crow said, delivering the final, unnecessary blow, “you’re relieved of your command until further notice.”
The four men braced themselves for Donovan’s reaction, but he surprised them by not reacting at all. He just sat there, numb.
So there it was.
He’d known this was coming. Had known it even before he saw them getting out of their car. Before Waxman had taken it upon himself to call them.
And none of it mattered.
Did they really think that relieving him of his command would make a difference? He was a father first, a federal agent second-a sentiment he might not have agreed with a couple of months ago. Now, there was no doubt about it, and shunting him aside would not keep him from doing what had to be done.
“I know this is tough,” Doyle said, putting a hand on Donovan’s shoulder, face full of brotherly concern. “Nobody likes to do this to a fellow agent. But you’ve got to have faith in us. We have people coming in from all over the country to help us find your daughter. You’re not alone by any stretch of-”
“Shut up, Alan,” Donovan said. “Do us all a favor and just shut the fuck up.”
He was on the sidewalk and halfway to the car when Waxman caught up to him. “Jack, wait.”
“I’ve got nothing to say to you, Sidney.”
“You think I wanted this?”
“I don’t know what to think,” Donovan said, picking up speed. “Congratulations on your new command.”
“Come on, Jack, that isn’t fair and you know it.”
Donovan stopped, turned. “Fuck fair, Sidney. Who gives a damn about fair?” He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. “My daughter’s missing and all these chowderheads care about are a couple of bullshit procedural violations.”
“They’re just following protocol.”
“You think that makes it go down any smoother? I don’t exactly get off on being looked at like I’m some kind of freak.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m sure you all got a nice big laugh over Wacky Jacky’s adventures on the other side.”
“Jesus Christ,” Waxman said. “You think I’m that big of a fool? Tell ’em something like that and they’ll be sizing us both up for straitjackets.”
Donovan glared at him, then continued toward the car.
Waxman moved after him. “Jack, come on.”
Donovan reached the driver’s door, threw it open, and climbed in. Waxman caught it before he could close it. “What do you want from me? You want me to say I’m sorry? Then I’m sorry.”
Donovan looked up at him. “Screw the apologies.”
“What, then?”
“It’s simple. Either you bend a few of their precious rules and work with me, or you waste another twenty- four hours getting jerked off by a bunch of desk jockeys who couldn’t find their asses in a bathtub with two flashlights and a pair of goggles.” He started the engine. “The choice is yours.”
Waxman sighed. Donovan knew he was considering the effect this might have on his career, but he wasn’t sure what the problem was. This was about Jessie. Either you do the right thing or you don’t.
He was about to give up on him when Waxman sighed again and said, “I suppose you have some plan of action in mind?”
Donovan killed the engine. “Don’t I always?”
41
'Mr. Nemo?”
The guy behind the glass was either a spic or a Jew, Nemo couldn’t figure which. He was short, had a faggy little goatee and wire-rim glasses. When Nemo took a closer look, he’d swear there was a bit of slant to the eyes behind them.
The guy was a mutt, no doubt about it, but that didn’t matter. Nemo wouldn’t trust him if he was Idaho white.
It was close to 6 p.m. on Nemo’s second day in custody and they were sitting in the reception room of the U.S. marshals’ lockup, where he’d been staying ever since that crazy motherfucker Donovan had stuck a gun up his nose.
The reception room wasn’t particularly receptive-a couple rows of cubbyholes that faced each other with a giant window of safety glass between them. Prisoner and visitor spoke over phones, a scene Nemo had watched at least a hundred different times on television-and replayed a few himself.
The guy behind the glass was waiting for a response. When he didn’t get one, he said, “You are Robert Nemo, aren’t you?”
“You asked for me, didn’t you?”
“Uh, yes. Yes, I did.”
