I sat at my desk and stared at that sheet of copy paper in itsplastic envelope. There was no point in taking it to the lab — I knew damn wellthat Kratz wouldn’t have left fingerprints on it, little good they would havedone us without his body to match them to, or distinctive fibers from the onlyrug-weaver in the country who used platypus fur in his work. Female platypusfur, the kind of unique clue that TV cops tease out of the evidence in thefinal ten minutes of the show, just before the car chase and the explosions andthe final shoot-out with a couple-dozen civilians in the line of fire.
If you’re panting for that fast-paced dramatic ending, you’llhave to wait a while longer. Real cop work takes time and includes longstretches of dull between adrenaline rushes. Must be nice to wrap up a case andtie a bow on it in a guaranteed sixty minutes minus commercial time. BesidesKratz, I still had at least five other big cases from my years on the force,hanging over my head. Three of them, we knew who had done it but couldn’t bringproof to court. The other two left us totally in the dark. That doesn’t countthe cases we took to trial and lost, perps back on the street. . . .
Then Bycheck walked through my door, gimped through it,rather, metal crutches squeaking with each step, and added himself to the tideof joy. He wore a different suit this morning, charcoal gray like a funeraldirector, but the same haircut and the same arrogance.
“Why didn’t you call me about that airport killing?”
“Not in my job description. You were notified.”
“You owe me a report.”
I sat and glared up at him, mixing and matching words in myhead and then throwing away nine out of every ten. Verbs and nouns andadjectives, mostly rude. I finally came up with some I could use. “Even if I did work for you personally, which I don’t,or for the FBI or someone else in your web of secrets, which I don’t, I don’thave anything to report. You have all the evidence I have. More than I have. What was John Doe carrying before he ended updead in a warehouse, and from where to where?”
“Classified information.”
“He was carryingclassified information, or you just don’t feel like giving me the necessaryclues to do my job?”
Bycheck glared back. You’d think, working where communicationsand precise meaning could make the difference between life and death, the mancould form and articulate a coherent sentence. I glanced back at thatclosed-circuit camera in the corner, just a reminder in case he planned to comeout with an unseemly word or two.
Then he spotted that plastic envelope on my desk. He crutchedcloser and read it, upside down, his face turning purple when he reached theprinted signature. He grabbed for it, and I swatted his hand, just by accidenthitting that nerve-point between two bones on the back of the palm that makes yourfingers turn cold and refuse to work and sends tingles all the way up to yourshoulder.
Judging by his face, if he couldhave made his hand work at that instant, it would have been grabbing for hisweapon. I pulled the envelope out of reach and pointed at the camera again.
“Search warrant, Agent Bycheck? Court order?”
He really should have kept better watch on his blood pressure.Heart attack or stroke, they kill wizards all the time.
“That’s evidence in a murder case. Two murder cases. You haveto hand it over to a law-enforcement officer.”
I reached inside my tweed jacket, making his hand twitchtoward his holster again, and pulled out my badge case and flipped it open onthe desk. He froze in mid-twitch. He stared, reading the badge, reading the ID.I swear, the look on his face was worth getting drafted by Cash’s boss.
He sputtered for a moment and then finally took a deep breathand let it out. “Why didn’t you show me that the first time?”
“You were too busy being an asshole.” No, I didn’t say that. Ithought it. I didn’t tell him that I hadn’t hada badge the last time, either. That ID carried a date that matched my “retirement”and private wizard’s license. I’d checked. Cash paid attention to details, oneof the things that made her a good cop, would make her a great cop when she gotthe years behind her.
What I did say, the Devil made me do it, “You weren’t on theneed-to-know list.”
Dealing with the Bureau Mind, I bet that hurt worse than beingcalled an asshole. He turned even redder. Blood-pressure again, he needed topractice meditation or medication, one or the other. Or both. He swallowedwords for a while before blinking and then glaring at me.
“Where’d you get that note?”
I told him, just saying that I had a private client, unrelatedto the case and therefore privileged. I told him about the earlier trip, andKratz and that propane truck, and he just about spit nails and broken glass allover my carpet. Apparently he didn’t read newspapers or the cop wire. Sure mademe wonder just what kind of Bureau agent could be so out of touch. Anyway, thatreinforced my earlier reading that he wasn’t working under the local FBIoffice.
“I ordered you to report anything.”
“Take it up with my boss. I’m operating under deep cover, andyou don’t strike me as a good security risk.”
Baiting him and ad-libbing in the same breath, I was enjoyingmyself. I had to take my entertainment where I could find it. The rest of thecase wasn’t offering any. At that point, Bycheck turned calm, icy calm, and Idecided I had probably reached the limit.
“Who’s this girlfriend he’s threatening?”
I gave him Sandy’s name and address and phone number. “Sheprobably won’t be back in town until this evening. Just a little suggestion —she has the same background I do, ex-cop forensic wizard. You’ll rile her upjust as fast if you don’t work on your social skills. Believe me, you don’twant to get that girl mad.”
He didn’t like my advice, either.
