Then there was Bycheck, and the question of why he hadn’tanswered his phone. I didn’t like that one. Memories and pattern-matching, itreminded me of a case maybe fifteen years back, where a police lieutenant hadn’tanswered a call. On duty, he damn well shouldhave answered. When we got there, he was dead.
It had been Kratz that time, too.
So I was looking at a possible dead FBI agent. Now the fecalmatter was really going to hit theair-impeller. You want to stir up a hornets’ nest, kill a cop. We take itpersonal. Even a local, even a badlocal like one of the Podunk Hollow guys, kill one and we’ll all be after yourass. Kill an FBI agent and the Bureau brings in the tanks and artillery. Askthe folks living on the Pine Ridge reservation.
We take it personal, and we don’t forget.
Of course, I was probably jumping to conclusions not justifiedby the facts at hand. Bycheck could have his damned phone turned off. Thebattery could have died. He could have been in a dead zone when Cash calledhim, when I called him. We’ve got enough of those scattered around the citywhere buildings cast radio reflections or shadows. Hell, he could have gottenpissed off at carrying trouble around in his suit pocket and tossed theelectronic pest in the river. I’ve come close. Can’t stand the things.
But none of those possibilities fit the obsessive-compulsiveanal-retentive Bureau Boy profile. Bycheck wasn’t the kind of guy who’d turnoff his cell phone when he was on a case. He probably took it with him into theshower, would answer a call in the middle of screwing his wife.
If he had a wife. Girlfriend? I didn’t know.
I had a bunch of facts and a line of corpses. They didn’t getme any closer to an arrest and conviction, or even to a burning building with arogue mage trapped up on the fourth floor. Going by past experience, that meantsome of my facts weren’t facts. Or I was looking at them from the wrong angle,hooking them together wrong, something.
So I fogged up the office air with used tobacco smoke to thepoint where I was thinking of opening a window. Then fate, the happy bitch,sent in a guy with some answers that didn’t fit, to screw up the case stillfurther. This one knocked on the door, I yelled that it wasn’t locked, and heopened it and stepped inside. Another crew cut, gray this time, another soberbrown suit tailored to hide a holster, my antiquated cop-radar said another FBIman. You get so you can smell them a block away.
“John Patterson? Special agent with the Department ofProfessional Regulation?”
I nodded. This was starting out better than Bycheck’stheatrical grand entry. And he knewabout my maybe-legal badge already. Which meant he had probably talked to Cash.Damn few people knew I had any official standing.
“I’m Richard Black, FBI.”
Suspicion confirmed. But then he pulled out his badge case andoffered a good long look at the ID, close enough to read, and since he wasbeing polite I didn’t ask to hold it and test it for forgery or tampering. Heput it away and waved a question at one of my office chairs. I waved permissionback.
He looked and felt . . . nervous. Or sheepish,or disturbed — something awkward mixed in with a tinge of pissed. Not anattitude I’d ever seen on an FBI man, and he settled himself in the chair anddidn’t say anything for a minute or maybe two. As if he was working out justwhat he was going to say and how to say it. Odd again.
He took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m a regionalsupervisor with the Bureau. Detective Sergeant Cash gave me your name andmentioned that you are working undercover. She also told me you have beenworking on a string of murders, including a diplomatic courier, and that thesemurders are possibly related to a criminal mage named Albert Kratz. A mage whowas supposedly killed ten years ago.”
Curiouser and curiouser. The man was laying out his backgroundas if he was just now finding things out.
He nodded as if he followed my thoughts. “Yes, I’m coming intothis blind. According to the other officers on the case, you’ve had contactswith one of our agents. Janos Bycheck. Obnoxious contacts that includedconfiscating evidence.”
He paused and his face wrinkled into disgust. “First thing, Iapologize for his behavior on behalf of the Bureau. Such behavior is not andhas never been Bureau policy. Agents should always respect local jurisdictionand procedures. We pride ourselves on our cooperation with local police forceseven in clearly federal crimes, such as bank robberies. Agent Bycheck has noexcuse for his actions, and we will take disciplinary action against him.”
Yeah, sure.
He seemed to read my doubt. “More to the point, Agent Bycheckhas not been working on a Bureau case and has not been filing reports andevidence with the Bureau. To make this clear, Agent Bycheck has been on medicalleave for the past three months. Off-duty injuries and surgery — he tore up hisknee playing soccer with his sister’s children. Still in physical therapy andrehab.”
Hence the crutches. So the Bureau was pulling out the “plausibledenial” card and playing it? What had blown up in their faces? News reports?Nosy congressional staffer? The funny thing was, I can usually tell if the manacross from me is lying. Body language and magical aura tell me things, plusthose decades of experience. And I got the sense he was telling the truth. Thetruth as far as he knew it, anyway, which isn’t necessarily the same thing.
So far, I hadn’t said a word since he walked through the door.Sometimes keeping your mouth shut will get you farther than asking questions.That has its limits, though.
I decided to open with a straight shot at police procedure — asubject dear to whatever the Bureau used in place of a heart. “Not filingreports or evidence. That means we’ll never know what was in those papers he tookfrom the airport crime-scene?”
That
