There was that cell phone again. Looked like even the Bureaucouldn’t track it down. Dead, or shielded.
I assumed Cash had already told him about the Reverend Fred case.At least, as much as she could without getting her ass chewed ragged and thenfired by the governor himself, up close and personal.
“Do you have any idea whyBycheck would be mucking up our cases?”
“Only a partial answer.” He looked relieved to have a questionhe could handle. “Agent Bycheck was a member of a church affiliated with . . .your case yesterday. You gave Sergeant Cash a theory connecting the threecrimes. I find that connection plausible.”
I lifted my eyebrows at that. I didn’t know how far up SpecialAgent Richard Black perched in the pecking order at the Bureau. He wasn’t amage, I could feel that, and he looked old for a field agent, which meant hecould be very high indeed. I wasn’t used to getting my wild-ass guessesconfirmed by Heap Big Chief in Washington. Or even Heap Big Chief’s mid-levelbureaucratic Indians.
If the Bureau was feeling contrite, or at least embarrassed,literally, their asses bare in public. “Can you tell me what that diplomaticcourier was carrying, or at least what country hired him?”
“The courier worked for the Bulgarian diplomatic corps. Hisbosses are not being . . . cooperative. Won’t even tell us if hewas on an official mission, or was using his diplomatic cover and passport forsome third party. That happens. I believe you have encountered this problempersonally in your work.”
So he’d done his research before coming over here. If he’d just been clued in on this, heworked fast. He’d checked my file and found the records of that incident withthe embassy-plate car and the “diplomatic pouch” of uncut heroin. I wonderedwhat else the Bureau file said about me. Probably better off not knowing.
I decided to act diplomatic, no matter what doubts lingered inthe back of my head. Pissing this guy off wouldn’t help me. It wouldn’t evenentertain me, not like jerking Bycheck’s chain. I swiveled my chair around topoint at the video camera up by the corner ceiling.
“Bycheck was in here twice. I’ll have copies of the twoso-called interviews burned to DVD and sent to you for your use. Should I sendthem to the local FBI office, or to some other address?”
“Local office would be fine. You could send them throughemail, if you wish.”
I let him see what I thought of that. Still, getting the localBureau office involved would bringthis out of the shadows. “No, I think I’ll have read-only discs made andmailed. Without a return address. Too difficult to mask the source of a largedownload like that. My security service likes their privacy.”
He shook his head, not happy but not arguing. “I’ll tell theagents to look out for a suspicious package. We don’t like getting anonymous mail, but we have procedures for it. Haveto.”
I grinned at him. I couldn’t help it. I’ve had some touchycontacts with the FBI over the years, I’ve mentioned a few of them, and gettingthe Bureau over the barrel could pretty much make my day. But he was beingnice, so I decided to behave. Maybe just to prove I could.
“Look, I don’t have any evidence or files. Cash and the localforce keep those. I’m just consulting on this, because I’m the institutionalmemory on Kratz and a case we thought was closed, and you seem to have my bestguesses up to this morning. I’ll pass along any inspiration that hits me. Localoffice again?”
“Local office is fine.” He pulled out a card and handed it tome. “We aren’t trying to sweep thisunder the rug. The Bureau has no place for rogue agents.”
That got another ‘Yeah, sure’ in my head. But he was makingthe gesture. He stood up and reached across the desk and shook my hand andlooked me in the eye, the firm and honest handshake of a straight-shooter. Or atrained counterfeit. With bureaucrats, you never know.
He thanked me for my cooperation and left. He’d answered aquestion or two, cleared up some fog in my head, but I wasn’t sure if I likedthe case any better for it. So I took that puzzle out to lunch and back to myoffice again and worried at it like a puppy with a rawhide chew, getting aboutthe same results. I hiked back to my apartment in the falling dusk, through a chillin the air and city dust already returning after yesterday’s rain, wonderingwhere Kratz was hiding. The thought kept me glancing over my shoulder andsniffing the wind and twitching at shadows in the alleys I passed. He’d triedto kill me.
Then I climbed the stairs and opened the stairwell door intomy hall — no stink of Kratz, the savor of roasting chicken instead. Chickenwith curried sausage and cornbread stuffing, rich with coriander and apples, Iknew that smell. Sandy was cooking dinner in my apartment.
I did this and that to pass through the door withouttriggering anything, and she turned away from the stove and sniffed and thenglared at me. Storm warnings.
“You spent the night with that nigger whore. I can smell it.”No preliminaries.
“Bad case yesterday, woke some ugly family memories. Sheneeded someone to talk to.”
“Bullshit. The slut needed a dick between her legs, and youwere handy. That dick is mine. I didn’twait through thirty years of Maggie, just to lose you to a goddamn nigger whore!”
“Watch your tongue. Sergeant Cash is a good woman and a goodcop. You don’t own me. We aren’t married. We don’t live together. You know damnwell, none better, even Maggie didn’tclaim to own me. She was willing toshare. Share with you.”
That did it. She retreated into the kitchen, face turning redand then purple, half-words spitting past her lips. She groped around on thestove and came up with a steaming pot and heaved it at me. I shielded, a loteasier than
