Andrews was headed back toward the SUV when he noticed the lady FBI agent from Washington was leaning against it. As he approached, she smiled at him and clapped her hands.
“Bravo, Special Agent Andrews,” she congratulated. “Well done. By my count you violated seven protocols for managing a hostage situation, but still . . . well done.”
“I got lucky,” Andrews stressed.
Her smiled widened as she shook her head, “Bullshit. Luck had nothing to do with it, Agent Andrews. You know it and I know. You had that man under control from the start.”
“Do you always come to the field to observe during your visits?” Andrews asked.
“Nope. I made a special exception for you.” She extended her hand, “I am Special Agent Julie Love from the Office of Professional Responsibility.”
Andrews frowned, limply shaking her hand, “Office of Professional Responsibility? The OPR?”
“That’s right. I’m here to inform you that the Office of Professional Responsibility is opening an official investigation . . . on you, Agent Andrews.”
Chapter 2
The Black Iron Grill was Andrews’ favorite roadside restaurant. The place had the freshest beef in Montana and it was located where Interstate 94, Highway 12 and Highway 59 all met, making it an easy stop.
A platinum blonde fifty-ish year-old waitress sat two glasses of water on the table and handed Special Agents Love and Andrews menus. The waitress looked harried. Her hair had once been tied in a pony tail but was coming loose. Her waitress apron was stained with coffee. Her name tag read, ‘Madge.’
“Do you have a lunch special?” Love asked.
“The New Cowboy Candy is on special today for $10.99,” she informed.
“Cowboy Candy?” repeated Love, opening the menu. “What’s that?”
“It’s one of our more popular dishes. It’s basically beef chislic.” she replied.
Love waved her hand over her head and made a swooshing noise, “What is chislic?”
“It’s deep fried marinated beef cubes,” Andrews interjected. “It’s a dish normally found in South Dakota. They do a good job with it here, though.”
“Oh,” Love grimaced. “How is it prepared?”
“Deep fried,” Madge replied.
Love grimaced again, “Hmmm. Not for me. That will go right on my ass. I’ll go with the Cauliflower Bites.”
“They’re battered and fried, too, just so you know,” Madge said.
“Ugh,” Love groaned. “I’ll just have the Classic Salad, then.”
“Got it,” Madge indicated.
“Wait,” Love interjected.
Madge looked away and rolled her eyes.
“Does it have tomatoes on it?” Love asked.
“Yes.”
“Hold the tomatoes,” Love asked, “and the croutons. They go right to my ass, too. Do you have low-cal dressing?”
“No,” Madge said.
“Then hold the dressing, too.”
“No tomatoes, no croutons, no dressing? So . . . you want a bowl of lettuce?”
“You mean the Classic salad just comes with tomatoes and croutons?”
“More or less,” Madge replied, “also, red onion.”
“Yuk. I hate red onion. You don’t have radishes, shaved carrots and cucumbers?”
“No.”
“What about cheese,” Love said. “Certainly, you have cheese.”
“We have cheese.”
“Parmesan?”
“Uh huh.”
“Yes! Score,” Love said. “Then I’ll have a Caesar Salad.”
“Should I hold the croutons on the Caesar, too?” Madge asked. “Or are Caesar croutons less likely to go straight to your ass?”
“That was a little snarky, Madge.”
“Suited the situation,” she claimed.
“You know, I could speak to your manager,” Love threatened.
“My husband and I co-own this place, so . . . you could try,” Madge responded.
Love squinted at Madge, “Yes, please hold the croutons and give me extra parmesan.”
“Got it.”
“Do you have sparkling water?”
“No, just regular.”
“Hmmm. I’ll have regular water with a slice of lemon, please.”
She handed Madge the menu and smiled.
“And do you know what you want, sir?”
“I’ll have the Flank Steak Salad and coffee,” Andrews told her.
“Medium well on the steak?” Madge asked.
Andrews smiled, “Fine.”
She smiled back at the handsome agent, “That comes with house salad. What dressing would you like?”
“Surprise me.”
She smiled at Andrews, then glanced at Love, “See. That wasn’t hard, now was it?”
Love smiled at Madge again, this time through clenched teeth. Madge turned and left.
“I don’t think she liked me very much,” Love said, after Madge disappeared.
“I didn’t notice,” Andrews replied.
Julie Love was newer to the bureau, and it showed in her exuberance. Andrews put her between thirty-five to forty years old, just under five-foot-ten with a solid, athletic build. She had established that she was a picky eater, and he could see why. Agent Love had nice curves in all the right places, with wind-tossed brown hair, creamy skin and amber eyes. She wore almost no makeup, and from his point of view none was needed.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet me in an informal setting,” Love said.
“No problem, but I am curious. Why aren’t I sitting in an interview room in Missoula.”
“I find that it’s easier to have a frank discussion in a casual setting,” Love replied. “Plus . . . I’m hungry.”
Andrews recognized the interviewing technique. He’d used it many times himself. The idea was to ‘play nice,’ be friendly so the subject is relaxed. She knew that he would not be intimidated with a formal interview room setting. She’d decided the way to get him to talk was to appeal to his ‘good old boy’ side.
“You still haven’t told me what this is all about,” Andrews replied. “Why does the OPR want to investigate me?”
Love looked at him. He seemed relaxed, as though he didn’t have a care in the world. It was not the look she expected to see; the look of a man feeling like his suspect behavior had just caught up with him. Typically, when she introduced herself to an agent as being from the Office of Professional Responsibility, she could see the target of the investigation mentally crapping himself. No. This man was different. Jim Andrews was a cool character. He was also incredibly good looking, beside the point, she thought, but hard not to notice.
“Before we go there, I’m curious about something,” Love said. “When you arrived at the house today, you spent all of three minutes with Agent Carlisle before you picked up the microphone and announced to Richard McKay that you were coming in. It seemed . . . rushed . . . impulsive.”
“Is there a question in there?” Andrews asked.
“I read in his file that McKay had military experience, and PTSD. He knew how to handle a rifle and was emotionally unstable—a very dangerous combination. How did you know that McKay wouldn’t drop you to the ground as soon as you popped that pretty little head of yours up?”
He raised one eyebrow slightly at the ‘pretty little head’ comment. He was having trouble figuring her out. He’d been questioned by the OPR in the past, usually about someone else. Those interviewers always seemed stiffer, predisposed to do whatever necessary to establish guilt. This woman seemed different. Perhaps she was actually looking for the truth. A novel concept.
“McKay had military experience, yes,” Andrews acknowledged, “and PTSD, but he has no history of violence stateside. When I arrived, I noticed the girl in the window. He put her upstairs to keep her away from the line of fire. This was a cry for help. Rich McKay had no intentions of hurting anyone. His gun wasn’t even loaded.”
“But you didn’t
know that until later. You should have waited for SWAT.”
“Rich McKay works as a journeyman in the agricultural industry. He has PTSD. If he saw a horde of men converging in assault gear, it would have thrown him into a full-blown panic. He’d be dead by now, or worse, gotten his daughter hurt. Talking him off the ledge before SWAT arrived was my best chance to end this peacefully.”
Love nodded. The wheels in her head were turning. The man had compassion.
“I believe you,” Love said. “Still, it was a very risky move.”
“Risk comes with the job. You know that. I went with my gut, Agent Love,” he said. “I’ve been doing this work for over twenty-five years.”
“Still, you are not a trained negotiator,” Love pointed out. “You went in before adequate backup arrived. You didn’t update your supervisor before risking your life by going in on your own, unarmed.”
“My supervisor was terminated a few days ago. His replacement hasn’t arrived yet.”
“Oh—didn’t know that. Even so, you did a lot of other things outside the playbook. Do FBI protocols mean nothing to you?”
Andrews paused, smiled weakly, and sighed.
“Agent Love, I work out of Montana, not Washington DC,” Andrews said. “Our resources are limited. Our SWAT team wasn’t ready because their chopper was getting routine maintenance and we had to borrow a medical helicopter. I spoke to McKay because our only local hostage negotiator was in Seattle attending a class. Here in Cow Town, USA, we make do with what we have. I’m sorry if the way I handled it didn’t meet your approval.”
“You misunderstand. That’s not it at all,” Love explained. “I thought you were brilliant out there, really. I timed it. You talked the suspect into a peaceful surrender within fifteen minutes of your arrival. No shots were fired and the media didn’t even get a chance to turn the place into a circus before the whole thing was wrapped up in a nice little package and we were gone. It was the most impressive thing I’ve seen since I’ve been at the bureau.”
Andrews smiled again and gave Love an appreciative nod. It was a common interviewing ploy to compliment the subject to make him comfortable, but Andrews sensed that her comments were sincere. It could be she was just very good, but it did make him wonder.
Madge brought a cup of coffee and water with lemon to the table. She smiled at Andrews. He smiled back. She flashed Agent Love a little scowl and left.
“Did you see that?” Love asked. “She hates me. I mean, really. Was I that awful to her?”
“You were high maintenance. Life is pretty simple here in Montana. We normally don’t have much drama while ordering a salad.”
She twisted her face in acknowledgement, “I see your point.”
“Now, you were saying . . .?” Andrews continued.
“What?”
“You were just saying how brilliant you thought I was,” Andrews recalled.
Love let out an involuntary chuckle, but quickly caught herself, “Yes, what you did out there was brilliant, but it also showed me that you have a disregard for FBI protocols and tend to cowboy things.”
Love bit her lip. Did she just chuckle at her target’s joke? What was with her, today? She needed to get it together.
“That’s one way to put it,” Andrews noted.
“How would you put it?”
“Maybe that I use my knowledge based on twenty-five years of experience to full use in solving problems,” he explained. “I evaluate each situation on a case by case basis. I estimate the relative urgency, assess the resources available to me, formulate a mental plan and then act accordingly.”
“Okay, I guess we’ll go with that,” Love said. “I didn’t realize your supervisor had been terminated. Tell me about that.”
“Cassidy? Yep, he got canned just a couple of days ago. He is a good man. It’s a shame.”
“Why’d they fire him?”
“I don’t know,” Andrews admitted. “No one is talking. I tried calling him but he didn’t answer. You are the one in tight with Rice. You tell me.”
“I’m on a need-to-know basis with Rice. If it doesn’t relate to what I’m doing I don’t need to know.”
“I know the feeling.”
“At the office this morning, your case log indicated you were supposed to leave for Houston today. What case did they drag you away from to come here today?” Love asked.
“Alleged wrongful death,” he detailed.
“Who was the victim?”
“A former FBI agent, Jamal Davis.”
“What happened?” Love looked surprised.
“Davis left the bureau over two years ago,” Andrews said. “He went into the private security sector. Last year, in Houston, he turned up dead, shot at point blank range, execution style.”
“He was no longer a bureau employee,” Love noted. “Why isn’t a homicide detective from the Houston PD investigating the death?”
“They did,” Andrews replied. “They came up empty. The bureau is cooperating with information about his past FBI assignments. No links were found to any of his previous cases. This appeared to be a professional hit.”
“Professional hit? You mean, like . . . the mob?”
“That was the thought,” Andrews admitted. “It turned out that Davis had gambling debts. The original investigators believed he was unable to pay the debts and one of the people holding his note hired someone to have him popped.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I’m not far enough into the case to know, yet,” Andrews admitted, “but I’ve tried investigating suspected mob murders in the past. Unless you can find a witness who will flip, these cases are almost impossible to prove.”
“So, what does it all have to do with the FBI?” Love wondered. “Why are you on it now?”
“The family is suing the FBI,” he said.
“Suing? What for?”
“Money? They feel the FBI still owes Davis Federal death benefits.”
“Even though he left us voluntarily and went to work in the private sector?”
“I didn’t say they’d win,” Andrews replied. “Still, with a former agent dead, the bureau wants to dot its ‘I’s’ and cross its ‘T’s.’ The victim’s family believes the FBI is hiding relevant information about his cases. They assigned me the task of looking into it, to see if anything was missed. So far, it looks like a dead end, but I have more to do.”
“Sounds boring.”
“Most of the job is just that, frankly. Well, now that we have all that out of the way, Agent Love, tell me, why am I being investigated?”
He engaged in casual conversation, she noted. Most men she spoked with were very anxious about finding out what OPR had on them. Andrews was still relaxed, she thought. He seemed more annoyed that she was interfering with his work day, than worried about what she’d find. It was not the behavior of a man trying to hide past sins.
“I am investigating you for misconduct and potential collusion with a convicted felon,” she said.
Andrews rolled his eyes, sat back in his chair and sighed. He glared at Love, who was studying his face for reaction. He didn’t know what she thought his reaction would be, but if it was irritation, she was right.
“This comes straight from Chief of Staff Kelsey, and FBI Director Rice, doesn’t it?” he speculated.
“Why would you say that?” Love asked.
“Because Rice and I aren’t exactly on the best of terms.”
“Why would that be?”
“Does the collusion accusation have to do with Rainhorse?”
“You tell me.”
“Never mind. You just answered my question,” Andrews replied.
“So, you’re admitting it?”
Andrews glared at Love again, “No. I’m just trying to figure it out. You lost me on misconduct.”
Love noticed that, even now, there was no fear in his eyes, no real concern about wrongdoing. She pulled a file from her leather case, which was sitting on the floor beside
her. She opened it and retrieved some papers and a note pad.
“I’ll ask you about the most recent case involving an accusation of misconduct. You recently had a stalking case involving a Sioux woman named Ska Long Ghost, correct?”
Andrews looked confused.
“That’s correct. So?”
“There were a lot of odd things about the case, Agent Andrews,” Love said. “The suspect, Johnny Standing Bear, was released from prison and you immediately inform a woman named Lindsay Vanderbilt. Why?”
“Standing Bear’s brother was killed in a roadside diner by a man with close ties to Ms. Vanderbilt,” Andrews explained.
“That would be Rainhorse?”
“Yes, Rainhorse.”
“Go on.”
“Rainhorse and Lindsay are the closest of friends. She was at the diner that day, and was a target of the sex trade organization Standing Bear worked for. I feared Standing Bear might seek retribution for his brother’s death by coming after Ms. Vanderbilt or her family.”
“And that discussion led you to Ska Long Ghost?”
“Correct. Ms. Long Ghost informed me that Johnny Standing Bear brutally beat and raped her on more than one occasion while he was her drug dealer. I also discovered that Standing Bear held Ms. Long Ghost accountable for his brother’s death. She, too, was in the diner that day. It was Ms. Long Ghost who found Rainhorse and directed him into the diner where Standing Bear’s brother was. Standing Bear threatened Ska from prison.”
“But you had no evidence to support a theory that Standing Bear was actually stalking Ms. Long Ghost?”
“He was.”
“He was seventy miles away at the time, in a town called Nashua,” Love noted. “Our records confirmed it.”
“He was using an accomplice.”
“You knew this because of . . . your gut feeling?” she asked.
Andrews froze momentarily, before continuing, “Johnny Standing Bear stationed a man in a white Ford pickup in front of Ska’s house. I believed the man was there to monitor her activities and intimidate her, perhaps even hurt her.”
“But isn’t it true that, at the time, there was no evidence to link the man in the white Ford to Standing Bear?”
“Agent Love, there’s an old saying. If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, chances are . . . it’s a duck. Every instinct I had on this case told me what I eventually found out to be true.”
Wounded Falcon: Brotherhood Protectors World Page 2
